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Notes to the Missing Self

A Catharsis

by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

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Copyleft 2014 by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

This work may be printed or digitally distributed even without naming the source.

Anti-copyright! Because true art begs for no recognition or fame by the artist.

Cover courtesy of Ms. Laica Marie Baldeconza

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This collection of poems, wounds & discontents is dedicated to us who keep on searching for our missing selves. Here is where I said the things I love.

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& there was you suddenly arriving like a lit candle in this darkness. Who do you think is responsible? That, I cannot answer. But the sooner you came you immediately disappeared; the tiniest—yet mightiest—light blown away in the instance of a single word. a single poem

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Photograph She has forgotten the smell of flowers. She played the untuned piano. She stares at the distance thinking about how close she is to stars; stars & its old photographs. Have you seen a photograph? Most probably you do. But the reason I’m asking is that I oftentimes feel: that a moment in this life is a photograph Ours, & nobody else’s—yet someone tore it apart. I have forgotten the smell of flowers. I played the untuned piano. I stare at the distance, thinking about how close I am to you— To you, the missing part of this photograph. Of course the missing piece is somewhere. Probably old & faded like the light from a star from another galaxy, from another universe.

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Longing Sometimes I feel that you are missing me too. The dragon devours the moon whenever there’s an eclipse, or so the Chinese say. But in its typical cycle, we observe the moon, piece by piece, fading before becoming complete again. Does disappearing mean there’s completion coming, sooner or later? Is there assurance that a bird will fly back home once it recognizes the freedom of flight? Is this the eclipse? The waxing, or the waning? Or is it simply this: That the moon is there, & then not there, & can never be reached by these frail fingers reaching out, yet this desire to reach makes you disappear yet affirms the reality of your presence.

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Lullaby How do I sleep when I know I’m not complete? These eyes cease from closing without tears washing them; & the dreams coming to me would be a taste of heaven. When I try to sleep, I sing a song. But I forgot the lyrics so I created my own: ―Falling in love means waiting for your lips to kiss my closing eyes; your gentle palms wiping my tears...‖ Tonight, my pillow is hard. The blanket’s too thin. Mosquitoes buzz in my ear. On my forehead, sweat. On my eyes, tears. In my heart, the beat of a last lullaby: a neglected chance, a goodbye, a sunset, a distance, a conversation, a dream.

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Loneliness

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A Sunset Little by little, I am beginning to understand: that these rush of emotions was a rush for you. Let me explain: Why of all nights I have thought of you? Why of all nights only now I have embraced your absence? But the truth of the matter is this: however quick the sun may set, it is still the sun that will rise it is still the source of life and perhaps, it is still me: this feeling, these emotions within me, rushing towards you. Little by little.

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Back in the day There was a time when I tried closing doors, before this heavy heart of mine began knocking on your door. Back in the day, I thought I was complete. Back in the day, I never knew there was a gap in my self. Back in the day, I never really knew what love is. Should I just go back to those days, Just to forget the presence of this absence in my heart? You turned around. Your heels are at the door. To open and chase after you? Or to close & keep these thoughts safe forever? I packed my baggages. I’m leaving this town. Yet I end up going back. It’s like a song, right?

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The Door Knock, Knock! Hey, it’s me. & the last time I wrote words for you, it was in the form of a poem. This time, it’s still in that form for whenever I think of you, I think about poems. While writing this, I am thinking about you. Your hair, your smile, your eyes & your voice. Maybe even if I choose to not think of them, they’re carved inside my skull like ancient symbols, from a memory somewhere. Maybe you cannot feel anything with this cacophony of textual blabber. Maybe even my writing is that bad. Maybe these words better climb the rooftop of the tallest building & jump to death. Maybe they’ll knock on the doors of your heart. Who’s there?

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Rationality The fruit hangs from the solitary branches ready to fall on a person’s hungry mouth. This is the imperative: ripe fruits must be eaten or else they’ll rot. Have you thought about it? Every second passing, our cells undergo decay. They’ve been whispering about it since our birth: Decay. Death. Sometimes, I whisper a silent prayer: May the cells in my body gossip about how, upon my physical body coming to terms with entropy, they remain incomplete; silent.

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He’s right next to your L E F T

unnoticed.

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WithOut A bird does not fly, it is flown. A fish does not swim, it is swam. I do not exist, I am made existing by the presence of someone who is absent at the moment. Tell me, does non-existence exist? Without the wind, there is no flight; Without the water, there can be no swimming. Without you, there is no me. Why am I still here if you aren’t? Oh, you’re here in my heart and mind. & in my dreams, where everything exists.

