book 2 🞄 volume 3

Three Pukes: Hyper-Experiencing Child Amid Healed Adulthood (April 4, 2026)

I puked three separate times this afternoon. It was the best experience ever. For some reason. It reminds me of hiking. Feels incredibly horrible but feels really great. It also reminds me of when I was a child. You were just sick physically but feel bouncy and great afterwards, where depression is absent and the only pain is physical. As an adult, I’m experiencing this child-like ease again where physical pain is just physical pain, but, because of the closure I got recently through the integration of my whole life, without the depression and unresolved weight and issues of an adult and without the extreme inexperience of a child. To clarify, vomiting is not a relief from this. How I experienced the vomiting is a reflection of healing. It was an enjoyable, genuinely valuable experience even while it felt horribly, and I was already thinking that after the first puke, even when I still had two more pukes to go and was still feeling horrible. Even when my thoughts were managing under the pukiness and horribleness, there was this experiential understanding that this was genuinely vivifying.

I was able to see a whole new side of myself. It’s like hiking or going to a new cafe. It’s like putting yourself in a whole new environment. Literally feeling very horrible and in pain for 30 minutes straight, which only lessened but did not stop afterwards, which resulted in my third puke.

I might even puke again later, but the fact I’m writing this might mean I’ll just lie down and sleep.

I’ve learned so much about myself today and how I am under that kind of duress.

It’s weird. There’s genuine excitement about just relaxing, drinking water, lying down, reading, sleeping, playing video games. It reminds of when I got sick last year. It was so fun in its own way because it made things genuinely fun and immersive in a new way that I wouldn’t really experience if I was totally fine and well. When I got sick last year, I immersed myself so much in Skyrim. It was its own cool thing. And now, life feels so much somehow higher quality of life. You’d think a day like this would go sour, but boredom somehow is much worse.

It’s why I found myself doing 106 ten-hour cafe stays in 54 unique cafes in the last ten months. It completely disrupts your thinking patterns the same way the horrible agony I felt earlier that led to the puking kept vivifying the way I experienced the world and thought about it.

Somehow, life feels so much more alive and greater and higher quality when you’re not just relaxed and sitting down and there’s genuinely a sense of getting shoved out.

This is not philosophy or a thesis. I mean this is how I am experiencing it. Somehow, life feels so much greater when you can feel it, really. Even if I may be reading and writing environmental spatial and bodily sensory description, somehow, words alone are just a bunch of words, but when you vivify them with the placeness of a new cafe below a condo, with hiking rain, mud, and sweat, with a long hot bath in a cottage rental in freezing Baguio at night, with formative memories from childhood, youth, and just general intense moments in one’s life, with puking that one rarely experiences (e.g., two years without puking even once).

Even if experiencing the words with the texture of this grounded, textured, vivified perception doesn’t automatically mean your writing reflects that, it does eventually get internalized and integrated before being actualized and enacted. Words are only as much as life.

To document my thought patterns during the peak of horribleness, I was thinking along the lines of the following:

