We're Going To The Beach!

Will be back on Monday. Be good, kids! :-*

Sana Umulan

Summer, for all its intense heat and long-drawn days, conjures the oddest memories. What I like most about keeping a journal is I can slip through that pocket of time, see things in vivid detail, and think about what I would have done had things turned out differently. More often than not, I find that I would not have had my life any other way.

This is one of those memories. One of my very few entries written in Tagalog for someone. A re-posting from the original, created April, 2004.


“Sana umulan,” ang parating bulong ng aking kamalayan. Kahit nuong highschool pa lang, tuwing umaga pag lalabas ako ng bahay at magsisimulang maglakad papuntang eskuwelahan, ang unang dasal ko parati, “Sana umulan…” At pagkatapos makapag-antanda ay saka ko lang isusunod ang mga taong naghihirap sa mundo, ang mga gutom, ang mga walang matirhan, ang aking mga kaibigan, ang lola ko, at ang pamilya ko. Ngunit nauuna talaga sa isip ko ang ulan.

Hindi naman siguro malakas na ulan, tulad ng ipinagdadasal ng karamihang estudyante. Hindi ko naman gusto yung tipo ng ulan na babahain nang lubos-lubusan ang ka-Maynilaan. Binabaha rin kasi ang kalye namin, at pumapasok pa sa loob ng bahay kaya mahirap ding hingin yun, gustuhin ko man dahil mawawalan nga naman ng klase.

Ang gusto kong ulan ay yung kung nasa loob ka ng bahay at nasa may kusina at nagkakape’t pandesal (o pag sinisipag ang tiya ay naiisipang mag-champorado), isang mahinahong tunog ng pagmartsa ng patak lang ang maririnig mo galing sa nagpapalakpakang yero at ulan. Marahil ay nakikipag-usap ka sa tiyahin mo, o sa lola mo, o sa kaibigan mo na naghihintay ng paghupa ng masamang panahon pero hindi niyo kailangang magsigawan dahil sa sobrang lakas ng tunog ng bagsak ng tubig sa bubungan. Naririnig niyo pa naman ang tawa, ang pag-oo at pag-hindi ng bawat isa. (Marahil pati na rin ang tibok ng puso sa pagitan ng bawat paghinga…)

Ang gusto kong ulan ay yung hindi malakas, at hindi rin paambon-ambon lang. Yun bang kung lumabas ka sa kalsada at maglakad, ay para bang may karamay kang kaibigan. Yung para bang gusto mong makihiyaw, magtampisaw, at sumabay sa paghalakhak dahil sa isang bagay na nakakatawa na kayo lang dalawa ang nakakakaalam. At kung tatahimik ka ay pabulong na magsasabi ng sikreto tungkol sa lihim na pag-ibig ng buwan sa araw. Ng gabi sa liwanag. (Niya sa iyo…)

Ang gusto kong ulan ay yung titingala ka, pipikit, ngingiti, at magpapasalamat dahil alam mong ang ulan na iyong kaibigan, karamay, katipan ay isang pagbabasbas mula sa langit at patunay na may dahilan pang maging masaya habang ika’y nabubuhay. Iyon ang tipo ng ulan na pinapanalangin ko tuwing bago ako lumabas ng bahay.

Ngunit tulad ng maraming bagay na ating ipinagdarasal, hindi ito ipinagkakaloob sa atin. O marahil ay mas naaayon, hindi ito ipinagkakaloob sa atin sa panahong ating ito’y inaasahang dumating.

“Sana umulan,” ang sabi ko sa sarili. Tulad nung gabing nabanggit mo na kailangan mong umalis, mangibang bansa. Kailangan mo munang magpahinga, magpalayo, mapag-isa. May mga panahon din naman na inaamin ko sa sarili ko na hindi kita maintindihan, at hindi ko na pinipilit ang sarili kong intindihin ka. Ang kapal naman ng mukha ko kung isipin kong naiintindihan ko ang bawat pagtibok ng puso mo, dahil lang mahal kita.

Nag-alay na lamang ako ng mumunting dasal na sana kung saan ka man pupunta ay matagpuan mo ang katahimikang hinahanap mo. Inuna ko nang ipagdasal ka, saka ko na lang sinunod ang ulan.

