The Measure of Demands (in 100 words)

This is the quantitative measurement of my life's most immediate demands. Go to the drugstore for a week's supply of Versant 5mg (to be taken once daily). Go to the grocery for: 400ml of shampoo (so I won't have to buy another bottle for a month), 40ml of anti-perspirant (the one that smells slightly like Armani, to match what's left of the 34 fl. oz. of Armani), 160g of toothpaste (whitening 12-hour antibacterial protection). Go to the bank for gas money (roughly 600 bucks per week, 13-14 liters to the tank).

If kept simple enough, life's demands are pretty manageable.

My Life is a Blank Page (in 100 words)

Today, my life is a blank page. I have the slightest idea how this story would unfold, so I somehow let it automatically chronicle itself. The world always has something awe-inspiring, something significant, something terrible, and there's always, always something boring. Suspected terrorists blow up trains in Mumbai. My blood pressure shoots up to 190/120. There's a strong chance of a stroke, yet I scarcely feel it now. Malacañang bribed bishops. There’s never enough time to prevail over boredom. And she told me I shouldn't be afraid. Life is blank page, but at least I barely feel that it's empty.

Snore Symphony, Disappearing Dream Carnival (in 100 words)

At 10pm, Disneyland sings its symphony of snores - the music of this purgatory been waking and working. You are also bound to catch the smell of somebody else’s feet. You are also bound to smell whatever the previous occupant’s clothes and body left in the uniform pillows and blankets. You can’t bring any personal mattresses or comforters in. Disneyland makes all it’s 30 customer service agents sleeping at the same time, look like batteries being recharged. I remember the first time I saw everyone sleeping altogether – amazing, and awful, imagining it as a lightless carnival of quickly disappearing dreams.

Disneyland (in 100 words)

There is a quiet room in this reclaimed land. “Disneyland,” it’s called. Considerable office space is allotted to discourage employees from sleeping in their workstations, or for whatever convenience (you may actually live here). There are ten 3-decker beds, each with a uniform white bed sheet, pillow, and a blue fleece blanket. There is a usually sleepy security guard assigned to watch out for the sleeping. They are the guardian angels of this carnival of dreams. They must easily understand why the angels were rebellious and envious. And they must have seen whatever it is that happens during your sleep.

Why Didn't I Write Before? (in 100 words)

Why didn't I write before? I would have been able to look back and say: what an excellent thought to re-absorb, what a splendid experience that was. Instead of just forgetting. You have never truly lived until you have written about your life. Writing is the act of owning, of possessing your reality. So now it's time to delve into the details. Begin gently, like your first sip of steaming-hot coffee. Then pick up the pace as in a conversation that's grown interesting. Don't worry about the time you lost or running out of space. There'll be another one tomorrow.

Would You Be My Muse? (in 100 words)

"Would you be my muse?" It's been so long since writing enriched my life. I could not remember the last time I wrote anything freely - without restraint, without actually tailoring my reality neatly. I've forgotten the time when I wrote as myself, not as somebody else who became who I am. Let me be nameless and let me tell you everything. Let me tell you about beauty, how senseless it is. Let me tell you how the moon moved in this reclaimed land by the sea, how the wind wrapped this evening in a lovely embrace. Would you, please?