• Shit, this is humbling. This is my punishment for thinking so highly of myself when I mentioned that rich people did not necessarily bear depth, only that they were smothered in signals and implications of it, like Russian nested dolls giving way to nothing inside.
• But at the same time, no, I’m projecting onto nothing. It’s just physical pain. It doesn’t matter whether I project onto it or not. But at the same time, projecting a narrative onto it grants me at least the satisfaction of something to hold onto as firm footing. But is it really?
• And no, I’m not really arrogant. I’m just saying I’m arrogant because it’s easier to believe this is a punishment than just painful, but this awareness does not make the pain easier. And my thoughts are barely spelling themselves before getting disrupted and lagging mid-sequence. I can barely orchestrate or architect a whole overarching point.
• It just feels horrible. Focus on breathing, gotta breathing through my mouth, but that only mitigates the pain a little, leading back to pain. Cover my eyes, but I don’t want to do it too long and breathe through my open mouth too long so as not to disturb and bring too much attention to myself. But at the same time, I don’t care. I would rather just fully focus on managing the pain so that I can carry myself the whole way unscathed. But it hurts. I’m sitting down here, covering my eyes, alternating between breathing through my nose and mouth. I notice I’m sitting with a straightened back with my legs apart. Wait, I notice that my pants is tight, and that might be playing a critical role in my discomfort and the puking. But even while that’s true at an immediate level, the puke might very well be necessary, given the persistent of the puky feeling and the relief from that first puke. Drinking more water quenches the thirst that comes so quickly, yet doing so makes my stomach balloon and cause even more discomfort like the water is being used as fuel to shoot out more puke. But I’m thirsty and I will keep drinking. The sweat is dribbling down my face.
• I can barely think. The pain is overwhelming my thoughts, constantly disrupting it.
• Am I going to puke for the second time? Should I go to the bathroom? I can’t. It’s too much right now. Let me bear it here at the table on the chair while both of my hands are pressed against my forehead to shade my eyes. But I should tell — (my older half-brother who was with me) to call mom to come fetch me. Maybe they’re at home. Are they at home? Would the text go through? Would they be busy? Is this too much in a hurry? Can I still handle this? Damn I wish he was more attentive and would call mom for me because I can’t handle this.
• Okay, gotta puke inside the toilet this time. Okay, two water vomits first before the real foodstuff vomit. There, that feels much better. Let’s go outside, much quicker and smoother this time compared to the first one. I feel great. I can stand up and walk around. Damn, I really do feel great, standing out here in the balmy sun outside the restaurant. Life feels so great. This restaurant could be a nice overlooking the bustling intersection. This could be an office. It reminds me of — where I would be looking at the busy street a little off to the distance and below right along the town hall. But this spot here is better because it’s right beside the intersection and there is no staircase or driveway, so you can see the motorcycles zooming. In fact, when I sit on the metal stool and lean both elbows behind me onto the table while stretching my head up and staring at the ceiling, the motorcycles whoosing from left to right through the intersection look like birds [I think it was this that I thought then, but not sure] when they’re at the very edge of my vision to my left. Man, the world outside genuinely feels great. I would have danced and whooped if I wasn’t outside literally beside the bustling main road around 4 PM and here inside where even if there’s no other customers, there’s still the three staff members, the cook (heard one of their cooker things broke), and the two don’t-know-them friends of my two childhood friends. Life feels so great. [I was already feeling great around this point after the second puke.] I chatted with my childhood friend — about his dating thing going on and kept up with it, asking him how the “foreplay” (chatting before a date) was, and he thought I meant flirting, and —, my other childhood friend, butted in and said that he told — already about how to have sex in a playful, joking, joshing (his name is literally —) manner, the kind that’d funnily read one of the Bible verses on one of the pinned rectangle papers on the corkboard hanging on the wall inside the restaurant, and I asked him whether he was a babaero (playboy), which — denied. I noticed — playfully broadcasting that — was going to lose his V card. — even showed him a yellow-packaged condom, and they chatted about condoms for a short time. I recall looking again and again at the sign that read the name of the art gallery exhibit thing that had socials, because the walls hung with paintings of primarily Eurasian tree sparrows in green environments. I kept looking at the name and paintings and the sign with the socials even before I had my first puke, and I did it even now. It was called —. I enjoyed the paintings, and one of them showed very Philippine mountains and plants, I could tell. I remember seeing the two office potted fern plants outside to the left side when I was sitting in the balmy sun right outside. They didn’t allow any more customers to go inside, probably because today was a special today, having opened in 11 AM and closed around 4 or 5 PM. There was only actually one or two parties inside when I and my brother — arrived (we were late from the meet-up time by 30 minutes due to him not waking up immediately as noticed by his mildly bad mood when he went to unload Gcash cash after we dropped down because we didn’t have enough coins and afterwards rode again), and only one other party, a relatively tall, chubby, spectacled, cute-faced woman in a dark-blue shirt and a white-shirted guy, both light-skinned, ended up coming while we were there. —, one of the staff, stopped a mother and child from entering. This vivifying experience means another huge angle or side of myself to integrate, which is great! We went to — afterwards, and there, with a white, scarred, friendly, stray “neighborhood” tomcat, — revealed to me that his date got cancelled because she came home from — just today and got sick (fever) when she arrived home. He was happy because eating really left him out of it. Before the cancel happened, I told him that, and he acknowledged it. I bought dark mocha latte, and it cost 85 pesos. [I didn’t end up truly drinking this beyond some sips that brought it down to 85 to 90 percent until after I finished writing most of this passage.]
• Finally, I got home. I thought I would be able to stay there at the restaurant and hang out there since the staff and my friends knew each other (one of the staff being my former elementary classmate —), but I guess I’m feeling unwell even after all that, and I think I need to puke.
• After third puke, damn that feels great, but maybe I need to puke again. Let’s see.
• Leading up to now, it feels so much better now.
• The pukiness has evaporated since I started writing this passage an hour and 17 minutes ago.

