Karma is a bitch

I guess this goes out to all those people whose hearts I have broken. Karma is surely a bitch and giving me a taste of my own medicine nowadays. Well… Not really. But I cringe in fear that it might and it’s eating my whole life up. I fucked up big time. Also the reason why I haven’t written for so long. Not only am I dull and uninspired… Well… How do I put it?

I guess somewhere along the way I lost my heart…

Somewhere between the scars, I became really numb…

I just lost the gusto for life I once had.

Hopefully I get it back again.

I try.

But maybe it’s karma to be in this freaking hell hole of a limbo.

Wait for me to crawl up.

For the mean time…



For the hearts I’ve stepped on along the way.


Law School

This is me after a few months of law school: crinkled A-line skirts and blazers, un-starched white polo shirts, a horde of highlighters and pens, an everyday black backpack, thick books in my arms, rushing, pimples and severe lack of sleep showing in my eyes. It is almost finals and it is only now that I would finally get to write about it for the first time. I had been that busy. I just sneaked this in while waiting for a settlement that I am to fix here at work. I am such a law nerd now. Yes.

This is one thing off my bucket list, to enter law school (and get high grades). The high grades part is now in parenthesis, because with how things are going, I would highly doubt I retain my merit scholarship. They say it is normal. And it is, I was very optimistic upon entering – I am more of a realist now. My good academic standing back in my undergraduate and masters really did not matter. This is way different. It entails more time, more effort, more commitment, more resources and more resilience. Everyday is a battle. Literally. Literally that good days without the Socratic recitations in class are called “ceasefires.”

Law school has changed how I think and analyze things. My choices are made better by the better moral alternatives that I acquired in my study and from great personalities as professors.

This thing is indeed a test to my endurance.

I envy those who manage to update their blogs and even put up ones with complete case digests and notes for their law courses.

May I survive this semester.

Back to work now.


I had my fortune told a few days ago just like I had many times in the past. I would be successful, I would accumulate wealth but more often times than not, I would falter on the romantic aspect – I have heard all that before… This time, I was told that I have suffered heartbreak and failed relationships but this last time I should gamble. Gamble… Gamble on the two kids, a boy and a girl and a very compatible relationship on a man that would not disappoint me and hurt me just like the others did in the past. 

All the while, while I was being told these things… I was thinking of you, of him… As much as I tried denying to myself that I was thinking of you…

This may sound shallow, but it really affected me when Justin Timberlake married Jessica Biel. I felt happy for my childhood crush especially when he said that he was marrying his best friend. He made that statement and I felt that I wanted the same for myself. If the same thing happens to me, then I don’t need to put my best foot forward or pretend that I am ladylike, cute and a good homemaker because I am not all that. I don’t know how to fry an egg or work a microwave even if it cost me my life. I like playing Play Station games, I smoke weed and drink more than an average jock’s share of alcohol – I am nothing prissy or ladylike. I hate butterflies, ribbons and I don’t doodle flowers on my notebooks. None of that shit. I could be too bold, opinionated and argumentative it could get into the hairs of people. I won’t drone on about myself here. To cut it short, I am an acquired taste. Ending up with someone who knows me well would be my best bet.

And all along, after swimming in the vast sea of men and ending up covered in scum and seaweeds… There you are…

So if you have read or watched Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love, I have been done with the Eat part as proven by the pounds I gained last year, I am done with Pray when I reassessed my life, traveled alone and dedicated my time to worthy pursuits… Here I am at the Love part… 

As you travel the world and I envy you as I subsist in my sedentary scholarly pursuits, I’m just here waiting my darling… What is the few years we have building the foundations of our future for the greater number of years we spent being friends… I fear the thought of it and laying it out in the open, but maybe this is “attraversiamo”…

There is danger in you… and beauty…

There is heartbreak looming in the horizon, yet I indulge…

A sweet caress, a gentle kiss and an illusion of a spark in your eyes when you look an me… All spun in a web of lies…

A Casanova in sheep’s clothing… A liar in the guise of innocent eyes and decent clothes…

You are the perfect midnight storm made into a man… Secrets embedded in red lips and hints of cigarette smoke on your suit…



By: Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V


The cliché that “the best things in life are free” must have surfaced from a general nodding of heads from people who have been in love or have experienced love. In my experience, it was him suddenly lying on my lap one lazy afternoon with just a book and a fruit shake in hand at Ayala Triangle. We had light conversations in between his naps and my reading, the feeling that those conversations gave me was the same feeling you get when you are used to eating burgers and red meat and you suddenly shift your diet to vegetable salads and sliced fruits. We sat on that spot until the moon was gazing at the world with lazy eyes, hesitant to leave its spot but itching to end its shift like a perfume sales man on a slow day or a prisoner guard. That day, the jokes we shared about couples in Luneta Park or Manila Bay became ubiquitous, we understood them all of a sudden because we were in the moment – we were in their shoes, in their state of mind. What happened that afternoon gave me an illusion and hope that maybe I could spend the last of my years with this man, on an old porch, sitting on a rocking chair, white hair, thick glasses, a large floral dress and a knitting project in my hands.