Nang umalis ka, para bang sumama rin sa maleta mo ang ulan. Pakiramdam ko nagtampo, dahil sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon, may mas inuna akong dinalangin bago siya. Natandaan ko ang mga araw na nagmamaktol ako sa loob ng mainit at tahimik kong kwarto. “Ang daya-daya mo talaga,” ang sabi ko sa sarili. “Aalis ka na nga, sinama mo pa ang ulan.” Wala tuloy sumabay sa’kin nung tahimik akong nagsisisinghot sa sulok ng kwarto at umiiyak. Para akong bata na nilubog sa mainit na tubig at hinayaang malusaw sa sariling pawis at luha. Inaasahan ko ang lamig na yakap ng ulan, ngunit ipinagkait mo pa iyon sa akin.

Ngayon mas napapadalas ang dalangin ko. “Sana umulan…” Ang tahimik kasi. Ang init. Ang lungkot. Parang antagal na panahon nang huli kong marinig ang pagpalakpak ng ulan sa bubungan. Parang antagal na panahon nang huli akong nakatawa nang malakas kasabay ng isang matalik na kaibigan. At antagal-tagal na ring panahon nang huli akong nakarinig ng kwento ng mga nag-iibigan.

Kailan ako muling mabababasbasan? Kailan muling magkakaroon ng patunay na mayroon pang dahilan para maging masaya? Patuloy akong dumadalangin. “Sana umulan, sana umulan, sana umulan…”






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[ Image credits to pu-sama. ]

Happy Birthday, Hono'o-Chan

I love you as the sea loves the sky -- forever and ever and always. :-*

A Sick, Sad World Episode

Several weeks ago, someone I talked with online a couple of months past called me up asking if I can do a website for a start-up company he's working with. I told him I might not be able to, since I already had my hands full with my regular job then. (It wasn't really that hectic, but I'd rather take things easy, as my friends would know.) Anyway, he told me he'd seen my website and he said he really wanted me for the job. I insisted on the fact that I'm positive can't, and even if I do accept it, I won't be able to prioritize it. He told me to think about it and he'd call me again the following week to see if I might change my mind. Fair enough, I thought, so that was that.

I got the phone call exactly a week after and he asked what I thought about his offer. I said I really won't be able to do it and told him it would be better if he looked into other options. This was when things started to get weird for me. He asked me again what the URL for my website was. So I told him, and he asked if I could hold. Sure, I said. A couple of minutes later, I heard him talking with someone in the background. When he picked up the receiver I said I really had to go since it was already late and I had work the following day. He totally ignored it and proceeded to tell me that he just showed his boss my website and he got the approval to take me in as their designer. "Now wait a minute," I said. I told him again I wasn't interested in doing their website and I already had a regular job that takes up most of my time; I wouldn't be able to prioritize doing their website. He insisted he already made his decision and he really wanted me to do it.

By that time it was already becoming frustrating almost to the point of being rude, so I told him he really didn't want me for the job. I would only cause him problems, I might not be able to deliver on time, and to top it all off, it's been close to two years since I've coded something! (I feel ashamed of this, now that I think about it. I should start doing websites again. Baby steps.) Now, I'm not sure how he was able to maneuver the conversation, but the next thing I knew I was agreeing to meet him and his boss on Monday -- tomorrow -- to talk about the proposals. Of course, I made sure to tell him there's no guarantee I'd agree to do it, only to meet with him and his boss to tell them of my decision if I still wanted to do it or not personally.

So tonight he calls again. "Oh, it's you," I greeted him. He said he just called to remind me about tomorrow. I told him I remember. And then he asked me if I still wanted to do it. I said no, I never wanted to do it, and I never agreed to anything yet in the first place -- only to meet with them for my decision. Then he told me if they were going to have problems with me, it would be better if I just decline so he can look for another person first thing tomorrow.

AND THEN THERE WAS LIGHT!

"You mean to tell me," I began, barely hiding the anger and irritation in my voice, "after our conversation last week and the week before that, you only figured out NOW that I didn't want the job?"

"So you don't want to do it?"

Christ. I think I just popped a vein. "Oh Lord, were you even listening to anything I've said?!"

"Look, I'm just doing business here, and if you don't want to do it, just tell me now." He said it as if I didn't make it clear in the previous phone calls that I didn't want the fucking job, and I'm the bad guy.

"No, I don't want to do it, and good luck." The line was silent. I waited for him to hang up before I put down the phone.

Now, I just want to know: HOW ARE PEOPLE LIKE THAT WITH LIMITED MENTAL CAPACITY FOR COMPREHENSION ABLE TO SURVIVE? SHOULDN'T THEY BE LOSING CONSCIOUSNESS JUST FIGURING OUT HOW TO OPEN A GODDAMNED MILK CARTON? Yeesh. I know a lot of smart, good, unemployed people who deserve the job idiots like the one I just talked with have.