If you’re wondering whether I’m recalling or actually narrating the real-time thoughts then, I was very, very present and conscious then. Even now, I am, given that I have all this to work with. This vivification naturally extends to the act of writing after the event, because your mind doesn’t truly differentiate between what happened then and right now. I was able to reach 4.5 million words in 1,000 days recently because of my life experiences. Sweat bleeds into word count.

Walking Without Legs (April 5, 2026)

When one has done everything in a day and also done so much already in a life in a good closure kind of way, how does one just sit down and sleep? Adventure still awaits me. But I’m like the ascent-plotting protagonist in the middle of the 1,500 chapters. I can stay here and settle and sleep and relax. It’s just a really strange situation: relaxed, adventure still upcoming, but also wondering in a big way. Once you reach a certain point in a long web novel, it really reaches a point where you have to answer that question. The moment it goes from establishing who the protagonist is, the world, and the way the story works. The moment it goes from absolute extrapolation to arbitrariness. At that point, you’re relying fully on the furthest internal logic, not from baseplate or pure extrapolation. Whatever’s coming now will be totally original and thus totally nonsensical except by absolute arbitrariness. There’s no shoulders to stand on anymore. You’re standing all by yourself in a complete world you made yourself. It’s full, but it’s come a long way, a long way out by itself, and now it must make its first true steps into total arbitrary-hood—its own self-reliant self-sustaining lived-in thing, in the way complete smothering darkness surrounding you can only reveal. In the blank void of space, how will you judge? You essentially cannot find anything to hold onto like a pillow or anything at all. You answer your own question in pure arbitrariness. This self-answering. Imagine sitting down and sleeping at the end of everything-in-a-day and done-so-much-already-in-a-life-in-closure. Nothing convinces you, because there really is nothing in the blank void of space. I’m essentially sleeping because I’m sleeping.

I suddenly don’t know what to do next. And the reason I’m only saying that now is that I know I’ll be given a host of reasons I’ve heard countless times before, and then they will say, “Ha, here’s a list that you haven’t heard.” I’ve heard that as well. “But ha! Here’s a list you totally haven’t heard.” Buddy, I’ve heard that as well. I’ve arrived at a point. Whatever happens from now on I will not be able to say anything at all about beyond what I do end up saying which is just part of the motion of things rather than anything truly revealing in the meta layer. The meta layer is silent, and the motion at best makes someone say the equivalent of “oh, the car is fast” while in a car, not in a literal sense, but in the sense of what is happening now experientially, not so as to say that the car isn’t fast or is a matter of just the car being just fast and that’s it or in any way, shape, or form so as to deny or acknowledge the car any more than what it is and even in what-it-is nothing more can be said and even in nothing-more-can-be-said, nothing at all worth saying I haven’t already considered so as to reach the point of leaving us with this point of nothing-convincing and absolute arbitrariness in the blank void of space. It’s not “I don’t know what to do next.” It’s “I don’t know what to do next” in the absolute sense of the phrase, not in the deconstructable “oh he used the word ‘do’ which I can then extrapolate to compel them to do what I consider to be my most revolutionary suggestion yet, which is to be, which again disregards the whole of the phrase and acts merely out of sophistry and bunch-of-wordenese just to perform depth” sense just to make a point that doesn’t even exist. See how much non-convincing extrapolation muck remains? How much more establishment is being waved at me when I’ve heard all of that gun-toting barkery before? Absolute arbitrariness is nothing-convincement. Take it or leave it.

Literally, I will sleep when exhaustion comes, but that’s not the point of this passage at all, neither is it not the point. It’s not the point in the sense that one could just say “well, stop asking questions, stop yapping, and just sleep,” but it is the point in that the literal sit-down-and-sleep is pitted against the “how does one just.”

