FIRSTBORNS
Firstborns tend to be highly motivated to achieve. Of the first 23 astronauts sent into outer space, 21 were firstborns or only children.

Positive traits: They are natural leaders and often high achievers. The majority of politicians, spokespersons and managing directors are firstborns. They frequently live with a sense of entitlement and even superiority, they sometimes don’t have to prove themselves. They often come in two flavors: Compliant nurturers/caregivers (the ates) or aggressive movers and shakers (the kuyas). Both are in control; they just use different methods. As a rule, firstborns are picky, precise people and have difficulty adjusting. They pay attention to detail, tend to be punctual, organized, and competent. They want to see things done right the first time.

Negative traits: They don’t like surprises and have to learn how to express more emotion. They are often moody and occasionally lack sensitivity. They can be intimidating and pushy. Sometimes they can be a bit "know-it-all," and often, they are poor at delegating – largely because they don’t trust other people as much as themselves. They also tend to be bossy, perfectionists and overly-conscientious.


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cool! no wonder my sisters think I'm god and my significant other thinks I'm a brat. hahaha.

*my mood today*
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do you eat, sleep, do you breathe me anymore?
do you sleep, do you count sheep anymore?
do you sleep anymore?

do you take plight on my tongue like lead?
do you fall gracefully into bed anymore?

i saw you as you walked across my room.
you looked out the window, you looked at the moon.
and you sat on the corner of my bed, and
you smoked with the ghost in the back of my head.

i don't know, and i don't care
if i ever will see you again.
i don't know, and i don't care
if i ever will be there.

do you eat, sleep, do you breathe me anymore?
do you sleep, do you keep me anymore?

you kick my foot under the table,
i kick you back;
i can't say i'm able to
stand for you or
fall for you ever again.
wish for a perfect setting?
wishing that i am letting you
take me where you want me
all over again?
you can't give yourself absolutely to someone else.

i don't know, and i don't care
if i ever will see you again.
i don't know, and i don't care
if i ever will be there.

i saw you as you walked across my room.
you looked out the window, you looked at the moon.
and you sat on the corner of my bed, and
you smoked with the ghost in the back of my head.

do you eat, sleep, do you breathe me anymore?
do you sleep, do you count sheep anymore?
do you sleep anymore?

i don't know, and i don't care if i ever will be there.

A question continually plagues me: AM I TOO MUCH OF A BRAT? I think the people around me don't like talking to me anymore, especially during my so-called fits. Haaaaay.....

I am waiting for the text message that might never come tonight. What are they doing at this very moment? My mind is cluttered and sweat forming on my palm as I write only intensifies the smell of the cigarette I held just minutes ago. I think I need to go brush my teeth. My boss, who doesn't smoke, might be offended by the smell. It would be very embarrassing I reeked of bitter herbs. I should stop smoking. But there isn't anything else left to do here. I am bored. Multiple jobs and still I think my life is uneventful. I wonder what will make it whole again. Perhaps him. But he who claims to be mine is not really mine, at least on paper. And he is not leaving her. I understand why. For the meantime, I am okay with playing second fiddle until my time comes. Or until someone else comes. The situation makes me feel sick, but his total absence will cause me to die. Choices. This time, I only have one. Either I endure loving while suffering, or I disappear into nothing.

Again, until something or someone comes up.

"Just as blood is fact of your physical body and nothing you invented, creativity is a fact of your spiritual body and nothing that you must invent."

For one to unblock, she must first bring her pride down and adhere to the marching orders barked by her soul. How else would she be able to kick herslef to on and write something, anything on a sheet of paper?

