Boom. That’s what it must have sounded like, the fireworks on the other side of the bay. Only he didn’t hear it because he had headphones on. Not that it made any difference. The point of a fireworks display was in the seeing rather than the hearing after all. He watched the riot of colors bursting and illuminating the starless February evening sky. To his surprise it did lift his spirits some, considering when he left the house he felt dejected as a half-eaten week-old apple. He even began to wish for the fireworks display not to end.
It did end however, the same time the song on his player ended. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again as the first few bars of the next song started to strum through his head. He scanned the seascape for some other vision he could focus his eyes on. Ah, he breathed as he spotted a cruise ship from a fair distance. He was nearsighted, but the lights adorning the sides of the ship were detailed enough for him to appreciate it from where he was. More than that, it was the ship’s reflection on the water which caught the best part of his attention. It looked like a wall of fire turned upside down, crawling slowly, eerily on liquid blackness. The image made him shiver, although he thought it was very beautiful. He watched it for a while until it disappeared into the darkening horizon.
He felt a rush of excitement all of a sudden. He wanted to text the one person on his mind, Hey, I’m by the bay right now. I wish you could see what I’m seeing. I miss you. And he almost did as a matter of fact, but he decided against it as soon as he finished typing up the message.
He closed his eyes once more, almost convincing himself there would be another spectacle for him to waste his time on when he opens them again. There wasn’t, and he felt genuinely disappointed. He looked at his watch. It had only been thirty minutes since he sat down, and he felt the disappointment rising. He rubbed his eyes and thought of shutting off his mp3 player, but decided against it. He’d rather be listening to two songs on repeat instead of the steady drone of the couple to his right, or the group of old ladies to his left.
He doesn’t feel like going home yet, but he doesn’t feel like staying either, so he stood up and started walking again. To where, he doesn’t know, and he’s not really thinking much about it. He’d turn wherever there’s a corner, sometimes he’d go straight. When his intuition tells him to go back, he would, and turn a different corner. Eventually he reached an uphill street. Normally he’d avoid it, but another swelling of memory urged him on.
“Do you know what a fog of war is?” his voice again, asking the person walking beside him. It was such a cold, cold morning when they were headed out to explore Baguio during the first day of their stay. Not that it was unusual for a place situated high above the mountains. The winds in that altitude were almost alive, like little kids careening through the atmosphere, playing before the whole world completely wakes up. “No, what is it?” the other person said, voice hinting a slight shiver as he buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his windbreaker.
He glanced at his companion as they were trudging along the constantly ascending and descending streets of Session Road, looking for a quiet place where they could have breakfast. “If you’ve played a role-playing game on a PC before, it’s the uncharted section on the map covered in black ‘fog.’ It clears up as you travel through the area, discovering different territories, letting the rest of the story unfold.”
“I see,” the other person whispered. He wanted to hold his hand. Walking the fringes of such a vast landscape of uncharted territory looming over him was, in all essence, both scary and exciting. To be here, now, with the one person he wants to be with the most... somehow gives him strength.
But, as it turns out a few days later, he discovered that his initial fear was not unfounded and his excitement might have been an illusion (delusion?) for something else. Within three short days, his original intent to relax and re-evaluate his life was pushed further and further into his mind, as he was instead enshrouded in a false sense of intemperance just by being with him. He became too childish, careless, reckless, and he was caught off guard until he realized it the last day when they were about to go home.
“Are these clouds?” he asked his companion. The bus was cruising down the side of the mountain, and what was supposed to be overlooking the landscape was instead a sea of pure whiteness. It was like a dream. “It's actually fog,” the other person said. “But from down the mountain it might seem like clouds.”
He pressed his head to the cool glass window, and felt something break inside. “I see.”
A week since they’ve arrived in Manila, and gravity has yet to catch up with him. Little pieces of his heart were still floating aimlessly in the clouds. Baguio has left him bereft of warmth, but he would give anything to go back. “I miss Baguio,” the other person txted. It took a while before he was able to send out a reply. “I think about it a lot,” he txted back.
