You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


one hundred and one

WAS NEVER THIS INTIMATE WITH WORDS until I decided to make this online diary. I knew I could write but not like this—wherein I can express myself, in a very subtle way and with virtually no known limits. I realized I could write anything that whirls inside my head as long as there’s a spark of inspiration. No piece of paper will remain blank with a free mind and an ounce of inspiration.

I have a personal connection with this blog. Sometimes, I feel like I am actually more honest with what I write here than what I share with my friends. There’s a different kind of satisfaction in expressing your thoughts, feelings through written words than those that are spoken, or perhaps it’s just the introverted me taking over. Well, this is my other side and I’m kindling it.

Usually when I’m inspired to write something, I would just sit by our couch, turn on some music, and start scribbling words, having no idea where they came from nor what they really stood for. It’s amazing how words find you and not the other way around. That is why I get so excited when readers psychoanalyze me through my works. Whenever I write, it’s almost always an opportunity to dwell on my thoughts, becoming fully aware of what I think and feel. I get to reflect and to learn about myself. And it’s really surprising how my words sometimes connect to those who read them. And it’s pretty flattering that certain people here really do care of what goes on inside my convoluted brain. Writing brings about surprises even to the author and I think that is one factor why I am drawn to this. I am a lover of surprises.

A year has passed and the Coffin Rock has finally reached a milestone. I am really proud of what I have accomplished here. (Yes. It’s an accomplishment, keeping this blog afloat despite all the chaotic stuff happening.) Sometimes, I’d browse through my archives and I couldn’t help but feel strangely happy, remembering the times I have spent to write each post (mostly on editing and re-editing), the inspirations and stories behind them and that familiar feeling of satisfaction I get from finishing one. You will not believe me if I tell you how long it usually takes me to write a decent entry. :P

I can say I have somehow improved on my writing skills. I sometimes compare my older posts to my recent ones. But there are still a lot rooms for improvement of course. I’m still struggling with my sentence constructions and tenses and I can go on and on). Anyway, that is one reason why I decided to blog—to enhance my creative writing skills. Good thing there are loads of brilliant writers here I am learning from. I get to broaden my horizon on different writing styles and they are gazillions of them here. It’s nice to have a glimpse of how the minds of other people work through their words, how they choose to express them in so many artistic ways, and relates to the circumstances happening in your my life. Indeed, a story doesn’t exist in itself. My story might be your story too.

To you readers who gave me words of encouragements, shared their views, and gave pieces of yourselves; to Haley and Steph, who supported me with this endeavor, and finally to Ton, who introduced me to this virtual sphere—Thank you.

So what’s next for the Coffin Rock? I guess I’m just going to keep writing in an attempt to deconstruct the reality of things. Life. Love. Myself. I will continue scribbling these chronicles in the hope that someone would get lost in here and find himself.

This is Lucas and you’re reading my 100th post.



THE LAST TWO MONTHS have been probably the most trying times of my life so far. I have been testing my physical limits while witnessing my emotions fester. Placing sadness and despair into hidden compartments within me while brawling with physical exhaustion was indeed hard. But surprisingly enough, I have seen myself rising up to the challenge settled on my shoulders. I haven’t cried a single tear which could only mean two things—that I’m strong and maturing or that I am emotionally sick, stepping beyond the lines into a state of frigidity.

When your plate is filled even with stale food, it’s very easy to forget everything else. Time. Friends. Yourself. You live by the moment, with no thoughts for the future because if you think about what’s ahead and not see an end, the ounce of drive that keeps you going will just vanish. And whatever that is, you have to kindle it like an invisible flame illuminating the darkness in your heart.

I have been struggling to understand the proverb—Everything happens for a reason. And I think God wanted me to fully fathom this in a way I am hesitant to accept. Soon after my Lolo Philip recovered from his respiratory ailment, a series of unfortunate events unfolded. It was then that My Lola Nelia suffered from a cerebral infarct—stroke. And since then I have been seeing death eye-to-eye and neither of us wanted to blink. But he knows I am growing weary, and tired, and I sometimes feel that my heart is going to give in to the pressure, to the lack of sleep, to everything. His stench never left my nostrils and how I wish I could sneeze him out of my system.

