I struggle to bring words to the page, but indolence halts my thoughts. A health book? Me? Write a health book? I wonder how I even agreed with it in the first place. Sucks. Big time.

I can't write! My mind is filled wtih thoughts of him and my contact lenses are drying up. I try to chant Julia Cameron's words like a mantra. Nevermind if the things you write don't make sense. You'd be surprised what gems you will find by just writing random thoughts. "He" told me Butch Dalisay said the same. Hey, if these great writers tell me to write nonstop, then I will write. Yes, even if they don't matter to anyone. Even if what it is is a whole jumble of thoughts and words reflecting how disorganized my mind is. Agh! What am I supposed to do? I have a deadline and all I have to show is ONE SENTENCE. There goes my career and my reputation. I should try to be more disciplined and professional. Passion does not bring food to the table. Neither does it pay my bills. I cannot blame not writing on the artist's temperament forever.
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He has a sorry look on his face; eyes droopy, forehead crinkled, head slightly bent down. His eyes tried to communicate with mine. But I dodge them. No. Not this time. I have to leave some respect for myself and not give in to his usual apologies. Half thankful for the noise around us (the band's terrible), half for the little candle that masks whatever facial expression I projected as he spoke, I raise an eyebrow at him. Did he see it? He looks so pathetic. At the back of my mind, I laugh at how I used to throw myself at his feet. How his presence made me feel alive and needed and wanting for more. Do I need him now? I think not. What he is now is not who I fell in love with before.

I see him now with disgust. I cringe at this sorry excuse for a person sitting in front of me, trying to make me stay. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I don't know why.

Love really has a sense of humor. And him, with his sorry face, sorry excuses and sorry life, does not deserve me. Me and him? It angers me.
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Do I think it? Or do I will it? Do I endure? Questions. Questions. I have yet to find out answers to my eternally repeating questions. I should get back to work.

Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge

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Many and varied sinners suffer eternally in the multi-leveled Malebolge, an ampitheatre-shapped pit of despair Wholly of stone and of an iron colour: Those guilty of fraudulence and malice; the seducers and pimps, who are whipped by horned demons; the hypocrites, who struggle to walk in lead-lined cloaks; the barraters, who are ducked in boiling pitch by demons known as the Malebranche. The simonists, wedged into stone holes, and whose feet are licked by flames, kick and writhe desperately. The magicians, diviners, fortune tellers, and panderers are all here, as are the thieves. Some wallow in human excrement. Serpents writhe and wrap around men, sometimes fusing into each other. Bodies are torn apart. When you arrive, you will want to put your hands over your ears because of the lamentations of the sinners here, who are afflicted with scabs like leprosy, and lay sick on the ground, furiously scratching their skin off with their nails. Indeed, justice divine doth smite them with its hammer.

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Very High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very High
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Very High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	High
Level 7 (Violent)	Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Very High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Very High

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

i did not meet the deadline. So I suffer the consequence of yet another major writing opportunity lost because I procrastinate. it further raises a question on my abilities. Am I really the writer I claim to be?

It's 11:30 PM and i still have 21 more pages to rewrite for a book chapter deadline I was supposed to finish and submit early this morning. But it's night and noooooooooo i'm faaaaar from done. Whoever said writing was easy will have to face me at my near incredible Hulk state and justify. It kills. But I enjoy the recurrence of death more than the introduction of life, so I endure every single waking moment having to anticipate deadlines and summon the so-called muses. The life I chose to live is far from my parents' dream of having a kid in a power suit. The only power I have is what I weild when I have a pen in hand and paper on the desk. My back aches terribly, but this is something I have to do. Oh well, i have to get back to work. Reality bites.

I do not wish for drastic change. Only an assurance that once I finally decide to seek another source of happiness, it won't be as difficult as letting go. Last night, I told him I wanted to leave, for which, in his heart screamed objection, but he outwardly supported. Funny. I wish he had more balls to come up and tell me he cannot live without me.

But no. He is much too proud to admit that. I should know. I lived with him for over 3 months. Him and I once played house. And, then, it was the most fulfilling, self-nurturing experience of both our lives. Now? I do not know.

We are but participants in the idea. Because he chose to live with somebody else, albeit claiming to be in love with me. For this, I am chained. And probably angry, I wouldn't be sure at this time. I try to elevate my pride to meet with his. Or, maybe, go beyond his. So that I would have to courage to bring one foot out the door of our imaginary existence and face mine.

"Go for more vigorous verbs"

Question: Does the vigor only apply to verbs? Can somebody tell me to be more vigorous with the job?

God give me answers. Show me a sign.

"There is a person in my mind typical of the people in my surroundings."

So how many persons are there in an average human being? Is this an affirmation that each of us are prone to having multiple personas? I know I do. Do you?

She tells me to improve on my writing. There she goes up front pointing out each of my grammatical errors. The whiteboard is bleeding red and blue. I cannot bear to look.

Instead of inspire me to write, she has turned my interest into fear. I do not complain, though. What she's doing helps, in a way. I probably need a breath of fresh air.

Seeing the concrete 42 floors down, I anticipate my fall. Underemployment. What was that again? Did she say I defined it wrong? People below look like ants to me. Makati in the morning doesn't look like much. More like my own writing. More like this woman lecturing me the do's and don't's of effective abstract writing.

All of us look good in the dark and under artificial lights.

How sad. How boring. Now she's talking about the perfect tense. Yadda. Yadda. My mind is wandering elsewhere. Ha! She's gabbing on and here I am with my head bent, writing furiously on an recycyled notepad. Does she notice at all? Does she seriously think I'm taking down notes? I bet she does. My attention is not with her. My seatmate is probably worried lest I bring both of us trouble by not listening. And being obviously distracted at that. Maybe I should stop now.

My eyes stare blankly at the whiteboard she fills and refills every 5 minutes. "Tell me something I don't know".