“I see.”
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
And Miles To Go Before I Sleep, Un
He woke up. He was lying on his side, eyes half-open, mind racing through a blurry maze of what was and what was not. Twenty four years of experience waking up and still he can’t get the hang of it. He closed his eyes again so his mind can stop running. Maybe he can focus better in the dark. He conjured up an image of his name. That’s who I am. He felt sick. Oh, right. I remember.
His hands crawled to where his mobile phone might be. He flipped it to life and opened an eye to check the time. 10:59 PM. No messages. Not that he was expecting any. He let out his first sigh for the evening and started to heave himself up. His body felt heavy, like a moving mass of rocks and cannonballs. On the edge of the bed he sat and rubbed what was left of -- he counts in his head -- four hours of sleep from his eyes. He felt the last wisps of whatever his dream was floating away. Whatever it was he dreamt of, he doesn’t remember now. There was a moment of regret and, an instant after, a spark of thankfulness. He wouldn’t want to remember anything going on in his head while he was asleep in this world. A mosaic of memories unreal, conjured up from regurgitated pieces of reality, like shards of several broken glasses trying to piece themselves back together, but always finding the wrong piece. Even the metaphor is too painful to think about.
He reached over the bedside table to where his comb was and started to rake through the gnarls and tangles his hair managed to twist itself over the hours. A couple of minutes and his breathing became less of an effort. His fingers deftly gathered the longer strands away from his face as he tied the lot back. He checked himself in the mirror, rubbed his eyes awake a little more, and smiled out of habit. He looked more or less alive now -- not a mist of dream from his pale, sun-deprived skin. You’ll do, whispered an echo from a passing, fading memory.
He sat on his small, beaten up swivel chair in front of the computer and pulled his knees up to his chin. While waiting for the programs he left the previous afternoon to fire up from hibernation, he started to think about the speech he needed to finish for his mother. Every year he writes the speeches his mother delivers during graduations and recognition ceremonies in her school and after a while, it’s become a sort of yearly tradition between the two of them. The idea of being able to convey his thoughts to young minds gives him a sense of purpose, even a perverse thrill. He was sure there was at least one or two in the audience listening who would somehow get what it is he really wanted to say -- a warning, that it’s not going to get any easier -- behind the glossy words and generalities lining the whole 5-minute tirade. That is, if his mother doesn’t change much of what he writes -- which he was almost sure she did.
Absent-mindedly, he untied his hair again and ran his fingers through it. I wish you’d cut them short, whispered another errant echo. He closed his eyes and let his memory drift towards the direction of the sound.
“Why?” he heard his own voice ask.
“You’d look better with shorter hair.”
“Will you like me better if I had shorter hair?” he answered, almost immediately, barely hiding the sharpness of each word behind a low, guarded voice. The other person smiled and looked at his food. He silently chided himself, feeling bad for saying something without thinking -- again. “Anyway it’s sort of a promise.”
“To someone?”
“No, to myself. I figured I was so bad at keeping promises, I felt I had to promise something I intend to keep, no matter what. So I promised myself I’d grow my hair long.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
“I see.”
When he opened his eyes, the programs were already running. The cursor was blinking on one corner of the blank document, awaiting orders. It looked like a little black imp, filled with contempt and disdain at being trapped inside an electronic device. He concentrated on it for a while, thinking of what to write. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but what he remembered was his eyes closing on their own, as if in a trance, while his mind tried to run after the recently exhumed dregs of memory.
No matter what, the voice kept on saying. He heard laughter. Soft guitar playing. A woman’s voice singing. Baguio, he shivered. Happy birthday, murmured a sleepy voice lying beside him.
Again, he woke up, the shock of white light in front of him came in waves through his brain. He saw the cursor blinking. Damn, he cursed under his breath. This is not healthy anymore. Get a grip. Glancing at the clock, he must have dozed off for ten minutes or so. He sat up straight and poised his fingers on the keyboard, ready to type what he needed to say, but his brain comes up with nothing. After several weak attempts at a first sentence, he gave up. He stood and rubbed his temples, chanting Get a grip, get a grip. Eight months is a long enough time, get a grip. He needed a long walk.