Sigh. Control yourself, Podi. Breathe in, breathe out. There is more good than bad in this world. There is more good than bad in this world. There is more good than bad in this world...

In Transit

It was his birthday when I saw him last. I didn't know it at that time -- walking towards the MRT station on my way home from Cubao. I had my headphones on as per usual, oblivious to the world moving around, when this tall, well-dressed, familiar form walked past me. It seemed a blur when his face crossed my vision, but in that precise second I knew it was him. He smelled the same. I let a few more heartbeats pass before I decided to stop and look back. When I did, he was already looking at me. "Hey," he said. "Hey," I said. It was unmistakable. The smell of rain on hair, of crushed grass -- it was really him.

Walk, I willed my legs to do. "It's been a long time," he smiled as he reached for a handshake. I could see in his eyes he was trying to remember the last time we saw each other. To be quite honest I couldn't remember either. "Yeah," was all I could come up with. He seemed relieved at the fact we both couldn't remember.

He said he got off work early and was on his way home. I offered to walk him to the other station. "I got a better idea," he said. "Let's eat. It's on me." Of course I refused, but I did a poor job of protesting it was quite obvious I really wanted to be with him longer. He gave me his cut-the-crap smile and said, "Come on. It's my birthday." That shut me up. So me and my sheepish smile ended up going with him to the mall food court to eat.

We ended up at this Mongolian food stand ordering big rice bowls -- our usual fare when we used to see each other more often. "It's been a long time since I've eaten here," I said as I watched with childlike wonder the girl behind the counter mixing vegetables in a deep, crimson bowl.

"Me too," he said with the same quiet awe. "Come to think of it, the last time I ate here was when I was with you."

"Hmm. You're right." We stayed silent until our orders were cooked. My head was reeling with questions, I had to hold on to something solid to steady myself. I looked at him again. He had his usual deadpan expression on, neutral and unreadable. The scent of his hair lingering like smoke, which my mind remembers so well. He tapped my shoulder to wake me from my reverie; our orders were done.

When we were seated, we talked about the usual small things. Where he was working, where I was working, complaints about officemates, of cranky relatives and moving out. I told him I was thinking of getting a haircut.

"O, why not? It's time for a change, don't you think?"

"Maybe," I said, picking through the vegetables in my rice bowl.

It took us about an hour to wade through each others' lives. I asked him about the book he was planning on writing, but he said it was on the shelf for now. I told him I'd still help if he needed it. He gave me a sad smile. "I need to be heading home," he said finally.

We got up and started walking. Both of us were quiet, but the hands in my pocket were fidgeting and restless. "Listen," I said, crackling my fingers, "I know you're a little averse to the topic, and I didn't want to bring it up... but I have to ask..." He glanced at me without a change in his stride, eyes black, without light, and waiting. "... are you seeing someone?"

There was that sad smile again. "I am. It's been a while now..." And I was sure he said other things, but at that moment, my mind retreated to its dark little corner without sound and time, leaving my physical body to fend for itself. I was giving the appropriate responses, sure. Smiling at the right moments, saying "Really" or "I see" without causing a break in the conversation, but that was it. The strings stretched taut in my mind were snapping and my ships were slowly sinking.

A little window to reality opened when he grabbed my hand again and waved. "I'll see you soon, alright?"

"Sure," I waved back. "Happy birthday." Turning around, I ran my fingers through my then long hair. I think I'll be having that haircut.

Move On, Pare

Whenever life leaves you in a rut, get a haircut. Then look to the sky, give it a great, big, huge fuck you sign and then scream, "I'M STILL BREATHING, YOU IDIOT!"


Just look at the damned camera and SMILE, Podi.

Revisiting the Closet

Strange. Used to be I never had to deal with consciously making the people around me aware of my sexuality. It just slips into the conversation easily and smoothly, without my having to go through the usual rigors of coming out. This time however, hanging out with my straight male officemates has me going through some weird -- and oft times uncomfortable -- scenarios, and wondering if it would have been any different had they known about me in the first place.

•••
CASE #1: This afternoon, I was in Eastwood Cybermall with the guys from work for our pre-employment medical examination. They were checking out this girl seated opposite us in the waiting area, arguing which of them should approach her and ask for her name and number. It was amusing listening to their straight-guy banter, but not as amusing as the day's paper's crossword puzzle. Finally, one of them leaned towards me and whispered, "Pare, tanong mo naman dun sa babae kung anong pangalan nya saka number o. Kung tumanggi, ayos lang. Sabihin mo na lang hinihingi ng kaibigan mo."

I looked at the girl. She was reading something from her mobile phone, oblivious to the intense male hormonal activity going on at the other side of the room. "Pangit naman eh." I said.

