derangedstorms: Philippine literature has a new wave of books that quite interest the youth today: Wattpad fiction. Wattpad is a website that allows its visitors to read and write novels, and the said books — such as She is Dating the Gangster, Diary ng Panget and Break the Casanova’s Heart — were once published on the World Wide Web, before they rose to phenomal fame. But then, while they DID capture the hearts of many teenagers today, others disdainfully remarked that those books are insults to literature, particularly creative writing students and English majors. They claim that because of these books, Philippine literature is plunging into ultimate lows, what with the grammar, structure, style and not to mention, the content. The latter is not substantial enough, they say, and that the plots are overly repetitive: the underdog chances upon a bad boy, and unexpectedly, they turn out to be an item.

With that, those students would debate, the youth of today is now exposed to literature with no morals. Those books only explore shallow depths; teenage love and ONLY teenage love is the central focus here. That then makes them fear the effect on those books on teenagers: that they would grow up into brainwashed dimwits whose only goal in life is to score a boyfriend/girlfriend at such a wee age, and because of that, our generation wouldn’t progress much come the time we are all that’s left to run a nation.

This raises the question, then: What should the youth today read? Of course, one would say that teenagers of this day and age should read books that would develop their linguistic skills and shape their minds. That way, this generation would have the knowledge and intellect that would propel us to greatness, indeed. And with this, writers could write books that we could pride on internationally and level with the works of foriegn literature. This, again, brings us back to the question: What should the youth today read?

The answer, my dear friend, is not classics — definitely NOT classics, not yet.

Yes, they are great books, but they aren’t doing much, truth be told. This is the mistake the education system today is committing. They are imposing too much on the youth such difficult and great pieces of literature that they don’t do squat; they don’t at all. Nowadays, students are expected that they understand the works of Jose Rizal, Francisco Baltazar, William Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, Charles Dickens, Homer… They are amazing, no denying that, but in the eyes of students? Boring boring boring… What do they know and what do they care about corruption, greed, war, pride and revenge? Those were what concerned people of a different age. This is the 21st century already! They need books in which they could relate to, which speaks TO them. High school should require books that do exactly just that — books they could relate to and LEARN FROM as well. But what books could actually achieve such? Quality young adult novels on self identity and discovery, that is what. This is because it is in your teenage years that you begin to ponder with all intensity: who am I? What am I worth? What is the purpose of my life? Thus, we need literature with characters that ask the same things themselves — the readers then would embark on journeys of the pursuit of who you really are and they will root for the characters on the way — unbeknowst to them that, hey! I am learning! Cool! I love books! That would then create a bridge for them to explore and appreciate classics — it must be a step-by-step process of loving books — when their minds are now critical and open enough to maneuver those.

But what happens in a classroom setting? Students are made to analyze but not truly READ. Because of all this, they are conditioned to think that reading lengthy books with proper composition (not written this way, which Wattpad books would have! :p =)) OMG gwapo nya kyaaaaa..) is associated with studying (which they despise) Thus, they don’t read, and they are unaware of the fact that young adult books that aren’t difficult to read but are substantial AND entertaining are within reach. Since they don’t read books that ought to be devoured and seized up by people their age, they hurdle through their teenage years with confusion and doubts, thus, they divert their lives and seek out identity in a significant other, which, quite frankly, is the problem here: they are awashed in this delusion that love — and only love — could mend their need for happiness that they forget that your worth isn’t based on just that.

This is what the Wattpad books seemed to have augmented to.

When in reality, we don’t realize how literature — like media — could impact society in many ways that we could imagine.

But there is hope. There is always hope. The challenge here for grown-ups is to instill to the youth a love for books without compromising literary quality. This would then develop writers who could write literature with quality and substance, and of course, while capturing what the youth is all about… That is, more than just teenage love. People would then realize that at the end of the day, you are more than just that, and that you may fall in love and you may have your heart broken and shattered along the way, but you know within yourself that it isn’t what life is about because you have yourself, and you are in touch of who you truly are, which no one could never take away from you.

Laziness is making the best out of me this month


imagine liking someone who:

  • wasn’t out of your league
  • wasn’t miles away
  • was single
  • actually liked you

woah imagine

sonder (noun): realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own - populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness - an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill crawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk
― (via nostalgicjoy)
If people sat outside and looked at the stars each night, I bet they’d live a lot differently. When you look into infinity, you realize there are more important things than what people do all day.
― (via opiunn)

\When the days are cold

And the cards all fold
And the saints we see
Are all made of gold

When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all
And the blood’s run stale

I wanna hide the truth
I wanna shelter you
But with the beast inside
There’s nowhere we can hide

No matter what we breed
We still are made of greed
This is my kingdom come
This is my kingdom come

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

At the curtains call
It’s the last of all
When the lights fade out
All the sinners crawl

So they dug your grave
And the masquerade
Will come calling out
At the mess you’ve made

Don’t wanna let you down
But I am, hell bound
Though this is all for you
Don’t wanna hide the truth

No matter what we breed
We still are made of greed
This is my kingdom come
This is my kingdom come

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

They say it’s what you make
I say it’s up to fate
It’s woven in my soul
I need to let you go

Your eyes, they shine so bright
I wanna save that light
I can’t escape this now
Unless you show me how

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

Don’t get too close
It’s light inside
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

I am standing on top of a 50-foot cliff. It is black and sparkling where the rocks have been left alone and vibrant and green where plants have forced their way through the jagged edges.

