Portraits




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Time to quit

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This post has been a long time coming, so long a time it went back to even before I had this blog, or indeed, even before there was high-speed internet. Because this post will be about why I got drawn to philosophy when I was in first year college (in 1999). And I also suspect that this post is about love. I also suspect that the way I love is the way I deal with philosophy, which is by implication the way philosophy (if it were a mistress) deals with me, all of which contribute to the fact that I'm single. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I also suspect that I will always do that, like what I did six words ago. To begin. I didn't choose philosophy as my major when I signed up for university. Like most high school students, I had no idea what I would like to grow up as: the practical  question of what I wanted to spend my entire life building a career around isn't real, or isn't as real as... Hmm, give me a moment to say what is categorically real during high ...
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Of finding something again

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I just sleep. I sleep to rest, to be away from the world that has given me so much and that I am not a part of anyway, to reset, to die. If only for a while.  I wake up and look at my phone, as all of us do now. The world painfully worlds, with no pauses and preambles: it elbows you in the face with all its glory, its vapid bitches, and all the iterations of the Andrew Tates of humankind. In everything we have a choice, save for one: this world. It is the ultimate given, the ultimate, ungentle, fact, and that we are in it. It doesn't stop. It can't; it doesn't have to. Immediately upon waking I close my eyes and dive deep into the recesses of whatever that was young that's left of me to desperately hunt for reserves of a desire to get up from bed, to work, to be . Two days ago I joked with my lover that I had been tired since 1984, and I think I mean it.  If not for him and another friend that gave me the time of the day in the MMORPG that I returned to, I would have ro...
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The fish

It’s always the fish.  One time, a time of happiness, perhaps, or hopes of a normal life together, my partner and I bought a fish, on a whim.  We were eating in a cafeteria, and while waiting for our sisig to grace our table, I told him I’d visit the pet shop next door.  Whereupon I laid eyes on the usual wares: fish, birds, Guinea pigs, rabbits. I remember my nephew, as always - he had wanted a rabbit in our previous home, and I was adamant to say no every time, since I would be the one to end up feeding and cleaning after it, knowing how he kept his hours. Plus I think stressed rabbits eat their young. That rabbit would have inherited all my stress and eaten its own sperm.   I spot the betta in their individual tanks, and my eyes delight in their colors: one was pure deep red, maybe like the color of the most beautiful flower in Sir Pratchett’s ocean; several were cobalt blue. Then I saw what was eventually to become christened in my house as Sisig - a betta so var...
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