When I was younger, I felt that the only time I was creative was when a tragedy befell on me, or when I was in grief. Only then was I able to go beyond my conscious effort to make my writing look good, because, then, I was angry and didn't care what people thought. As a result, I could not write in idle moments, not even in happy times. After a number of pieces, I realized how angst-driven my content has become, and for that, I felt more sad, more insecure. Constantly, I sought reasons to feel anger just so I could write. I scribbled furiously, struggling to finish my piece before my sorrow fades, calm sets in, and I would start caring about the words that flowed onto the page. When I finally had nowhere else to turn but that state of equilibrium, I stopped writing. My prose, unfinished. My confidence, diminished. The piece of work I tried so hard to create in a matter of minutes hidden somewhere in my shoebox of random sheets, or in the trash bin, burning.

For a time, I lived in creative spasms. Much like pus spurting out from a freshly popped pimple. (Gross, I know) I made myself believe that creativity, or the "Muses", only come at certain periods in life, or at specific times of the day. The latter still holds true, though. I write better in the wee hours of the morning.

"If creativity was spiritual in any sense, it was only in its resemblance to crucifixion." It fell upon the thorns of prose. The painful burden is lifted toward calvary, with editors lashing at your back to speed up before night fell. I bled. The moment following the struggle, I had thesis reports in hand, a couple of personal essays, some finished commissioned work, and a depression problem I could no longer handle. If writing was supposed to be my passion, why was I so tired and empty after the experience? Why was I so lonely? Apparently, people saw the lack of heart in my work, that I was faced with rejection after rejection. I gave up. For more than a year, I stopped writing.

When I came upon a choice once again, I had to let go of my usual habits lest I shoot myself in the head for believing to be a failure as an artist. A writing project was offered to me. Redemption. Though I didn't feel like writing anymore, something in me screamed I should at least give it a shot.

Necessity, not virtue, pushed me back. Clean slate. Square one. But writing, nevertheless. This time, I wasn't pressured into creating a masterpiece anymore. They want me to do a feature based on an interview. All I needed to do was write down what I heard and that's it. Unconsciously, I gave up my security blanket and wrote without a care. I met face to face with my fear without knowing it was there. And by looking through it, beyond it, I found myself.

Artists have a lot of excuses as to why they can't perform. But the deal is, I can always choose not to be run down by excuses and start working.Fear is the greatest nemesis of writers. Fear of the public. Fear of the block. Fear of self. Up until today, I suffer from the self-inflicted scenarios. Whenever they come to haunt me, I try to find refuge somewhere else: at work, in people, in sleep. I know that one day I will have to come to terms with them. Deadlines compel me. Responsibility forces me. If I'm not going to write now, might as well give it up entirely and drown myself in a corporate sounding job. It's now or never.

"Our creative artist is an inner youngster and prone to childish thinking."

Perhaps why we fear it so much. In a world run by rules of the so-called adults, creativity seems to have no niche. That's why most writers feel unwanted. That's why many good writers do not write at all. An artist can rightfully be called a creator, for it is through the intervention, the opening up of her natural creativity that she is able to produce works of art.

"Leap and the net will appear"

The returns of writing are relatively unknown, but the passionate writer does not bother with this. What I am most concerned with is extracting ideas out of my brimming head, freeing them, and putting them all on paper. Readership should come as a bonus, not an end in itself.

The writer's greatest tool is faith. With it, anything is possible. She can go on in tirade about her life as a child to the present, or a long and winding description of an eggshell sitting up a wall eventually falling to its demise. First, I must believe. Second, I must not fear. Third, I must let the words flow (no matter how seemingly incoherent they are at initial reading).

I write all these seeking to recover from years of stagnation. I have played hide-and-seek long enough and, frankly, I am tired of running away. I am also tired of seeking loneliness just to be able to produce something. The creator is in me. I now try my hardest to step out of my box and live free. I used to mourn for the self I abandoned. The mourning ceases today.

I begin the morning pages tomorrow.

Wish me luck.

What is the sound of one heart breaking?



It is the sound of someone curled up in a tiny ball crying softly in
the night, the sound of the first unwanted teardrop touching your skin,
it’s the sound of a telephone that doesn’t ring, the sound of regret
pounding inside your brain with every heartbeat, it’s the whispers of the
toy animals ha gave you.

