The night was still. A stillness so pervasive it seems to engulf the enmity of this hurried urban setting, into the void of its deafening silence. The rush hours have long passed, and as throngs of people funnel their way into their respective domiciles, into ill-reputed destinations, and alcohol-fueled stupor, the celestial lights that glint across the billboards seem to recede into the haste of this concluded day.

The drowning crowd slithers past corridors and alleys, streets and floors, into the incoming onslaught of the tired and weary. A creeping shade of grey that litters on the face of optimism, as cars wound their way into the channels of vehicular canals, flowing and collecting, and eventually regurgitating into the far reaches of the metro. Lines pile up manic and irritable. In front of elevators, along the train corridors, and by desolate parking lots held hostage by ad hoc shuttle terminals.

The evening mist is a mixture of smog and evaporated sebum and perspiration, boiling in the heat of this massive sauna, a complicated machination of moving souls, breathless and catatonic from exhaustive motions, a simulacra of work bereft of passion and focus. Living drones soiled into servitude for the peso. The shift turns as workday mangled masses interact with the boisterous banter of nighttime professionals awaken not more than a few hours prior.

Somewhere, in a lone out-of-the-way café, a solitary table creaks from being rested upon by hefty arms nestling a book. The café is closing, the mug has gone dry from negligence. A new stick hastily lit, as its wielder turns a page. The book is old, discolored from being held and read multiple times. Oblivious to the surrounding debauched rambling and the chaos of a preoccupied metro, he holds the book precariously, while his mobile phone sits idly beside the bookmark.

The night was still. Out on the suburbs, a different set of hands held a different sort of page. Confident, the keys are pressed with a clear objective.


The phone rings. A smile emerges.



Photo from here.

Burning cataclysms of an impending parting
The truth fails when memory begets
A history too piquant to pretend amidst dissolution.

The twist of fate wounds anew
Across urbane enclaves and earthen pew
Of a lost and a found, of the hidden and the discovered.

That life goes on, despite our gravitas and warmth
A genius loci dependent on failed emotionality
For we are all temporal, to others, and to ourselves.

Changing. Shifting. A renaissance into recidivism.

And what remains is emotion. And thought.



Image from here.

Once in a while, bouts of emotional and physical exhaustion become too apparent and absolute that I am left with little choice but to remove myself from the consciousness I inhabit. Certain issues have been plaguing me as of late that action was an eventuality waiting for a catalyst. The decision to skip my profession, even for just a day, came too easy with the advent of an upset stomach and the possible symptoms of an impending heat exhaustion.

Leaving home after a hearty breakfast, I trudged the path that lead back to the urbanity of sprawl. After a quick stopover at a clinic to procure my monthly medical salve, I walked my way out to the highway with neither an umbrella nor sunglasses to shield my acerbic disposition. Sweat flowed bucketfuls across a crisply ironed long-sleeved top, and soon the double-knot of my tie was as damp as my supernated back.

The protracted bus ride was as uneventful as morning traffic altercations. Alternating bouts of lethargy and boredom besieged me as I weighed my options for the upcoming day ahead. I needed to find myself again beneath all the anarchy and enmity of my existence. So a plan was concocted. To find the means by which a release is afforded, despite the frugality of this opportunity.

I am weak, my humanity spells certain dispositions that preoccupations always tend to deter. But today, despite the tight itinerary, I had to give in.

His sturdy back, the nimble arch that held me enthralled, his skin, soft and white. Warm from the summer’s heat. I have missed him, as I imagine he too have missed me just as much. With very little left of my funds, a withdrawal was made. Only so that I could be reunited with the one that could bring me back into who I am. Or was. The transaction was swift, methodological. He was not enough. But another took my fancy, and so I had to get them both, at the same time. A parody and a mystery. They’ll be keeping me company for the next few days.

The coffeeshop was as arid as my sex life. Its outdoor patio shielded by robust parasols across a verdant park. I sat down. I took one of them out of the rubor packaging of the bookstore. With a coffee mug at my left, and an ashtray at my right, I turn his cover. Page one. And I was again, home.

Later on that afternoon, with the two tomes by my side, I watched a sunset bloom across the dense skyline of the city. From the dusty windows of a nearly deserted train. Sadly I was unable to reach the bay in time to welcome her mauve dance embrace the horizon of Manila. It would’ve been nice to return to those cobbled and paved paths that birthed my education into this subculture almost a decade ago.

The darkness of night slowly ebbing into her ephemeral segues. Their dance lauded the world-over for the romanticism it encapsulates, despite the sprawl that threatens to engulf her bosoms, and in spite of the frivolity that this consumerist generation has splayed on her thighs. She was still, the darling and the damsel. Distressed and dreamy.

I alighted the shuttle just across Roxas Boulevard to take her in. Framed by the monstrosity of a mall parading as a destination, she took her dip into the chasms of the sea. Beautiful and beaming, like the lady that she is. The metal rails were my benches, from memories of a promenade not as grey, dull and superficial as this one, but just as romantic. The paved paths now hard scored concrete, barren, lifeless and smeared with the vandalism of transience. Here in this stretch of land, where the sea meets Manila in an embrace as nurturing as it is now indifferent, I was young. I was naïve and a dreamer. As I still am now.

With my two new books in tow, I crossed the extension road to take a bus back to the apartment. It was an imperfect day. The two humble purchases, the overpriced coffee, the lengthy bus ride, missing a missed sunset, it was all too imperfect. But like anything of great beauty, its brilliance comes from a poetry of imperfection.