ronanchua :)

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Ask me anything http://formspring.me/Ronan

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Haven’t checked this in a while. Ask me anything http://formspring.me/Ronan

Fourth grade.

Back then there was this Berlin Wall between my mouth and bad words. The first time I said a bad word aloud. It wasn’t even an evil cuss. Just a permutation of a local word for stupid. Tanga. At age ten, the evils of my world were bad words and cigarettes. Porn was fine. But bad words? No fuckin’ way.

I remembered practicing internally. I would say bad words over and over in my head until I could muster to open my mouth. But the moment I do, nothing comes out. The farthest I went would be lipping the word. To myself. Pathetic. The one time I got really pissed over a classmate in school, in all my rage I called him “son of a peach!” You had no idea how much a gift Meredith Brook’s first hit song was to me.

In one Shake, Rattle & Roll installment (yes the movie, I watch it every time in cinemas like tradition - get over it), Gina Alajar had a very endearing character that said “pucha” in every sentence. Sometimes two per. I liked it. It felt soft and it felt like something that won’t make me sound bad. For the next two hours I would say “pucha” in every sentence. It died down when my mom told me what it meant.

Seventeen years later, I still don’t really say bad words. A jolt akin to guilt chills the tips of my spine when I let out even one in a sigh. Seventeen years later the evils of my ten year-old world weren’t so bad after all. I didn’t imagine growing up with mostly bad words to say about the bigger evils around us right now. I was taught to shut up when I had nothing nice to say. But they’re just dying to fuckin’ come out.

Maybe that’s why I became a writer.

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Ask me anything http://formspring.me/Ronan

There is a kiss that awaits me.

And it will wake me from all this madness. It will mean everything in that moment. And then it will leave me a new emptiness to fill. Oust the rhythm of loneliness. With the melody of moments. New choices, sacrifices, and pain. And most importantly, love. After that, after all said and that, will it save me from all this sadness? Or is it all just part of this madness?

Which tree did you fall from?

A once-very-important person in my life presented an idea he believed in, late at night, curled under sheets, warmed by our skin. He said that we strive to be different from our parents but it is an inevitability that in doing so, we grow right into them. Maybe this was true because later on he had left me like how his parents left one another. And here I am still holding on to the last traces and remnants of the sensation we used to share like how my parents sort out their lives and ours, together. All by myself.