I remem­ber writ­ing this for Father Roque Fer­riols, my Phi­los­o­phy pro­fes­sor who is known as the Father of Fil­ipino Phi­los­o­phy. I gave this to him dur­ing our oral exams. And we talked about this poem instead of talk­ing about the the­sis statements.

I had writ­ten it in a fit of inspi­ra­tion while watch­ing a moth fly near can­dles I had lighted to bring some scent and ambi­ence to my room. I remem­bered Socrates. I remem­bered Fr. Fer­riols. And I remem­bered myself.

fucked up in muck
stuck deep into
luck­less
quag­mires.
black­hole of the past
pulling in a
tug-of-war of desires.

Wrote this some years back, but I’ve refur­bished and edited it. It is good to go back and rewrite “old” poems. On the one hand, they are writ­ten at a cer­tain time in your life; a time long for­got­ten maybe, a time long gone. They are cross sec­tions, encap­su­la­tions and dis­til­la­tions of feel­ings, thoughts, emo­tions that take a life of its own, is writ­ten to paper, and becomes poetry.

Writ­ten sev­eral years ago when I had my “san mig light phase”: I would bring a bot­tle of san mig light to my room and drink alone. They said that was a sign of impend­ing alco­holism, but lucky for me, I did’nt end up an alcoholic.

I just loved being alone, with lights turned off, Norah Jones (and now the Glee Sound­track) in the cd player and an ice cold san mig light keep­ing me com­pany. It kept me sane dur­ing those really lonely nights of alone-ness.

12 Midnight (When No One is Watching)">

Many peo­ple who visit Baguio and the Lady of Lour­des Grotto do not know that the Jesuit Retreat House called Mirador is on top of it. This is where the Jesuits go every sum­mer for villa (vaca­tion) and retreat. This was writ­ten many years ago when I saw hun­dreds of peo­ple go up the steps of the Grotto on a par­tic­u­larly busy Sat­ur­day. I prayed to Mary just when it was around 12 mid­night, no one else was there, and I imag­ined this scene take place.