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Measure If you will come close enough so that I can stare at your eyes—those gemstones—windows to another universe, I will tell you I love you. If you will come closer, you will feel my lips. If you step back, you will notice the distance. Take another step away, and you will see my smile. A couple more steps away and you will notice my waving hand. Further away from me & the distance increases. A kilometer away, I am already shouting your name. A mile away, I am a frail silhouette, a mirage of things you hardly care about. Take the bus, & from its window, I am a typical dot in a typical world full of typical people. Many miles away, you arrive at your house. In your bedroom, your phone beeps. I sent you a message: ―Good evening.‖ Your reply: ―Who’s this?‖

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Rainbow I saw a rainbow once. It didn’t look like a bow. It looked more like a colorful flash of light in a sea of blue, its colors radiating, pulsating with joy. There was this smile on my face for the longest time. I felt that life truly has meaning. It has no end. Nor a beginning. It’s just there. Simply there. It didn’t come after the rain. Nor before. How many looked at the rainbow the same time I did? I have no idea. What I am sure of is this: the things I felt while staring at the rainbow were real & sincere. I accept its colors. & I accept whatever I find in it. What I cannot answer is this: why the rainbow did not accept me.

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Hers & Mine I am used to staring at her back, for I am used to staring at the cracks on the wall of my room, comprehending them like some ancient language, slapping to me the stabbing truth that her gaze & my gaze, that her hands & my hands that her lips & my lips, that her feelings & my feelings will never meet.

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Yesterday I woke up sucking on a lemon Opening my eyes I see the ceiling crystallized because of tears. In my tongue, the sourness of this reality. At first I cringe. I should get used to it I know. Waking up is a pain if my dreams are full of you.

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When I think about you When I think about you, I see a garden full of roses all blooming & crimson red. When I think about you, I see butterflies, their wings forming eccentric patterns of bliss. When I think about you, I could talk to other people, my ideas brighter than theirs. When I think about you, the weight of a ton is but a whisper of a feather in my fingertips. When I think about you, the embodiment of all euphoria in the world is the story of my life. When I think about you, the busy buzzing of the bustling metropolis turns into a paradise. Let me ask you a question: do you think about me too?

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There was a time when everything was perfect & complete because everybody’s being is whole. Until a god saw that the lives of complete individuals are useless because everything is flawless. So he separated these complete beings into two: a male and a female. So began the journey of humans to find their missing selves. Their missing half. In order to be complete again.

I wanna ask, has anybody actually succeeded?

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I_c_mp__te In between conversations, there’s always a moment of silence. Like the first person saying ―What is going on?‖ & the other, unsure, empty with words will be embodied in the following punctuation mark: ―...‖ Either thinking about the words to say, Or praying to conjure the words. The missing card in the game will not forfeit the game. Rather, it does not give a chance for the game to begin. Sometimes, the comma allows breath, Breath that fills the space in between words. [sigh] What do these silences, these spaces, signify? Do you think we need to fill these blanks? I say, ―Do I have a chance on you?‖ You say, ―__________________________________.‖

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The Distance “Distance is an aggressive space connecting our separation.”

--from a poem for you A creased pillow, the spots of sweat on the sheet, One step after another, Parting lips, spaces between fingers, These words—that star—one letter after another; These words, no matter what they mean, remain as text; My eyes, & yours Teary for staring too long, united by sight, divided by merely looking. Parallel lines may bend in the horizon, but in this space where our feet firmly stand, a plane describing the reality of rain falling soon, No edges here, just eternity, Two mirrors gazing at each other, Zipped lips— The words hanging on the tip of the tongue, Yet an empty space in between all things— the only place where we could possibly meet.

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Tell me I have been waiting for you. Sure, I opened the gates for others, but in reality, aside from breathing my subconscious habit was waiting. Always waiting. Tell me, have you been waiting also? I’m sure you are. Waiting for the right guy who will warm your frigid nights; to whom your heart will beat attuned to the forgotten song of the sea; the right guy who will tell you the million stories written in the stars. Tell me, You are not waiting for me. We just happen to meet at the shed, off to destinations—scattered points in this plane of life, this flat plane where our worlds collided yet shattered almost at once.