I am walking like there’s no legs holding me up, where the ground and the legs should have been keeping me, well, grounded and emplaced, like I was working off something, like rain and land and soil and tilling and flesh and hands and rough-hewn timber from pre-existing logs and trees and ferns and mud and vegetation. And that’s not just literally legs, even if it is especially legs. It is legs in relation to everything else, in relation to a comprehensive collection of photos spanning my formative years, in relation to memories I hold in my head and can recall at any time or when I get triggered through a specific arrangement of inputs, in relation to my room where I sit with my legs stretched under the table, in relation to bantering with my friends as we ride jeepneys and eat at restaurants, in relation to family that I descend the staircase to greet and josh around with, in relation even to primal urges like libido and adult material, in relation to whatever’s on my screen and on the internet that is physically connected to a socket part of the wall part of the house part of the ground holding up the world. When there’s no legs, you get utter arbitrariness. It doesn’t loop back to somewhere.

It’s total, absolute freedom.

Walking with legs answered everything for me. The very existence of legs linked me to everything else. I was never truly alone. Never in a blank void in space. To reach a point of pure invention. That point is not ignorant, it’s nothing-convinced. It has reached arbitrariness. The middle of the web novel where establishment and extropolation have been exhausted and met their ends. Walking without legs is impossible, but that’s why it’s so arbitrary. Once you reach a certain point, everything you do is impossibly arbitrary.

Walking with legs answered everything for me. The very existence of legs linked me to everything else. I was never truly alone. Never in a blank void in space. To reach a point of pure invention. That point is not ignorant, it’s nothing-convinced. It has reached arbitrariness. The middle of the web novel’s total length where establishment and extropolation have been exhausted and met their ends. Walking without legs is impossible, but that’s why it’s so arbitrary. Once you reach a certain point, everything you do is impossibly arbitrary.

I must sleep out of sheer leg-less will. It’s a kind of self-convinced arrogance that I can’t even imagine. How do you sleep in the blank void of space? Arbitrariness.

Absolute Arrogance (April 5, 2026)

I can tell I’ve healed because I’m experiencing my small neighborhood freshly again to the point that I thought that if I was going to move out, it’d just be to a lot here. What the hell happened?

Suddenly, my small neighborhood is so awesome. For the longest time, I never really went out all that much. I was staying mostly inside for 5 years straight. It’s crazy to think about.

What happened to me?

And then to reach a point where it feels like a place I’m fine with living in like I haven’t been living in this small neighborhood since I was born.

I guess maybe my family won’t relate. I think they want to move on and get a house somewhere else. I mean, they went through things as well. It’s so strange.

I mean, it’s crazy. There’s a kind of utter domination in not living in some super fancy place. In fact, imagine living in some random apartment. Imagine just relaxing there. Maybe not even a lot. But can be owned. Imagine that. This small place that has a socket. This place where you live. Simple. Yet you don’t feel anything at all except this mind that can get so much from just about anything. Your mind is your palace. You have books and a computer where you write. You walk around, wearing a sando and shorts, but there’s this private smug grin. There’s this self-security and arrogance that comes only from freeing yourself from signals and implications and performances of depth. It’s so weird to live in such a sleepy little place that has no signals whatsoever, yet you have all this privately. It’s such a strange, pleasurable thing.

I can make genuinely good shit out of supposed “scraps”. Somehow, everything around me is just so fucking beautiful, wonderful, awesome, pleasurable, and so powerful. It doesn’t make any sense, but I guess it’s because my mind has been cultivated to be so utterly sensitive while also able to direct that utter exposure and sensitivity toward articulation. It’s a genuinely crazy thing. I feel like I’m genuinely going to live the fantasy that my younger self wanted. I wanted to be just a writer in his room and walking around simply. I wanted that kind of life. And now, I’ve done it, far beyond I could have ever dreamed. I feel genuinely free and adventurous because it’s expansion upon expansion even if I’m just here in this little place. My small room right now is also genuinely already good. Though I am thinking that maybe moving out to a lot or apartment in this same neighborhood will be its own powerful thing that I’m curious to see what will happen.