One of the ruins at Corregidor.

Traumatic experience this weekend. Seen a black apparition at the ruins in Corregidor Island. It was a silhouette of someone standing at the door of the bombed hospital. About half a million soldiers--Americans, Japanese, and Filipinos--died in that island during World War II.

I believe in ghosts but I don't believe in God. How funny is that?

I thought I was the only one who saw the thing, but two others did, independently. Now I can't sleep in my room alone, not even with the lights on.

Slept in my sister's room last night. On the floor. Freezing from the cold of the air-conditioner. At witching hour I was awakened by moaning.

Christ.

The sound of sex. The huffing. The grunting. The humping. The smell of it. Visions of their naked bodies rubbing against each other swirled among the checkered patterns of my blanket. Their faces distorted into strangled ecstasy. Two ordinary people with their imperfections. All that fat and cigarette stink of him. All that keloidal scar and stitches on her cesarean midsection. In all those unimaginable Kama Sutra animal positions. Doggy, octopus, froggy.

We produce too much of our pointless, wasteful species. The stupid things people do to attract it, to get it, sustain it, maintain it, live with it, get addicted to it, intoxicated, die for it. It is hammered down to the infinitely microscopic details of our DNA. It is the climax of life, the hidden kingdom here on earth, the ensemened bed of eden, shangri-la, nirvana.

What is sex but a rush of dopamine in the brain?

Funny how the cradle of human civilization relies on this sacred animal ritual. The population bomb. The overpopulation in India. The MRT bursting with commuters. Humans fighting over territory, crossing borders, waging war against other races, killing each other in a domino effect that led to the atomic bomb.

And then it's over. Took them no longer than eating a meal. Taking a bath. Crapping.

Everything was quiet except for the humming of the air-conditioner. I went back to sleep.

The following is the height of my existential, suicidal emoship. You are free to click X at the upper right corner of your browser window if you don't want to vomit. Don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Science has proven that the universe begins and ends in a black hole. The singularity at the bottom of the black hole is the explosion of another universe at the other side. A few billion years from now our universe will be sucked into one of those cosmic spinning discs of inescapable darkness.

We exist from nothing to nothing. What is there in between? What is life? Repeating Hamlet, "What is this quintessence of dust?"

Roland Barthes killed me long before I was even born. When I was flushed out of my mother's body I was already dead. It took me eighteen years to figure out I wanted to be a writer. Took me eighteen years before I realized I was already dead.

The author is dead.

What you read in this tiny space in the infinitely multiple dimensions of the internet is nothing but wasted ink, wasted time, wasted energy. All these words make up an entirely different existence divorced from my palpable breathing existence in reality. Words and me are two vastly different mofongos. The words are NOT me. The words exist, the meaning exists, I don't.

I create meaning to delude myself that there is meaning. Writing is essentially meaningless because words are meaningless and meaning does not exist. All imaginable meaning that exist in all history is an artifice of man. Man-made, fabrication, not true.

Human consciousness is just a fluke in the cosmos really. Everything goes back to the nature of Nature, to the reality of a thoughtless universe, to the world of thoughtless animals and plants. Everything is chaos. Absurd. Pointless. We are doomed to rationalize a universe that is entirely irrational.

The difficult part of being a writer is not just he's dead, but that it's his body that is dead, and that his brain is only thing which is alive. He knows he's dead but pretends to be alive and takes the burden to create meaning out of nothing and delude everybody else that his creation has some grain of thought when it doesn't. His creation, after all that pain and suffering creating it, is nothing but wisps of fancy carved in thin air. He is a liar writing believable lies for the benefit of other liars writing the same lies.

What should a liar live for when everything he's ever known is a lie?

God must be an existentialist too. Imagine living in a vacuum outside time, outside the universe. He has always existed, has nothing to live for, cannot kill himself because he is immortal, and is all alone for the rest of forever.

And I think I am emo enough?

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