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Behind me When I try to walk away, I still look back. My every step embodying non-sensuality. Behind me, you chatter to everyone my insignificance to this world, to your life to your heart. Every time I look back that is not what I see for all I see is your smile, your eyes, that you’re happy and you will be a million times happy if I keep my distance.

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Notes to Distance

1. At the mouth of a river, the fresh transforms to salty. Fishes avoid this part of the flow for despite their shiny scales, it takes evolution for them to adapt to saltiness. You are the river, I am the sea. The mouth of the river is this feeling weighing down on me. The instance of freshwater turning to saltwater.

2. Sometimes I ask myself about the nature of true

happiness. But the only answer I could muster with the utmost of my limited rationality is this: a painting of your face. Or a photograph.

3. I’ve never been one with the visual arts.

4. A serene moon hovers over the shadows of trees. Somewhere, a black cat prowls above its claw-like branches foraging for bird’s nests. How it is connected to this poem, I’m not sure. Or maybe things just don’t have a connection, especially in something as malleable & different as text. Or it’s this truth: that we search for meaning on

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different things around us, & what we fail to perceive we hardly consider as meaning.

5. The empty space of connection.

6. If destiny is real, then we we’re really meant to meet each other.

7. If I’d go to individuality, freedom of will & choice, then nothing is meant to be, & that meeting you is simply a part of journey.

8. But tell me, who is responsible for my feelings? Is there a puppeteer playing with my strings, or has the puppet managed to break free from the shackles of external control and act on his own? To love on his own? Or without you this feeling would be the same as what we are now?

9. Amor y amor, nada pasa. Es decir, pasa la nada.

10. ―Let me ask you just one question: can I lean on your shoulder?‖ –Typecast, An Angel

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& what will happen to these words?

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In time

what is essential slowly fades

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from

these dry pages. Like cigarette smoke

S

L

O

W

L

Y

dispersing into

the catacombs of memory.

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Jigsaw & and the final piece was lost in the ebb & flow of circumnavigating hands and gears & seasons locking doors against each other discoloring leaves, scattering flowers, migrating birds & fish & lines, wrinkles, blotched eyes dried lips. The image remains incomplete as I look over the foggy landscapes; over there, just beneath the moon, where darkness has swept ashes of hope, gashing truths & stabbing words appeared like haze— this teeth of life, these waves & qualms & perils took the piece farther from me. The image remains incomplete. The image remains a fragment. Wait, doesn’t its incompleteness fulfill its own completeness?

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The Missing Piece & finally I found you Lost in the ebb & flow of that sea of fertile serenity qua uncertainty, washed up on distant shores of this remote island of my life, gazing upon your glance, down to deep-wells of your irises, the missing piece! Yet the image remains incomplete, for your edges are not fit to my puzzle, you are a missing piece for somebody else’s puzzle. I could try to adjust your edges sure, but in doing so I fear that I may break you. So I toss you back to the sea, & maybe the waves will bring you back to me, & tell me, ―I fit anywhere. Even in you.‖ Just maybe.

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By the Estero De San Miguel I sat down and wept In the sea of faces facing me every day, none other stood-out the most than yours. Upon gazing at your eyes, I begin to appreciate the worth of my every breath. Yesterday, the sun was silent. Today, it radiated with energy that seemed to fuel my efforts in the struggle of everyday. Because you are there. Even if we are light years away, Just knowing you’re there, breathing in the same air, I can live. I can survive. I have sense. I have meaning. You are something I can live for. Something I can die for. Something I can BE for.

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“I love you not for what you are. But for what I am when I am with you.” –Anonymous But what am I when I am with you? That is the question. I am the superman who has been freed from the cages of inferiority. I am the faithful who can move mountains. I am a person whose existence has essence; I am enlightened; I have reached the border of ultimate happiness & apotheosis. Whenever I look at you, All darkness & doom disperses. Dissolving like dust in the rain. But what am I to you? That is the question.

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Stares You sit at the chair, & I stare at you from the distance. Behold the presence of black & white: a long-take, the aesthetic of reflection where what is projected seemed refracting reality. The two of us, our eyes a blank, stare at each other while within the still frame. I take the morning paper, pretending to read, but really, I am not reading anything except trying to perceive signs that you are also staring at me, at the space between us two stars trying to break the fourth wall, but really, we’re not doing anything except watch, stare, gaze, look, I have planned to approach your seat, chat with you, but then, as if reading my mind, you stand & stop me, my movement halted at the final minute.

