Investing on sweaters and coats.

Grey, rain-stained mornings. Dull, blazing evenings.

I cannot recall the last day I looked upon the face of the sun and not curse it for its heat. I am beginning to loathe cool, breathy evenings – I writhe in my bed, covered with at least two blankets. I despise waking to the sound of silence -knowing that most people are still in their beds, I am envious. I cringe at social obligations. I cry easily under pressure. I buckle under the domineering, judgmental glance of society.

I am weak, cold and exhausted.

Worry is writ upon my forehead. Ambition, my only fuel. Dreams, crumbling and then reconstructing again. Knowledge, less than what they think. Intellect, not to be praised. Beauty, fuckery and damnation. Confidence, exists someplace else. Voice, diminished. Art, gone.

The world is dimming down for me. I am turning into a robot. Continuous, monotone, colorless, dull and cold.

I am always cold.

Well, at least nowadays.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Or the lack of recreation. Or lack of everything else that I used to have that’s bugging me to bits. I am tired of our system. Always at work. Always busy. Each and everyday. The responsibilities that I am burdened with falls heavy unto my shoulders. My just-passing grades consuming me. And people. People who are constantly praising none but themselves and their own crapped up shit.

I am not in a good mood right now.

All the more reason why I should keep on writing.

What else must I write about?

Ah, sweaters.

A lot of people -may they be the bird-faced or the greedy potatoes- had been asking me as to why I am always wearing such wintry sorts of clothing when I am -after all- in a tropical country. They find it appalling that one can stand to be under heaps of garment when the sun is beating down.


Sweaters make me feel safe & secure.

Although not much people know of it, I was never the one to be emotionally attached. Some people might insist that I am. Some might agree. But fact is, I am my own girl. I belong to no one but myself. Thus, it took quite a while for me to get used to physical contacts with other people outside my gene pool. I believed -well, and I still do- that everyone will leave everyone. In one way or another they will. And when that time comes that they voluntarily step away from your life, you will feel a gaping hole form in the pit of your stomach. A hole that can’t ever be filled. Unless that person comes back again.

They never do, mind you.

If they step off from the painting that is your life, they step off never to be seen again.

Never to be heard of.

And you will be left with your other paintings with them in it and other paintings without.

What does his have to do with sweaters?


Sweaters provide comfort.

Of course they do.

But it’s more than that for me.

They give me some sort of warmth that makes me feel a tad bit capable of most anything. It’s hard to explain, actually. Mmm.. Imagine I am a fragmented spirit and that there’s nothing keeping me together except my sweaters & coats. Like an additional colorful skin.

I began buying heaps of jackets right after my dad died.

It was the year 2007. And I distinctly remember that it was the frostiest year I’ve ever seen. The fog was thicker. White smoke emanating from our lips. And cold. Damn the cold. It seeped into my bones and rattled in my tummy.

Every night I wore sweaters to keep me warm.

I huddled underneath my blankets like a kitten in a haystack. Socks were my new bestfriends. My hands hidden deep within my pockets. It was the coldest year I’ve seen. And my dad was dead. Which made everything colder and distant. No soup can kill the frost within me. Even if I burned my tongue on hot chocolates and boiling stews. It still wasn’t enough.

I guess my inner clock died.

And for 4 years -my whole highschool life- I was still within that year.

I’m proud to say that I’ve stopped wearing sweaters ‘everyday’.

I still wear them. Occasionally. Every other day.

Perhaps because I have become too dependent on them.

Ha Ha Ha.

~ o ~


Published by

cie miraflor

A Filipino at heart and a Thomasian in spirit. A vocalist. A bookworm. A chocoholic. A liar. A dreamer. A coffee addict. A writer of poetry and short stories. A pending Information Technologist. A frustrated programmer. Blinded with love for Batman.

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