decaffeinateddumbassery

[decaffeinateddumbassery]

A wise man once told me

"Only when a mosquito lands on your testicles will you finally understand that violence is not always the answer."

[decaffeinateddumbassery]

Push for Failure, not for Perfection

By: Daniel Cedrick A. Cabanilla

"Play with your soul, not with your hands."

That was the saying of my teacher before she passed away. She was such a kind-hearted soul, believing that everyone in this world deserves a second chance at redemption because, in her own words: "Who are we to decide where they belong?"

Her teachings were passed onto me at a very young age. Prioritising other people's wellbeing rather than herself, she would often go out of her way to help those in need. Even at church, she would do the same. As a choir teacher and organist, she would teach the children from the choir how to sing with grace and beauty. Strict as she was, her words were laced with nothing more than love and care for the children she taught.

Those teachings would be passed down during church congregations, where the halls of the Holy temple would be filled with songs filled with joy and love. The music that burst out of the choir would be described as angelic and heavenly, where people would break down to tears from the sound of the organ alone.

When I came to her how she played so beautifully, she answered: "Play with your soul, not with your hands."

I never knew what those words meant. Even now that I finally understand their meaning, I still fail to see them through. It only goes to show how far she believes in the Divine.

[decaffeinateddumbassery]

Katharsis

By: Daniel Cedrick A. Cabanilla

Hobbies are activities we do for the sake of relaxation and comfort, falling into a state of tranquility and catharsis as we let our minds wander off into the depths of our thoughts.

Let me tell you about mine.

Writing has always been a lovely pastime of mine. I like the way my fingers trace through the rough edges of books as I run my thoughts and emotions onto a piece of paper, forming an artwork of black-laced paragraphs and sentences.

I found my love for the particular activity when I read a poem from a lesser-known author. The way his emotions poured off the quotes in droves made me feel an emotion I've never felt before. It was exhilarating, and magical as I found myself lost in a world I've never been to.

It was then that I decided to write my own works.

At first it was difficult, but then again, everyone must learn to walk before they can run. I struggled to write a simple sentence that stuck with the way I envisioned my work was gonna be, so I tried and tried, again and again until I finally found myself exhausted and drained.

It's hard being creative. As simple as it sounds, it's difficult for someone to forge a universe born from the confines of their own imagination through ink and paper alone.

Even to this day, I still write. When the moon gazes it's light upon me, I dream of a perpetual meantime where I see my own work plastered onto the pages of a book.

[decaffeinateddumbassery]

Solipsism

By: Daniel Cedrick. Cabanilla

Monsters are real. They don't hide underneath our beds, nor they seek refuge inside our closets, they are right next to you.

They are the ones that you talk to every single day, you see them on the way to work, at the bus station, at the restaurant, at home. Everywhere we look, monsters lurk in every corner.

Read a history book and skim through the pages of every generation. You'll suddenly see the monsters I talk about.

Humans.

It takes a thousand good deeds for a person to be seen as good, but only one bad deed to become a bad one. The fragile beliefs that we have, only ignited the fuels of war all the more.

We confuse the line between insanity and genius every single time. It's on the pages of every book you can imagine, because we are despicable creatures.

We lie, cheat, steal and kill our own kind in the name of our beliefs. We are driven by emotion and that blurs our sight of what is right or wrong.

Maybe that's all we've done. We've deluded ourselves into believing that the world was fine on its own, when in reality—we are content living the way we are.

Perhaps we all see ourselves as the main character of our own stories, wishing to live a life outside the chains of reality as we envision a future with arrogation and false security. We believe that the world circles around ourselves, that our choices reshape the thin boundaries between justice and vengeance as our actions hold no meaning towards the impending future.

We see the world comparable to a waking dream. Believing that there is no prior motive to the world, other than to provide our own satisfaction because if we truly look—why should we take considerable responsibility for the world if the world itself is nothing more than a personalised playground?

My opinions may have changed, but the fact that I'm right has not.

I am a monument to all your sins.