The melody of the ever-anticipated rain has played frantically outside. The thousand of thudding reverberation when droplets of rain shatter as it clash with earthly objects (humans included). The sound of the rain never ceases to make me feel melancholic and sentimental. It is not only soothing, but also induces contemplating. I am here pressing the keyboard key as I stare on the glaring Samsung monitor following whatever letter appears on a blinking dwarfed vertical line; it’s like this little line opens another dimension and as every droplet of rain knocks on my bucolic door and thinly painted roof, welcomes a thought sneakily crawling sporadically in my mind. I love the rain! How can I ever emphasize on that statement? There’s nothing in and of it that I can explain and pinpoint as the consummate source of my love for it; in the first place, you do not need any reason to love, you just do. Same goes for my admiration and infatuation towards the calming rain.

My heart melts every time the ground exudes an aroma of joy and relief; a result when the dust-blanketed ground glorifies when the thousand little raindrops splatters. I too glorify when the rain touches my normally warm skin. It’s a joy I cannot explain; an inexplicable euphoria. Though there are not many who are ardent admirers of the rain, it is not reason enough for me to severe my untraceable love towards it.

The rain has stopped, I hope just this instance. A downpour of rain when you try to sleep is one of the most wonderful experience one could ever encounter. It lulls you to sleep smoothly, and consequently it makes each waking day vibrant. Do come back and touch the humble earth again, invisible rain! You, whose gentle touch makes one look above, shower the precariously parched imagination of the idealists.

Being desultory once again, let me jump off from another stupefying view this morning. While I was going out, throat-parched and lethargic, with one thing in my mind, to sate my thirst, I was dazzled by a shimmering halo. It was the likes of which I never saw in forever. I stopped awhile to let my eyes get accustomed to the radiance, and unswervingly notice the source of such shimmer; the inanimate drinking fountain on the second floor of the AS building. You were there for as long as we were, and you hid yourself in a bland façade. We used to just step on you so you may mechanically and automatically deliver quenching cold water; I felt guilty for not being able to notice the significant role you play in the lackadaisical lives of coerced students. We clamber the inclined steps towards half-a-heaven and half-a-hell, vigorously sweltering in early morning sweat, whilst intermittently wiping off excess (those dripping sweat tickling your still torpid skin). You whose lips have been kissed by countless and heart is broken by a romance that never be. You whose hips are evanescently held by strangers and guides you to a dance you do not know the steps; and as you gradually enjoy, those strangers let go of their gentle grasp on your hips, and you are then left desultory once again. You who dance with a single step; you reward those who keeps you company with a quenching water magically coming out from your silver lips. You, who that morning shun your true extravagance (maybe thinking no one will be looking at you). I saw your grandiose halo; a shimmering, pusillanimous crown existent only as when you are struck by the reflection of the sun’s ray. You stood there in solitude, where nobody kissed you on your coldly sweating lips, and nobody stepped on your flatly placed foot, and nobody held your smooth obdurate hips; your satiety cascaded, externally perceivable as your halo. You find contentment in solitude. But I asked, ‘Should that be?’ No one fit survives the bitterness of aloneness. I approached you in a wildly stalking manner; hands closely flat on my side, walking in a sliding manner (producing a rushing sound), staring steadfastly at you. But as I got nearer and nearer, your halo slowly disappeared, lost as my presence may have startled your contemplation. I drank from your lips a sating essentiality of life, grab your quasi-smooth hips, and stepped on your bruised pedal then I moved away. Upon entering the door of doldrum-generating incarceration, I looked back; I saw again your halo, a silver glow rendered by the omnipresent and omnipotent radiance of the sun.

Sometimes, at some little point in our lives, we desire solitude. We would bargain even frolic events for a piece of prized silence. It is only when we are alone sometimes that we get to excogitate every minute thing in our lives. We sometimes avoid the perturbing crowd and find ourselves a little corner for ourselves. Have you been alone lately?

The rain has not yet descended; though the sky is heavy and the fulminating echoes of silence reverberate the outcry of inevitable emancipation. I’ll again be waiting for the next arrival of my long-time infatuation. The rain, who when falls, makes mushy marshmallows of adamant pebbles; who lubricates my static imagination and coaxes emotionally imbued ideation; who when shattered emanates an earthy aroma that reminds me of where I am standing and where I should be standing; who when invisibly grazes my febrile skin, transiently sketches a beautiful love story. The rain relays the message of the sky to every irrelevant corporeal being below; ‘you are all standing on the same ground, no one is above or below another’. Under the encompassing splurge of the rain, we are reminded of our being insignificant. That we are all temporary; even the most beautiful love story of all, gets devoured by dust and dirt. We are all transient beings! It will incessantly rain, even though we cease to breathe. We are all but a passing of time; no one will ever be in a day beyond forever, whilst the rain transcends forever.