"Pare, sige na. Hindi sya yung talagang natitipuhan ko pero parang gusto ko lang makilala. Nahihiya lang ako."

I looked at the girl again. Fine, hindi naman sya pangit. I looked back at the crossword puzzle. What's a four-letter word for 'tweeted'? S-A-N-G, I wrote with a pen. I stood up, walked towards the relatively nice-looking girl, and asked for her name and number. Something I haven't done since my highschool interaction days with Miriam and Colegio de Sta. Rosa.

CASE #2: Yesterday, I accompanied a guy officemate in Tutuban Center to look for a cheap electric fan for this room he was renting. While walking around the mall, we approached this perfume stand and my friend asked the pretty salesgirl if they had this or that scent available. After checking out several items (I was never interested in perfumes), he said thanks to the girl and we looked at the other things for sale. The girl said, "Wala kayong nagustuhan, sir?"

"Wala eh. Ikaw sana, kaya lang baka hindi pwede." I looked at my friend.

"Pwedeng pwede, sir!" And then I looked at the girl.

Oh, the primal charm of male bluntness.

CASE #3: Lunch hour, Friday last week. My guy officemates said they'll be ordering take-out and have lunch at one of our friend's place near the office. I told them I just needed to talk with someone and I'll follow as soon as I can. After dealing with a rather bitchy person from HR, I bought food from the mall beside our building and started towards our friend's place. I got there after a ten-minute walk, hungry and with nothing else in my mind but food when, after knocking and opening the door, I saw all three of them eating and talking and wearing nothing but their boxers.

"Uy pare, iwan mo na lang bukas yung pintuan. Ang init eh," one of them said while shoveling I think it was raw meat fresh from the hunting fields into his mouth. There might have been ketchup, or it might have been blood.

"OK," I managed to squeak. "Buksan ko TV ah." And I, as casually and as unaffected as I can manage, walked towards where the TV was, sat on the floor, and began to pick through my Palabok Fiesta, feeling shameful for wearing clothes and using a fork.

•••
I realize I shouldn't be making a big deal out of it. I've only known them for over a week, and they seem like good people regardless. I've always counted on friendship in itself as a connection, a bridge to close the gap between people's differences. But oh lordy, I never fully grasped the extent of the effect each person's uniqueness had on other people, and how much each of us has to deal with compromising to accommodate those differences just to get along with others.

Late Night Letter

by: Sasha Soldatow
from: Private - Do Not Open

My dear you. Hi and all that.

I am writing you fleetingly after having seen you strangely for a moment. And probably it's all too foolish, but what the hell. So I hesitate to write, yet I feel like doing so. I've wanted to write for a couple of days. I sat down one afternoon and composed a partial letter. And oh how nice and gentle and wise I wished to appear. How much I wanted to set down words that would move you. Of course I ended up feeling sorry for myself. And then feeling stupid in the morning. Like a lost shark.

I wrote, 'I don't know whether I'm going to see you again, which makes it safe to write this letter to say some of the things I want to, and it's hard...' Of course I never got past that line. Then I saw you again tonight.

You! This is a bit of a dither and a mumble. And there is a danger that I will lie back and write this out in my head, never to send it.

What am I saying? Superficial things. Like, I like you and I don't quite know why or how it came about. But I do. And then everything gets confused with sex and friendship and love and sleeping together. It's uncertainty. Yet there's the feeling of warmth somewhere in there.

You know, there are many feelings I can put words to. Like, I want to feel important to people. People I like. Flattered by their attention. Of course I hide this. Then there's the protective me who announces, 'I have survived, so I know how to be good for others.' You've seen through this. Everyone knows this strength and this kind of survival. Then there's the sex game. I protect myself here also when it comes too close, preferring the hidden comfort of my own fantasies with someone I don't care for at all. You know that too. And then there are all those things of friendship that seem to involve so many years of time, which is too long. Because I want to go through it all so instantly. I once wrote, 'I want lovers like a family. I want friends like I once had god.' I think that's still true, though I wonder if I understand what I meant.

You! Relationships are accidental. That I know. But I've been too hung up on these accidents.

Hey, it's late, and I have a heavy day tomorrow. And I feel as if I haven't said all that much. And then, I don't know what more there is to say. Except everything. Which may be nothing specific. Maybe just hi. Talking slower. Feeling more comfortable. Not pretending. Not being heavy either. Not demanding -- something. I don't know. But there is also you. And I think about you. Which is saying what I want to say.

And Miles To Go Before I Sleep, Deux

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.”

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.