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  • Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.


Introduction
Aiko Lactaotao is a rare fat Asian specimen, a writer with the artistic temperament of a sloth, and the world's youngest elderly lady. A sleep-deprived Law Student, she still squeezes in time to blog about her passions which include books, reading the Classics, Fin-de-Siecle, Decadent literature, modernist, post-modernist, post post-modernist, experimental fiction, poetry, creative writing, linguistics, lexicography, philosophy of language, phenomenology, philosophy of mind, philosophy of law, criminal law, constitutional law, torts and damages, intellectual property law, public international law, Biblical exegesis, avantgarde films, collecting obscure, foreign, (mostly European, Asian, and Latin American) words, learning modern and ancient languages, and traveling the world whenever she has the budget.

About This Blog
This is a creative writing blog by a law student who'd rather travel the world and be a full-time writer if not for reality burying its fist up her ass and telling her she's not rich and that she needs to get a real job. Hence, the journey of a reluctant law student towards obtaining the Atty. title. When she's not moping around about how miserable being in law school is, she writes literary works that so far garnered compliments ranging from "Are you on drugs?" to "I'd like to have some of what you're smoking." Still, she's hoping that these seemingly outlandish writings of hers will eventually be able to land a book deal. Aside from writing, she is a voracious reader, currently owning around 300 or so books. In fact, she is infamous around the post-office because every other week a parcel or package of books arrives there for her to claim. As of the moment there are still 175 titles on her wishlist. She will not stop reading and writing and dreaming, law school can survive on its own; whatever happens, the aim remains the same: to become a full-pledged author.

Favorite Books
Friday, December 16, 2016 | December 16, 2016 |
Goodbye Horses


I had a circle of friends back in high school (10 years ago), there were 9 of us and we used to be really fond of each other. We were what you’d classify as ‘nerds’: there was JS, LL and MO gifted in the arts; we had KG the budding computer programmer; JP the taciturn brainiac who is almost always at the top of the class acing every subject. As regards the stereotype that nerds are socially inept (which often is the case, empirically), surprisingly part of our group were PP and TY in spite the fact that they were fairly popular given their amiable natures; also there was the lively AC, a regular presence at school plays owing to her (I write this sans exaggeration) exceptional talent as a thespian; and finally there was yours truly, the occasional prose writer.

For four school years we shared lunch tables and secrets, during summer vacations we compared dreams and ideas. It was no less than a loving family whose members happened to be around the same age. High school went by smoothly notwithstanding the few misdemeanors that got us smiling sheepishly at our parents whilst clutching in our hands a note from the principal’s office, and by the time we went to our separate universities to pursue different degrees, the symbolic floret of frail adolescent friendship has blossomed into something reminiscent of the legendary amaranth. I for one am grateful to technology for making possible what its lack might impede: communication. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, goes the cliché, belying the yearning within us all to sanctify the past- which attachment to is but an indefatigable part of human nature. I tried my best to be the friend they were used to out of loyalty and perhaps more selfishly, because of the longing for reciprocation. How I failed to spot the red flags of disenchantment I could not fathom: such as those excuses made to evade reunions ranging from “my family has plans for the weekend” to the perplexing “do we really need to?” (this is my best friends I’m writing about), the ignored e-mail messages, how they would immediately go offline once they see my name logged on as though I were a plague to be avoided, and how indifferent they have become in those rare opportunities that we were actually in the same vicinity together.

My reason fully comprehends their unspoken sentiments whereas my will remains adamant to keep the friendship intact. Confusion led to resentment, resentment brought forth grief. Grief directed to the realization that memories no longer hold any possibility of manifestation in real life. The great visionary Aldous Huxley once wrote, “What is important is less the reason for the experience than the experience itself…” however it does not quite reverberate in this particular circumstance wherein the experience is exclusively provided for, and therefore indistinguishable from the reason for the experience- or it could just be wishful thinking on my part. No matter, life, as I could quantify it in a simple sentence, is a continuous branching out; furthermore, a constant broadening of horizons to whither only Providence knows, and whose only guarantee to mankind is the sanctuary of firmly-entrenched roots that serve as an allegory for the soul. We branch out to accommodate change, be it physically, emotionally, psychologically, and whatnot, but in a parallel sphere the soul persists. Unlike the literal root, the soul neither expands nor regresses attributing to privation of mass to begin with. Nevertheless the similarity of the twain subsists in the strength of both to hold fast amidst all kinds of external transformation.

Suffice to say, I had undergone the pain of losing my best friends only to be vindicated in the end by gaining my soul- that bastion of my being, generous irrespective of situation to provide solace. Who better to belong to than thy self? Ruminations of jests and affections are left to the misty adolescent past, best this way in fact, if only as a means to gain more insight into what constitutes one’s nature below the persona. My eyes see the world now with rejuvenated clarity and with childlike fervor look forward to navigating the waters of the yet mysterious future, however tempestuous it might be. Chronos in lissome movements shall unveil my place under the sun.

Thus the legend of the amaranth proved defenseless against that despot, time.

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Thursday, December 8, 2016 | December 08, 2016 |
Because Life Is As Simple As A Complex Polyrhythm

The Case

I used to be a wide-eyed dreamer, and perhaps I still am nowadays. I used to dream of flashing lights, cheering crowds, and explosive concert endings. I wanted to be a Rockstar. I used to think that music encompassed the entirety of my existence, and therefore my destiny. I wanted to be a musical artist. I used to delude myself into thinking thoughts of Rock n’ roll grandeur and it costed me money and time. Precious, precious time. I used to say to myself that music is the way to go, that all else fades in comparison, that again, music is my destiny calling.

The Trial

But then life kicked in. I thought I could hold on to these fantasies but realized I couldn’t. I thought money wasn’t spent uselessly, I thought I wasn’t wasting anybody’s time, especially mine, but lo and behold, I totally was.

The Verdict

The simple fact of the matter is that I’ve moved on. Childish dreams are no more, fantasies are gone, and false hopes long extinct. I do not claim to know more about life than the average young adult does, but I surely know now how it starts. It starts with a bit of cuts and bruises, but we all have the choice to not end in tragedy.

The inevitable lessons brought forth by education and time has given me a new perspective. I’m truly grateful for that. I now no longer see the world in rose-tinted glasses wherein I was a Rockstar and everybody else is my audience. I now see a world that is glamorously covering up all the horrible wounds it has acquired through the ages, caused not only by natural events, but by ill-willed people short of being called Spawns of Satan. I now long for the glorious past, that glorious past that has slipped through our fingers because of wars fought out of greed and envy. I ache not for change, because truly, what has happened before will happen once again, and what will happen, already happened before.

I ache. I ache for the time I wasted, but there is nothing I could do about that now, is there? I ache with satisfaction knowing that I had to waste time in order to appreciate time. It is Providence’s way of teaching us to use time wisely. And I ache to learn just how wisely I could use my time.

Aftermath

The rhythm of life…I now know I co-manage with God Almighty. The task at hand is not to search my destiny with delusions of grandeur, but to appreciate that fact that I, like everybody else, is but a tiny speck in this universe, although we are not marginalized to such an extent that our dreams should be become unreachable.

I still dream. But I dream with my mind alert to reality, and my eyes open to possibilities. I dream not for the entire world, but for myself. I dream to be a child of God, I dream to fill the world with Poetry, and I dream to learn to be good. Starry-eyed? No. Dreaming and hoping is essential to living just as much as breathing fresh air.


I learn to hope, I live to learn, and I live. Simple.

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