In response to end of days.

Continued from apocalypsis I.

So I sat beside him.

Having no impulsion to assert my presence, I made do with just the act of being near him, with him. When mere millimeters of space defined our gap, it felt like he was in a place so distant, and removed from this, from here, from now. I wanted to be in that place, in his mind. To reside in the expanse of his ideas that seemed to consume his eyes. But here I was, a stuttering fool, without even the decency to ask for the permission of sitting beside him.

His mug lay empty nearby. A necessary detail that remained unnoticed. Well, nothing to lose. So I took the mug. In any case, I’m getting my own cup anyway. And seeing how he’s so engrossed in his book, it would be sacrilegious to ask or even point it out. With our mugs in tow, I went down to find the line at the counter deserted. Looks like sizygy does happen in real life. I hurried back upstairs to that outdoor balcony to find him holding my book at the page where I left it, and him continually reading his own tome. Like a choreographed dance, I reached out my hand to retrieve my book from him, while offering the freshly filled mug with the other. He looked up, reached out for his caffeine, and smiled.

Such a sweet, sweet smile.

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Livid lungs lusting lucidly

an airy ascendant antithetical aspiration,

the tired trajectory of this travesty

weakened, weary and worrisome.

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I wanna dance. So bad.

My limbs, salivating in-place. Longing for the wanton inebriation of the swaying of hips, the poetry of skin touching, caressing, scintillating. Please, let me dance. An invitation, an offer, any of those. Just so I would forget. And hopefully, won't regret.

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Which do you pick?

The absolute irrevocability of confrontation, or the amorphous conviction of circumspection? The complete and exacting full stop, or the contemplative prolonged limbo?

Is it more masculine to own up to one's feelings, or to respect boundaries? Will it still be a gift when the receiver refuses its translation? Will transcending the lines validate the emotion, or will it only create the breach that seals its downfall?

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6:48 PM A stroll at the Ayala Triangle Gardens.

It was the same decades-old sidewalk, paved in worn concrete; the same indistinct skyline glittered in its fluorescent fury; the same stillness of a transient city. It was, in many ways, omnipresent, unequivocal and perseverant. But, there was a sensation of astral interjection, a weightless freefall that unnerved, and I could not dispense the imbalance of my own senses.

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In response to end of days.

It was a Saturday.

And like most Saturdays, I found my weary feet dragging my tired soul into that respite of intellect and entertainment that affords me to suspend my cumbersome realities, the bookstore. In its hallowed halls and scarred stacks I seek the sanctum sanctorum of my imagination. In the tomes of geniuses past and present I achieve the impossible. The unbelievable. The unfathomable. There, where the world ceases its hurried revolutions, and time is but a memory of little efficacy, I bury my thoughts, purge my emotions, and divulge my mind.

Once again, the fiction section found me lost in volumes of worlds achievable, and dreams plausible. Unlike most Saturdays though, I found myself in the company of another whose preoccupation with the absurd and fantastic threatens to rival my own. The memory of that afternoon eludes me now, shifty and effervescent in the annals of my narrative. All I could muster to reclaim are the innocuous details that swayed my attention. His brisk confident walk, the gait that betrays his stature, and the precarious method he held his cigarette.

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