Wordgasm is a portmanteau of words and orgasm, “word whoring” to put, an intellectual ejaculation of words and lexicons and sesquipedalians and googlewhacks and such, where cliches are strictly prohibited and stereotypes are burnt at stake. Nihil sub sole novum, the Ecclesiastes say; there is nothing new under the sun. It is only but the words that grant the world a whole new spectrum of perception. And the point is? I have no idea.
Call me Tobey. I’m twentyish, with a gender that involves a vagina. I live in Quezon City. And I go to the University of the Philippines, taking an academic course that requires a large vocabulary and stupendous amounts of imagination. How do you get that? You quaff a gallon of black coffee and gawk at your empty bank account. That would be enough inspiration. More »
 
Words are all I am.
Wednesday :: 26 March 2008 :: 16:53

This blog is TRASH. A palpable residue of a mental construct bound to be forgotten just like everybody else’s thoughts and memories. I just want to move to another site for the umpteenth time, but I am TAMAD, I have no credit card to purchase another domain name, and hauling my entries and files to another server is a major motherfucker. Unless I just want to annihilate this site and start anew.

For some reason an infomonger has been telling my real life friends, family, and acquaintances to visit this site. I don’t know who, but you know yourself. I’ve been virtually existent through the universe of words and the internet for three years, been anonymous, frank, and open to my own complexity otherwise impenetrable even for myself to analyze. So I write and read myself in another person’s shoes, but I still don’t get ME. I write. I write my own Pandora’s box only for strangers to hear, for anonymous lost souls in this same virtual multidimension to relate to, or relate with, that we are not alone. And as much as I want to go away and start a new blog, I just want to say to those people who know me personally, that this tiny space, this little haven that shelters my lonesome repressed existentialist thought bubbles, is just a story. It is not me, not my past, not my present, not my future. It is a story alive only in the pages of this website, alive only when being read by prying eyes. These words you’re reading right now appear only when you run your eyes on them. And when you look away, they vanish.

Say, I could just write my thoughts down on paper and burn it, just like what I’ve been doing when I was a wayward teenager. But I want someone to read it, read it just once, then forget it and move along with his or her life. Someone anonymous. Someone who doesn’t know me in the physical structure of the tangible society outside cyberspace.

I write because I forget. I forget because I write. Once I write something, I forget about it and blithely move along with my blissful, ignorant life. And before I forget, I type my thoughts down in suspended time before I take another step in this continuum of oblivious existence. I walk the earth without grudges, without emotions, without attachment to anything, anyone, or any place. I want my life serene, myself uncluttered, my thoughts blank as white paper.

But somewhere, sometime, I am somebody. And that somebody lives in the confines of her own head alone. I am ego. I am mental. I am an introvert. I am apart from my evanescent existence. I am words. And words alone. And it’s all just up to you to make out anything you want to think of that.

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