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I know She told me that I didn’t know her much. So I told her: I know enough Enough to know that I know I want to get to know her for I have forever. But what she believes is this: that time really plays a role in one’s feelings. If not time, then the utter truthfulness of the mutuality of it all. Feelings. Time. Waiting. But there was no chance. Uneven scales. I should have known.

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Red Her lips has stained the letters, a smudge forming an image of a memory— that embodiment of placidity dampening its smoothness over the surface of this text. I wish the same lips that placed such kiss also phrased all the words I want to hear: blanket on nights, pillow for comfort & eyes for marveling before surrendering to sleep. Yet, here I am picking up the pieces, picking up these clump of letters, hoping never to miss a single one, I feel as if I’m petals from a fallen flower, the space between the petals so immeasurable. so...like us.

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The Space Two rails baked in the sun, One off to north, the other, somewhere. Plane: flat. Over there, horizon—a silhouette of foggy distance, hills, white elephants cotton tufts of clouds, white as ever. Above, eternal sky. Below, solid ground. An apparition of a smile, a handshake of a feeling nervously offered yet willfully rejected. Whispers of tears, Screams of smiles, sanguine stares. The horizon—where we’re off to, I shield my eyes with my hand, The spaces between my fingers carving shadows over my face; What do I see? The light in the spaces in between, or the shadow it carves? or simply—the space?

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Midnight I close my eyes & you are everything I see. How many nights has it been like this? I can’t count anymore. Facing this crystal screen, letting these fingers dance on the keys, this catharsis my own mode of healing. Your head reared away, broken hopes falling away, frail words spoken by frail lips, frail words written by shaking fingers, while stars trace complex constellations that seemed to describe you, your decision & how this foolish heart of mine simply cannot accept that we are never really meant for each other.

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The Mask of Shame The decision was firm like a noose on a depressed man’s neck. But still I linger like an ignored flower, withered in the desert. The mask of shame, I wear all the time. Don’t you think it’s foolish, wearing such petty mask? But this is the gear I found to keep things in constant flux. That even though you are the missing piece I found but unfortunately can’t combine with, I could show you that my life is normal. But it isn’t. Maybe they’re right when they said that there is nothing more worse than living a life of pretend. Inconsequential, like rain on a sunny day. Have you seen rain when there is the sun? I watch it every day. However, the rain does not come from the sky, nor from the clouds; But from something that stares at you with a smile.

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Raindrops

Who can

count the ra in dr o p s ?

Oh, so many words. So many glances. Or maybe, I just tell myself that the two of us speak in a language only the walls & dust can comprehend. I remember I was praying for rain when you told me there was no chance. Maybe if I count the raindrops, I can be who you wanted. All the time.

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Compromise or maybe we can talk about it again. Would you think it’s awkward?

Would we even talk?

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MeanWhile “Many times I’ve been alone and many times I’ve cried...”

—The Beatles, The Long and Winding Road

She sits at a restaurant, filling her stomach with edible pleasures, laughing with friends, having the time of their lives. After masticating, they went to a mallside cafe, took their selfies, hakuna matata, & wonder if only life could go on like that. It was getting late, so she & her friends separated, bringing home good vibes, memories, cards, letters, & a desire to log-in to Facebook to check uploaded photos of the day’s event. In cyberweb, her friends are also logged-in, & they group chat about the stuff that happened, the things that they probably missed, & how they cared for their enjoyment, & how they wish such thing could transpire again. It was getting late, so she shut down the PC, went to her bedroom & texted with a few people, before her eyes

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surrender to the hammocks of sleep, dreaming about burgers & fries & pepsi & table napkins, wishing that she could also take pictures of her dreams, have the record of being the first person ever to take a picture of what’s going on inside her mind. Exactly two million light years away, in a planet known as Quiapo, someone is writing a poem for her. He has seen her in his dreams and has bothered him for countless nights, his thoughts now haywire to a feeling that erupted from his heart in its sudden beat. From far, far away, the girl awakes. In Planet Quiapo, a poem was finished. He made her know. She thanked his efforts. The worlds meet, but the feelings did not.

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How many Just how many failures do a man need

in order to say that he deserves success?

How many tears must a little girl shed enough to say that she is hurt?

Maybe, like what Dylan said, the answer

is blowing in the wind, blowing in the wind like a dried leaf.

How many words does a poet need

to pick the heart of his beloved? How many sad lines,

and for how many nights? Good for Neruda, it took him one night. Not for me. For tonight, the only words I could carve in this digital paper is your name. And my name. F-L-A-M-E-S.

