PRO-CLASS TEEN NATION

Marckeey is the screen name.


* 19 years young but I look older than I should.
* B.A Communication Arts student in the University of the Philippines, Baguio.
* I wanted to be a Bartender back then, though.
* I find sarcasm really handy.

*CLOTHES.
* HUMOR.
*OWLS.
*SURFER DUDES


* SIGMA DELTA PI SORORITY MEMBER
I ogle at thou

annstreetstudio:

Traveling through the mind of Giorgio Armani, seeing the story he wanted to tell through form and fashion, feasting on beauty at Eccentrico

buzzfeed:

Sometimes you just need some different words (via word-stuck.tumblr.com)

(via infelice)

youarethewordmelancholy:

The city screams tall tales of towers scraping through centers and edges.

More than urban legend.

Human’s concrete achievement.

A place of motion.

Connected by travel veins.

Where places are named

After people’s named

achievement

Because milestones are like

stations.

Dropping in.

Getting by.

Souls traverse

among imposing towers

and are separated by time and valuation.

A 15 peso, 20 minute train ride from

edge to edge

All in the hum drum

Of conditioned air

and hushed breathing.

Until one soul

pays expectation another visit

maybe to meet another expectant soul

from the other side

of the city’s

outstretched body.

Wanting body.

Among the sea of pedestrians

to crossover

overpasses

through urine, sweat,

cheap hotels

until the solitary soul

crosses the nth street

of the café of artificial coffee

meetings and behaviors

because artificial souls agree to meet there.

And end at the insomniac circulation

of blood in lettered bars, of O.

As the clock strikes time’s indifference

we agree to do these all over again.

Because the train never sleeps.

Desire doesn’t too.

All is renewal’s repetition and transit’s endlessness in the city of Manila.

Meanwhile, a hairy worm passes through buildings

A Nuno graffiti stands in waiting

among all those who wait for another bus.

Everyone trickles down.

Sweat.

C

youarethewordmelancholy:

I

The city’s dirty streets have plotted its lines of loss and indiscretion at the back of your hands. A desired spot somewhere between fast food and pedestrian I would find you, over-sized shirt and tousled hair and all the lines of your hands, patiently waiting. This city grows upon expansion, size upon size, extension, transit lines like outstretched arms connecting all possibilities of bodily convergence. Sometimes hands hold on in the speed of things. Among the tussled hustle and bustle of people indifferent to pickpockets and occasional bumps, I find you, I stretch my arms and hands and I am here. This captures a stranger’s location among feelings of fleeting people who knew all too well this space. I am here because you are here.  And your over-sized shirt, tousled hair and hands are all worth the strangeness for a stranger.  I wanted to kiss you and tell your tongue this city is my city too. Curved, interlocking, wet, strange, passionate, rough and above all things, standing higher than all these buildings, stranger than all these spaces, is a love I carried with me. Meeting you with much haste like the gush of people coming out of the train, blood from an open wound. All too much and all too willing. Wanting to be held.

II

I am afraid of you. But all the fear dribbled down my neck like sweat as I still waited for you. Burnt cigarettes lay dead like bodies on the ashtray. And I imagine all discourses end in smoke. In my head I battle through the smoke, hopefully to find all the reason why.  You arrived half past my yuppie coffee. I took this chance to go teetering into life’s possibilities hidden like secret alleys in the city.  After all, this city is a place to get lost and willingly suspend our certainties. All maps and moral compasses are useless.  I let your fluent language of the city guide me. Your voice is good to listen too. But you love listening and hate talking. I slowly undressed all my truth in layers around the space of your listening only to find out that you have as many truths as there are many streets that connect each and every secret in the metro. Truth travels through each and every conversation we had. As we walk through it your thoughts branched out into two streets, you stopped, took a coin from your pocket and asked me “Where would you want heads to go? Left or right?” A side of you is fated into tossing luck into coins. Right. I wasn’t sure. Until now, I will never know all your directions, truths and many layered meanings. I am still afraid of you. I might have taken a direction towards you that I might lose myself.       

III

I finish writing about you at around 3am. I imagine lights are still alive at your side of the city. The trains haven’t stopped connecting. People are still rushing to get by and get in. Bus rides still have their philosophies and streets still stretch endlessly to places I can never go. We are not trying to be complicated but we’re just too mundane. This is a perfect time to end all words that might lead to you, end all the travelling and deciding. I end all of you into a space between time’s contradiction sometimes where the sun and the moon would agree. I only hope to see you soon. 

youarethewordmelancholy:

The city screams tall tales of towers scraping through centers and edges.

More than urban legend.

Human’s concrete achievement.

A place of motion.

Connected by travel veins.

Where places are named

After people’s named

achievement

Because milestones are like

stations.

Dropping in.

Getting by.

Souls traverse

among imposing towers

and are separated by time and valuation.

A 15 peso, 20 minute train ride from

edge to edge

All in the hum drum

Of conditioned air

and hushed breathing.

Until one soul

pays expectation another visit

maybe to meet another expectant soul

from the other side

of the city’s

outstretched body.

Wanting body.

Among the sea of pedestrians

to crossover

overpasses

through urine, sweat,

cheap hotels

until the solitary soul

crosses the nth street

of the café of artificial coffee

meetings and behaviors

because artificial souls agree to meet there.

And end at the insomniac circulation

of blood in lettered bars, of O.

As the clock strikes time’s indifference

we agree to do these all over again.

Because the train never sleeps.

Desire doesn’t too.

All is renewal’s repetition and transit’s endlessness in the city of Manila.

Meanwhile, a hairy worm passes through buildings

A Nuno graffiti stands in waiting

among all those who wait for another bus.

Everyone trickles down.

Sweat.

youarethewordmelancholy:

I.

Alone is the book you bought 3 years ago, with the money you refuse to buy with food. It’s thick, expensive and the cover and spine demand reading. It depends on how you read it, fantasy, fiction a hybrid of mixed creation and imagination. Alone, however, took too much of your time. Halfway…

Teddy Roosevelt’s diary entry from the day his wife died. He never spoke of her death again.

youarethewordmelancholy:

Of all the people you may have encountered in your life, a literature major would be the most memorable but easily forgotten. This paradox owe largely to what they usually do, usually literature majors talk in the language of irony, it’s how they are not understood most of the time and how they…

nobody’s gonna mess with me. Nobody will dare mess with us. Because we will show every mother fucker that once hurt us that we are far more deserving than anyone they replaced us with. High five!

I think that one of the biggest reason why relationships do not work out in the long run is because at one point, one side (or both) stops trying. Before one claims another person as their significant other, they would do anything to make that person happy. They would chase, they would flirt, they would be charming. They would send daily morning and goodnight texts every time you wake up or go to sleep. They would write corny messages and pick up lines just to make sure that there is a smile upon your face. But once they claim you as theirs, all of those things eventually stop. The 5 page texts slowly turn into 1. The constant calls turn into not calling at all. And the lovely endearments turn into daily arguments. In order for a relationship to work, don’t ever stop chasing. Just because the person you want is now consider “yours”, it does not mean they deserve anything less than the time when you’re trying to win them over.

alfiebooty:

kevtheexplorer:

the-freakish-atlantic:

what do straight boys even do all day

prob makeout with each other between whispering “no homo”

ahahahhahaha

(via dzfxchjvgotuee)

alloutorg:

HUGE day for love. After months of hard work and protest, marriage equality has passed in France — 331 to 225.

(via amodernmanifesto)