My world has been in chaos and the circumstances are taking their toll on our family but I can’t afford to break down and give up. I am clinging to the hope that there is still so much to live for in spite of everything. After a month and a week (and counting), after two cardiac standstills, two surgeries, being tended by twelve doctors, a gazillion medications, a thousand needle injections (and counting) and she’s still here. We’re still here inside this hospital room, breathing the same sterile and forbidding air. But the fact that we are still able to breath in air into our lungs is a realization that we’re still alive.

There is very long road ahead and I have to muster all my strength to wade it even though I am not sure if there’s a good ending to it. Fear licks my heart and the feeling of inadequacy is always on my doorstep. But I think the lesson here is to learn how to keep those things at bay. There are so many ways to endure in the middle of an ill-fated reality, and sometimes it just includes closing a door to everything that will feed the gathering clouds of despair and hopelessness.

I think God wants me to appreciate all the good things when the world seems to crumble down before my eyes. He wants to teach me that hope can be found even in the smallest of things; that it can be in a form of a good urine output, or well coughed-out sputum; a spontaneous eye-opening, a contorted smile or simply a beating heart. God is training me, and disciplining me, because he loves me. He is bigger than I am and I couldn’t help but wonder what plans He had set for me. And I think, to see the end, I have to brave the troubled waters and traverse the ominous paths. I have to walk on, in the hope that a beautiful journey awaits…


a waste of words

SOMETIMES AT NIGHT, while waiting for that weight on my eyes that usually tells me that I need to sleep or cry, I try to deconstruct and make sense of the complicated emotions I feel. And in every attempt to find answers, I always end up disappointing myself, for the answers I come up with don’t satisfy me. I came to a conclusion that there is a flaw in the way I do it, resulting to my futile attempts—I tend to reason out using solely my intellect and forgetting to reason out with my heart. I also think I knew why this is so. I don’t trust my heart anymore.

She and I, after all that had happened between us, were able to keep our friendship. I think it is safe to assume that we’re friends right now. I am so grateful for it but it’s not as easy as I have expected. It’s quite hard actually. I wish for us to be friends but I am not sure if I could act like one or be one.

For the past few days, we were exchanging messages; casual talks, which in my part, I find painfully platonic. I woke up this morning, with a smile upon reading her message that simply said “Good morning, Ron”. My mind tells me it’s just the kind of message a friend would give to another but my heart forces me to find meaning beyond its simplicity. Whenever I send her a message I make sure that each is free from anything that could indicate that I am crossing the line. Reason tells me that it is just fair for her part. But my heart silently hopes that by some miracle, my true feelings, whatever they maybe would come across and kindle her heart. The ironic part is…it feels unfair. Not fair for her.

People should be friends first before becoming lovers. But sadly for most people, it’s the other way around, which is why when the relationship breaks, it’s almost impossible to keep the friendship. In my mind there is this intimidating and beautiful image of her. We never committed ourselves into a formal relationship but in the strangest way, it feels like I had broken up with someone. I am struggling to move on in a way that’s quite frightening. She has stolen my heart many years ago, and I refuse to get it back. I am lacking the courage to let go for she will always have that secret place in me, so familiar and comforting, that I’d want to let it linger for as long as I can.

It was one sunny afternoon. A day when all the paths we took together led to two more.

“Why give them back?” I asked. I made it sound so casual, carefully concealing the pain eager to break my voice.

“I have to.” She whispered with her head on a bow. “Because every time I see them and look at you, I see the person who wrote them. I want that someday, I would look at you and see a friend. Nothing more.”

“But why? Don’t you believe that what we had was real? They were real. My feelings for you were real.” I pleaded. In the back of my head I was praying that she would have a change of heart and decide to carry them back home with her.

“Returning these letters and books to you, doesn’t mean I don’t. Because I do.” She firmly said with conviction in her eyes. She handed them all to me, imagining it was her heart in my hands.

I couldn’t quit her. I need her or at least that version of her in my head or in my heart or wherever. It may sound weird, but the thought of her stirs me to the right path. And her memory encourages me to have faith in my heart and to find the right place to where it should be.

It was one sunny afternoon. A day when all the paths we took together led to two more. And we took them separately, wondering if there’s another crossroad ahead.

. . .

This entry was written barely a year ago and I never had the chance or should I say, I never had the heart to post this until now. A lot of things have changed in such measure of time, including the feelings used to forge these words. We saw each other before a crossroads once again, seeing for the first time how time changed us, puzzled faces reflected in each other’s eyes.