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Is that a flower or an image of a flower? after Angelo Suarez There is no poem in this page, except the fact that what you are perceiving this very moment is what you think as a poem. It could be a person, sitting in one silly corner, browsing the pages of memory from long ago, like a forgotten song whose melody is blown back by the wind. It could be cat-litter, or poisonous mushrooms, the smell of boiling corn, pork in sour broth, a bad word, an ugly face, wrinkled roses and sparkling flatulence. It could be a human heart, pulsating in the deepest galaxies of anatomy, with monkeys wrestling their way in the jungle of arteries and veins, and the swamps of blood.

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This is exactly what I am feeling at the moment: that I am feeling nothing except the hint that I am having a feeling. And this feeling, this hint of a feeling, mutated into a simulation I am able to embody in a single symbol: your being. Then perhaps, realizing all that, we can answer now: are you my love, or just an image of what I love which makes me love you more?

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How do we really forget? When we close a door, we open another, at the next moment. You may forget one thing & try to open it again only to find that a new person’s inside & would try to relay the message but a new door has opened, nothing more & all we can do is to simply move on. Like a season. After summer, the rainy days arrive, wetting the ground. The things you did last summer remain there, & all you see when you return is the wet ground. I ask you now, how do we forget? & when we forget, why do we try to reminisce? To mend ripped seams of yesterday? For a better tomorrow? Or simply this: that we never forget?

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The Silence of your Smile when i try to get near you our hands almost touching you simply move away for me to recognize how distant we are to each other and how our eyes meet pupils intact yet measures how we simply cannot go together sun & moon celestial bodies of utter beauty never meet except on an eclipse parted lips never muttering a single word describe silence & distance our eyes our lips has forgotten to measure

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question marks hovering over our heads in my dreams you speak to me words that dangles in the consciousness of my subconscious not just a smile, not just an image of your craven hair but really words that whispers to me how i should let you go & how I should take a new step my foot is hesitant my eyes does not look away from you forever gazing forever hoping that words & gazes & dreams finally connect us

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Is this poem entitled “Goodbye?” When I try to think about you now, my missing self, I feel as if I will never reunite with you. Your words said it all: Wala po talaga. But I kept on this search: marking every tree to not get lost, my heart as my compass, where it beats fast is the direction, & wherever I go, my heart beats faster with you. Sometimes I think that your heart beat fast when you see me. Sometimes I think that you think about writing about me too. Sometimes I think that you love me too, the way I love you. But all of these are just words. Words that I kept in my pocket all these years Finally reaching you.

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Words that you may ignore, yet intended to carve my desire to reunite with you to complete this whole being— you complete me— you... but we are separated by a distance—silence & words & firm decisions & with this poem —poems— I tried to convey your significance to me, to my world, & how every breath I take in this life is deemed useless if I would spend it without you, my missing self.

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Improvisations #1 Our love Is like rock music On full blast, And then somebody Lessened the volume— Maybe you or maybe me. But like my hearing, I adapt to the milder sound Little by little What was milder minimized Until there’s Nothing more To hear. There’s nothing more Here.

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#2 We are so crazy We forget How to really Live this life. We are so crazy All we think about is us. But why is it now When I think about us I feel like a serial killer On the hunt for a prey? #3 We never really had bodies, Just costumes; & this world Is a big cosplay convention. Funny isn’t it? Whom did we really love, These splendid costly costumes Or those wearing them?

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#4 It really is depressing To think that your love Run dry. How could that be When you’re a cactus— See this prick, This wound on my chest?

#5 Someday I wish we could see each other Get locked in a tiny room For decades & come out With five kids.

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#6 Could you remind me of the time when we were so alive? How about the time when Little By Little All that once had sense Faded into Smoke? #7 Yesterday We were a great tandem: Romeo & Juliet. But now Just like in a fairytale I am below & you’re in a tower.

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About the Author

Don Vittorio C. Villasin is finishing his Bachelor’s degree in Secondary Education major in Social Science at the National Teachers College. He is the author of the short story collections Bitter and Bitter 2.0 as well as the novels Vacant Period & Other Reminiscences and Flightless Birds. He fights for an anti-copyright qua anti-profit art. His concept works include HowEver, Notes to the Missing Self, 100 Days, 100 Epiphanies and My Life: The Movie, all for free in PDF format. He is a Gemini.