Recent developments made it clear that those romantic misgivings were indeed illusions and false hopes. Only the both of us hold the secrets of our affair and its demise, I always say our love grew in cunning, in silence and in quiet. As much as I would have wanted to share our story in full animation and gusto, I cannot bring myself to do that. My mind and heart trails to lucid moments of torrid kissing and tight grabs of once unknown places in my body that I am left in a resigned mood, left to the overwhelming gush of longing those passionate moments bring — those once unknown places in my body that became the territory of his hands and postmarked by the sweet juice of his kisses. I hug myself at the memory. I had to pause my writing this hug myself at the thought…


The thoughts of him bring vivid sensory recollections. I can still feel the reverberation of his voice in my ears when he tries to make a point, or the sound of his soft snoring wand heavy breathing after a tiring day. His eyes, seductive and expressive, sheds a fine light when he is engrossed in what he is reading or when we enjoy a morning stroll and the first rays of sun passes through it in a diagonal fashion. His eyes were the color of grape seeds; they were always teary and sad, like newly varnished mahogany. The deep pools of brown in his eyes came out even more when he wears his black scarf, he wears that scarf and he looks so regal and feels cozier to hug. His hugs say a lot about his feelings, most of the time it makes me feel like a starfish being taken to deeper seas by a big wave, a brainless starfish not knowing what to do. That feeling of engulfment is eased when I feel the details of his thumb mark on my cheek and all worries and woes melt into a blur – as if the world is so simple and nothing can ever hurt me. I miss the mossy smell of his apartment and the very distinct manly smell which sticks to his bed that I keep whiffing off his pillows and sheets when he is away, sometimes even when he is just taking a shower. I randomly get a whiff of his Issey Miyake perfume when walking at a mall or the streets and that is when I badly miss him, that is the height of my sadness and I feel all of a sudden that the buildings or the crowd would eat me a live – very nauseating, my legs throb and weaken and feel like it is giving away.


That same crowd that used to double over when we walk the streets, that gave a slight smile when overhearing our little arguments or funny takes on random things over dinner or drinks, that same crowd that stared when he pulled me in for a kiss good-bye and that followed me with its eyes on mornings when I have just emerged from his place with my hair in a rut and in man clothes – the crowd that gave justice to walking the walk of shame in those mornings.


His place, his apartment is the backdrop to the memories we have created together. That dingy old apartment: where quiz papers from fourth grade with perfect scores and smileys in red ink are scattered along laced panties and used condoms. A wooden ashtray that fills up as the night deepens and the morning enters, dusty books with frail pages seemingly salvaged and dried from a rainy day and an un-stringed Fender acoustic guitar that sits on its corner were a few of its remarkable features. His place was my refuge from storms and graying skies complete with hot chocolate and slow rainy day sex, my secret place for watching movies and fucked up documentaries that cause my impatience to go home from the office, his place was the breeding ground for our love and eventual pains with its four walls privy to our whispers. The same four walls banged by neighbors when we have raucous sex, the same four walls that are stained black from his cooking.


I lie about not eating scrambled eggs ever. I ate scrambled eggs because it reminds me of post-coital breakfast food he cooks deep in the night. It was cooked to perfection, a little milk and just enough salt that it turns out fluffy and tasting exactly the way I want it to taste.


Late night scrambled eggs that have been demoted to late night scrambled thoughts…




By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V


I prefer to remain silent about us, to not divulge the love ensuing between us two people very much alike and at the same time very much distant. Our love is the low flame on a stove, safe yet warming…

But at the same time, on good days with you, it is an influx of unidentified feelings that cannot be encapsulated in words conjured up by man to make another understand, all I know is that it is a conflagration… On good days.

On bad days, on normal days, I am adamant to feel the other side, the darker side because I have grown in the fear of hurting and losing myself again, I am inept of emotion, or maybe I prefer to be that way — unfeeling and oblivious.

As much as I want to talk about you, brag about you and tell them of the moments we share that make good stories, I prefer to hush and keep it to my memory… It is a beautiful secret…. And we are sheathed by their unknowing because what is habit and what is ordinary is often time missed – they will never notice because we are just together, a placement in the eternal parabola of time, a streak to the blind side. Seeming ordinary like a common thing that goes unnoticed in our everyday, like a toothbrush, a towel or a wrist watch that when lost would be a disturbance to the natural flow of things – that is our love.

