an (im)perfect day

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.