Truth be told, ever since I got hold of Maroon 5’s latest album, Overexposed, I couldn’t stop playing it on loop. I had always been a fan of the band, especially of Adam Levine’s sexy voice, with Sunday Morning, She Will be Loved, and Misery as part of my playlist-of-songs-which-I-never-get-tired-of-listening-to-over-and-over-again.
This album, however, actually did it for me. Officially addicted, I think I’m on a Maroon 5 all-time high. It’s crazy because it’s not just one or two songs which I liked but all of them. As in all of them.
They’re actually on loop as I write this. Forgive me though, for I am no expert in music reviews. Mostly, I usually look into the lyrics and a bit on the sound and feel of the song. I only write with what I know and what I know is that their songs are so awesome.
Edited the title Maroon 5: Overexposed on the photo
Continue reading “Overexposed: Maroon 5 Bares It All”
For a God to love you the way He does, you cannot help but love Him back.
– Mai Rustia (2011)
Whenever I look back on the things I’ve written before, I cannot help but smile and a million thoughts and feelings come flooding and rushing back to me. At times, I cannot believe that I actually wrote what I did write. Then there at times that I am simply reminded of the things that I have realized then which makes me say wow, I actually realized that. And there are times that I just want to take a look – just because. Continue reading “A past revisited”
A Latin phrase meaning “to the stars.”
Non est ad astra mollis e terris via (Seneca the Younger): There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.
Per ardua ad astra: Through struggle (or adversity) to the stars
Sic itur ad astra: Thus one goes to the stars
At astra per alas fideles: To the stars on the wings of the faithful ones
Ad astra per aspera/ Per aspera ad astra: Through hardships to the stars, To the stars through difficulties, A rough road leads to the stars
Upon discovery, I feel tempted to change the quote of my blog.
I feel too, that I should have seen this before I passed my write-up.
To converse with someone ever so lightly and without any particular aim was quite lovely. That is perhaps what I enjoyed the most when I chance upon my former professor in Political Science last Wednesday afternoon. It was his humor and antics that had kept me laughing heartily half the time while I shared my stories and listened to his. It was his openness that made me feel quite at ease in opening up as well.
There really is that beauty (for lack of a better word) in talking to someone who is not quite new but not quite a part of my regular and familiar circle. It was good to hear a new perspective from someone who is older and from a professor at that. I now see what my aunt has been telling me long before: That professors do not always have to be professors only for they could also be friends. With more experience and wisdom, one could learn a thing or two (or even more) from them.
Yes, talking to him that day was light and easy.
Like a breath of fresh air.
In the light of everything that has occurred, I had made some discoveries on my own for the past week or so – discoveries that weren’t always that good at least, in my eyes. Nonetheless, they were good in a way that they revealed things to me that allowed me to understand myself, more and more. Somehow, even if we think that we know ourselves already – life has a way of showing us that we still don’t. There is still so much that our own selves hide from us and their revealing comes ever so slowly.
It is indeed a long process. Continue reading “Reflections on the Self”
(c) S. Buyco
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
– Pablo Neruda
I write with experiences in mind, but I don’t write about them, I write out of them. – John Ashbery
I believe I write about both. There are times that I tell my stories directly and have people take it as it is. Then there are times that I do not but each and every word chosen and placed one after the other were carefully chosen because it echoes the experience itself.
It is one thing to write about facts and research which need no feelings attached to them. Writing about your own stories is another matter. There is the baring of the self when one tells his story.
And when I write, I do.
It is not simply a paragraph or a sentence or a word.
It is I that is there.
It is I that you read.
Or perhaps I write too much with emotion and too little with logic. I write too much with heart and too little with mind.