P.S. Today, like the long days that have passed without you, I realize that the pain is losing you is remarkably different from the ones that I have felt in the past. Pain was one full blast of emotions that erupt from a break-up and recedes away as time passes. But the pain of being away from you is one that goes on a steady crescendo with time’s passing. I wonder if it would stop at a certain point. 


The Silence Of Our Love


By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

The silence of our love is like the first rays of sun that illuminate the earth and dries the dew that sits on leaves right after the earth wept itself to sleep in the darkness. It is the silence of a soft slumber and the secret of cathedral walls. Our love is the kind that goes unnoticed in a crowd of equally forgettable faces. However lethargic or gray that may sound, it is as complex and as robust as the lives owned by those forgettable faces. Unnoticed and mysterious as it is, they might never divulge the secret of us – like a sunken treasure in the deepest pockets of the ocean. The innocent and unintended silence lends to its beauty – that we may go on in the chaos and hurly-burly of this world and still smile – just us two knowing that we have each other. Just us two knowing that when a big meteor hits our planet or when the sun suffers an immediate death – we would hold each other’s hand and die in the silence of our love.



I see you in every nameless face that passes by the street, the deep crease of your lids and the deep pools of dark brown that are your eyes. These strangers might think I’m weird or crazy because I stare at them even if they have only a slight of semblance to you. Even if they just possess only a slight that intense demeanor and raging bullet walk that you have. I miss you so much I compensate through nameless faces and stares.

I miss your loud booming voice (esp. when you are argumentative or angry) and lengthy messages, the smoothness of your language and the poetic way you weave words together. And with our different taste in music, I listen to the few songs that we like together and my heart all of a sudden feels like a deflated balloon. I am left to staring outside the window of the bus or the penthouse of our building remembering those moments that I shared the same scenery with you.

I miss eating bread and butter for breakfast, and 15 minute lunches with a longing kiss right before I enter my building or enter a cab. I miss your booming laughter caused by my quirks and jokes that you find amusingly weird. I miss you putting a direction to my life, guiding the reckless raging fire that I am.

The only tangible memory I have of you is a book that you gave me which I never read, I wonder why you gave me a book that I would most likely not have chosen on a library or a bookstore. Maybe it contains hidden messages to our love, or maybe I’m a fool to think these things. But I miss you a lot… False hopes are the only solace of the lone… 


By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V


It has been a long time since I have written but I trusted that the knack for it would come eventually. I have traveled quite a lot the past two months, a lot in my standards as I am a corporate rat and a miser working towards a dream. It has put my soul to rest, hence the silence of my thoughts and the purification of my soul’s unknown turbulence.

I would like to tell you of a ride in a boat with four friends. I was expecting cajoling and loud conversation as we embarked on that short trip towards the opposite island…

The conversation hushed gradually as we went further and deeper down the edges of the Pacific Ocean with only the sound of the friction of the boat against the water, its motor and the wind. And then, as the water turned from a light shade of blue green to a deep blue, hard to distinguish from black… Everyone was left to their contemplative moods and dreams…

It was beautiful seeing the peace in my friends’ faces as we fathomed the depth of the ocean and how our lives were at actual risk being there… That anytime a big wave could approach and set our boat and its passengers to the bottom of the ocean, lifeless and peacefully floating, and that the most painful kind of death is from drowning…

All the while I thought of life, love, dreams, sea, travel and the beauty that remains undiscovered in the country… I want badly to bring the person I would truly love to this island paradise and experience the silence of the boat ride with him. I stared at the lone lighthouse on an outlying island and had fantasies of going atop it when I visit the place again. At the fast paced lifestyles everyone else is busied with, it is imperative to put the camera down and relish the experience, it is much different captured artificially than when you are there at the moment.

The longest thought that occupied my mind was the realization that the greatest artists, poets and thinkers of then and now must have been inspired by the sea and by lost paradises; and I think that maybe one would not fathom the depth in black and white unless they see the sun reflected at the deepest pockets of the ocean…




11 February 2014

I haven’t written for a while now, a lot is going on lately. I haven’t written about my recent travel to Vigan all alone and a new destination is coming up on Saturday. My friends and I are going to celebrate Valentine’s day with a picnic and drinks at a waterfall in Los Banos. I’m very excited for it and it made me realize that it was childish for me to mope about being single on the day of hearts, a lot of love is indeed all around – think Under the Tuscan Sun or Eat, Pray, Love.

Work, reviews for law school, and being almost done with my thesis for both degrees – all that has been eating up my time lately. Add the random meet-ups and visits to the water holes with good friends. Events. A confabulated flurry of activity and life. A lot on my plate, I like it.

Or maybe these are just excuses…

Maybe I took a pause in my writing when his hands swam through the blankets to find mine, and when he did he intertwined it and gave me a kiss on the forehead and on the lips… Yet again…


I’m fucking in love again.

I think…