It’s the shuffing of feet walking away from you, the sound of your soul
shattering into a million pieces at recognizing the word "goodbye",
it’s the soundtrack of memories torturing you, it’s the sound of feeble
hands trying to push back the obstinate hands of time, it’s the sound of
a cherub’s dying breath , the sound of all those years disappearing in
the vortex of Cupid’s kitchen sink, it’s the unrelenting, plaintive
baby meows of an abandoned kitten outside an ignoring door.

It’s the sound of the rain that doesn’t ever stop, the sound of all the
doors in the world shutting and closing in your face at the same time,
of raging, howling storms in the night when there’s no one there to
hold you, the sound of your voice as it screams back at you, echo of "I
love yous" burning holes in you, the sound your heart makes as it tells
you to lie still because nothing you will ever do will matter without
love.



The sound of the waves at the polluted beach you went to as it moves
from the shore and crashes inside your mind, of the sniffles that make up
your pathetic "SOS-to-the-world," the cracking of the brittle black-red
petals from the sidewalk vendor roses he gave, the sound of the music
he used to make going your gut.



The sound of things in your room being thrown around and landing on the
floor, the caress of sharpened kitchen knives on skin, the sound your
throat makes as you swallow your saltiest tear. It’s the sound of your
own voice calling out to someone who isn’t there, of winged creatures
dying and falling on a city pavement, of terms of endermeant used a
hundred times a day struggling to crawl into a vacuum of forgetfulness, it’s
the sound of your own sobs keeping you company, it’s the cold, uncaring
stillness ofthe air you share your space with.



Destruction isn’t always as noisy as exploding. Sometime the ultimate
catastrosphes are as quiet as a faether falling in the floor of a Zen
monastry. No one else can really hear your heart breaking except you.

(posted by Allen Quintos @ PinoyWriters)

Our brainchild is up. www.drippings.blog-city.com

Books heal. Last Saturday, I was driving around with a friend just to escape being alone. Not that I didn't like my friend's company, it's just that I would have opted to be somewhere else, with someone else. Anyway, he was more than willing to listen. I was too in despair to even consider writing anything. At times like those, writing doesn't seem much of a therapeutic option. So I go out. With old friends who don't know anything about what has been happening to me. I do so because it wastes more time, because then I will have to get on a longer story about the preliminaries and inciting events that led to my supposed downfall.

Cruising the Ortigas area, we come upon Books for Less. Without anything better to do, we park infront of the school I would never consider my children in, got off the car and walked trudgingly, painstakingly toward the shop which promises quality books at easy-on-the-pocket prices. I remembered walking shelf to shelf with him, not my friend, but him who defines my sunlit days. With that, I felt more alone. True to the strore's name, books were priced less than your average bookshop. Purchasing wouldn't hurt. One book. Two books. Three books. It was at that time, I almost dropped everything I held in my arms. Funny how those bulky books served as substitute for the hug I needed. For the hug he needed more than me. But I content myself with hugging books, knowing that perhaps there will come a time that his grief will make him forget about us. I needed to be used to the solace of books.

They heal, yes. Not because of their content. Last Saturday, the books granted me comfort not because in them were written words of wisdom, or words telling me to move on. I cannot. I do not know if he can. I'd like to believe that he feels the same way I do.

He once told me, "the loneliest time of the day happens right before you go to sleep". Right said, not only do heave with an aching heart and soul, I cry for the loss of lives, the loss of loves, and the loss of faith. I do not know what to do now that the sole reason for OUR non-existence has drifted. Will it lead to our legitimacy? Will it lead to a more compounded meaning with theirs? I pray that I be granted more strength to face whatever it is that will come our way. Because it not just mine, but OURS. It must be hard for him to balance his priorities. But now, things are different. God has made decisions easier now. However, I still fear the days to come.