His hands crawled to where his mobile phone might be. He flipped it to life and opened an eye to check the time. 10:59 PM. No messages. Not that he was expecting any. He let out his first sigh for the evening and started to heave himself up. His body felt heavy, like a moving mass of rocks and cannonballs. On the edge of the bed he sat and rubbed what was left of -- he counts in his head -- four hours of sleep from his eyes. He felt the last wisps of whatever his dream was floating away. Whatever it was he dreamt of, he doesn’t remember now. There was a moment of regret and, an instant after, a spark of thankfulness. He wouldn’t want to remember anything going on in his head while he was asleep in this world. A mosaic of memories unreal, conjured up from regurgitated pieces of reality, like shards of several broken glasses trying to piece themselves back together, but always finding the wrong piece. Even the metaphor is too painful to think about.
He reached over the bedside table to where his comb was and started to rake through the gnarls and tangles his hair managed to twist itself over the hours. A couple of minutes and his breathing became less of an effort. His fingers deftly gathered the longer strands away from his face as he tied the lot back. He checked himself in the mirror, rubbed his eyes awake a little more, and smiled out of habit. He looked more or less alive now -- not a mist of dream from his pale, sun-deprived skin. You’ll do, whispered an echo from a passing, fading memory.
He sat on his small, beaten up swivel chair in front of the computer and pulled his knees up to his chin. While waiting for the programs he left the previous afternoon to fire up from hibernation, he started to think about the speech he needed to finish for his mother. Every year he writes the speeches his mother delivers during graduations and recognition ceremonies in her school and after a while, it’s become a sort of yearly tradition between the two of them. The idea of being able to convey his thoughts to young minds gives him a sense of purpose, even a perverse thrill. He was sure there was at least one or two in the audience listening who would somehow get what it is he really wanted to say -- a warning, that it’s not going to get any easier -- behind the glossy words and generalities lining the whole 5-minute tirade. That is, if his mother doesn’t change much of what he writes -- which he was almost sure she did.
Absent-mindedly, he untied his hair again and ran his fingers through it. I wish you’d cut them short, whispered another errant echo. He closed his eyes and let his memory drift towards the direction of the sound.
“Why?” he heard his own voice ask.
“You’d look better with shorter hair.”
“Will you like me better if I had shorter hair?” he answered, almost immediately, barely hiding the sharpness of each word behind a low, guarded voice. The other person smiled and looked at his food. He silently chided himself, feeling bad for saying something without thinking -- again. “Anyway it’s sort of a promise.”
“To someone?”
“No, to myself. I figured I was so bad at keeping promises, I felt I had to promise something I intend to keep, no matter what. So I promised myself I’d grow my hair long.”
“No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
“I see.”
When he opened his eyes, the programs were already running. The cursor was blinking on one corner of the blank document, awaiting orders. It looked like a little black imp, filled with contempt and disdain at being trapped inside an electronic device. He concentrated on it for a while, thinking of what to write. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but what he remembered was his eyes closing on their own, as if in a trance, while his mind tried to run after the recently exhumed dregs of memory.
No matter what, the voice kept on saying. He heard laughter. Soft guitar playing. A woman’s voice singing. Baguio, he shivered. Happy birthday, murmured a sleepy voice lying beside him.
Again, he woke up, the shock of white light in front of him came in waves through his brain. He saw the cursor blinking. Damn, he cursed under his breath. This is not healthy anymore. Get a grip. Glancing at the clock, he must have dozed off for ten minutes or so. He sat up straight and poised his fingers on the keyboard, ready to type what he needed to say, but his brain comes up with nothing. After several weak attempts at a first sentence, he gave up. He stood and rubbed his temples, chanting Get a grip, get a grip. Eight months is a long enough time, get a grip. He needed a long walk.