One glance beneath me and this is what I see: rocks like barbed wire. Rocks like the lip of a chainsaw. Rocks like if I don’t jump far enough, I will paint them with my blood.

If you know me, you know that I jumped. But if you’re wondering why, this was the movie playing on loop in my head in the moments before:

Scene 1: the phone call to my parents, my words stretching thin across the thousands of miles between us,

I can’t do this anymore, I’m sorry, I love you

Scene 2: myself, sitting on a park bench with a boy who sighs and says

you’re scared of everything

Scene 3: the secretary at the doctor’s office, glancing at my records and wincing

I’m very sorry for what you’re going through

Over and over.

And so, to quiet them I jump.

I somersault through the air and don’t land so much as I crash.

Stomach, legs, face- all in one neat line against the surface of the water.

The water, which is unforgiving. It does not make room for 20-year olds with death wishes.

There is a sharp stinging along my body, signaling the blood that will arrive shortly. There is the air being knocked out of my lungs and there is the question of if it will ever come back. There is the current pulling me under, swallowing me,

I open my mouth and scream into the silence. The ocean laughs, takes pity. Spits me out onto the rocks at the water’s edge.

Blood is trickling in streams down my stomach, my thighs, my arms. Bruises are already rising, vivid purple irises against my skin, the worst kind of garden. Tiny broken blood vessels pooling together, crying to each other as they shatter.

You must know in the second before I jumped, I didn’t see any of this coming but come it did and now my body looks like the sky at every hour of the day- purples and yellows, blues and reds, pinks and oranges.

A New England fall, my dad whistles when he sees me. Every color of the goddamn rainbow.

He says I lack self-preservation. My mother says I’m reckless. But I know the truth.

Look at that girl. You can almost see who she was before the hurricane inside her mind. Look. She isn’t afraid. Look at her jump.

― Fortesa Latifi - tried to prove I wasn’t scared anymore and all I ended up with was cracked ribs (via madgirlf)

My Mom trained me not to trust guys who tell me that they love me. So I didn’t. Partly because I love my Mom, mostly because I don’t love myself. I don’t see how anyone could love me - I’m a mess. So everytime someone tells me they love me, I automatically assume the worst and so I try to look for things that are wrong with them as an excuse to get out of whatever we have. I do things that they hate, hoping that maybe they’ll hate me, in an unreasonable attempt to prove myself right.

But so far, I haven’t found anything wrong with you. I don’t want to. I know I did things that hurt you and I’m sorry, but this is the only time I’ve ever wished I didn’t try to ruin something, so please, don’t let me be right. I know I make it so easy, but please don’t hate me.

― Tell me you love me again, I want to say it back this time around. (Notes to a certain ginger)
I am not comfortable
in my own skin;
But I am trying
to be. Damn it,
I am trying to be.
― (via c0ntemplations)

To the boy who never loved me:
I sat next to you in band class,
Instruments resting, nesting in our laps
Like baby birds eager to take flight
As our breaths fell in sync with each other.
In for two and shhhh for six,
I could have sworn our hearts drummed together for eight beats and more.
And I knew I had waded into the deep end again.
Treading in that indigo abyss
Diving down, reaching to skim the bottom with even the slightest brush of my fingertips
But the pressure popping my eardrums whispered
No. Wait.
So I remained at the surface.
I lasted for five months,
Skin prune and wrinkled
I looked old but hadn’t become any wiser.
See, you made waves in the deep end
With the musicality you gave to everything,
How you loved big words
And talked to me about them
I thought your feelings for me were verisimilitude,
The way I thought you feasted upon my
Hedonic eyes
At the most apropos moments.
Your symphonic diction gave me goose bumps even though the water was warm,
And I swallowed eight mouthfuls of chlorine when our knees touched.
I puked thirteen times when you went for my friend,
Five months floating towards the filter
And eight heartbeats
Anchored at the bottom
I could never reach.
Love hit the crimson bull’s eye next to God on the battered dartboard of things I didn’t believe in.

To the boy who never noticed me:
You were the only good thing about history class that year.
We were rounding onto the last lap, cutting through the obscure waters of middle school
But I found myself in the deep end.
You were the Statue of David
In a school saturated with Picasso paintings I never really cared for.
I never cared for museums, either,
But you were the one work of art I could examine for hours.
The pool boiled and steamed,
My skin tattooed with scarlet, angry burns
Sinking into my bones,
And they screamed the one time we embraced,
But I dived down, extending to skim the bottom with even the slightest brush of my fingertips
But the pressure popping my eardrums whispered
No. Wait.
So I remained at the surface.
Now you’re with her
And I don’t really mind
Because it has been four years since we last talked.
You’re just a cool breeze that ripples the surface.

To the boy I never remember:
The kiddie pool does not have a deep end,
But in kindergarten I first dipped into the big-kid pool
And my toes struggled to graze the bottom
As I learned how to swim without support.
I think I went over to your house once,
And I knew I like-liked you
But I hadn’t yet grown the hard shell that encased me over the years.
So I followed you like the moon after the sun,
Chasing but never catching up,
And I eclipsed when someone shouted in class that I liked you.
Someone drained the pool after you moved to Pennsylvania,
And I wanted to touch the bottom,
Because it was rough and would leave scrapes on the heels of my palms,
But I wanted to know the pain.

To the girls in the deep end:
Tread carefully. When people drown, they don’t touch the bottom.
They float.

― Deep End (another stupid unrequited love poem), aka a poem I wrote five minutes after waking up last Saturday (via alisonjc)