No exemption to the temporariness and passing of things is our untold story. Few know, and uncertain is the outcome. But amidst the covertness of whatever it is that we have, I am as satisfied as when I am alone; perhaps more. I yearn for every moment with you as when I yearn for every droplet of rain. I childishly crave the pitch of your voice; the batter of your eyelashes, the motion of your lips when you converse with me, and your ambivalence towards want and propriety. I wish for the two of you to meet; a walk under the rain. But as of this fleeting moment in time, the rain is still in paucity, and our time together is but borrowed, that wish remains a yet attainable and capricious wish. But I’m looking forward that our hidden and borrowed moments together becomes like the rain; carelessly pouring wherever, whenever. You who the rain reminds me of, is a wish I continually cling until you, or the thought of you reminds me of the rain. Pour ceaselessly! =]

Let me start with a question, the likes of which has been explicitly asked by almost every teacher in biology: “What can we not live without?” It is something that when we are deprived of even in a transient passing of time (let’s say, in a few minutes or so), we pass out. It is something we cannot voluntarily bereave ourselves with; we can only try for so long, and find ourselves imbibing its omnipresence. We yearn for it every second of our routine lives. We are subconsciously in committal to its every command; we are there when it is there. It is the limit of our flights, the final frontier of a man slowly pulled by the carriage of lifelessness, the penultimate though ignored desire of every corporeal being; but we do not stop to notice it anymore.

I laud whoever has an answer towards that corollary question. Indubitably, not everyone (speculatively) got the right answer. I’m pretty sure, and I can confidently grip that unempirical conclusion, that some (assuming many do read my soporific blog) answered water. Well, it is partly correct. Water is essential to our survival, and we, as corporeal beings, contain in us a substantial percentage of water. No doubt water is a life-giving element. It recuperates our gluttonous thirst and maintains a teetering homeostasis. But in all actuality, the answer to that question is air. What else when we are deprived of even for a few minutes will make us pass out? What else can we volitionally not intake? What else do we imbibe that is everywhere? It is the last object (if it may qualify as an object) that a dying person utilizes to whisper his/her bequeathing words. We ignore it because we do not see it; and whatever is not visible to our sensate eyes, we do not consider essential. Whatever is essential is and will always be invisible to our eyes. The air is no exemption to the essentialities of which we depend so much to.

Now, how is this relatable to the title upon which I have preveniently placed atop this entry? Assuming that my hunches are correct, people aren’t able to decipher and connect the dots between my title and the essence of my entries; it’s not you. I do not connect my titles from any of my write-ups; I do not work that way. I have my own unconventional way. The titles of my blog entries may either be of the two: the first thing that comes to my mind after opening the all-hailed, ever-glorified and aggrandized Microsoft word (you heard it right, I’m no longer using notepad, as it is erratic when I post it), or the last thing that comes to my mind right after I press the ending period of every nonsensical, and totally unconnected closing paragraph of my entries. It is not whatsoever connected in any way conspicuous to the essence of any of my entries. But let this time be an exemption, and this entry somehow traditional.

Humans as we are, and shallow as we can be, we do not understand and comprehend everything that surrounds us and stimulates our senses. Whatever we cannot comprehend we subsequently label as impossible. We have categories of seemingly everything, and whatever that strikes our senses that we cannot categorize, we inherently believe as an impossibility.

Nothing is impossible! All is possible; it’s just that not all possibilities are probable. Oscar Wilde once said that man cannot readily believe the improbable. We are a species of apparent desire to be sure of everything. We cannot readily believe on things we are not yet sure of really being what it is. We do not want to live on the overtures of probability. We always want to be safe on the solid and stable grounds of surety.

I find myself tonight really quite pallid. The imaginative juices seems not to flow nonchalantly; I have to force and squeeze these juices out so I may at least place here something that outwardly looks like a blog entry, but in all actuality this is a disguise. I am hiding beneath all this a feeling of indifference. I cannot spontaneously write when the object of my whimsical and capricious wishes is not around; even behind the pixelized screen that renders me hypnotized by its alluring though glaring light. I want to end this entry with a bland farewell wave. For formalities sake, let me add to it a creepy wink. Just remember that what is essential is invisible to our eyes. Breathe in! Breathe out! Air is omnipresent; therefore we should not ignore it. So is love. So is hope. So are wishes and dreams and imaginations. Believe in dreams coming true. I am in one. =]

I believe this has been overdue; but nonetheless, this is still considered as an entry. I’d like to think of my write-ups as a testimony; not as a confession of anything not worthwhile, but an expression of the beauty and divinely organized poesy of nature. The subject and object of my queer ideation has always been nature itself. I mean, why look for anywhere else when anywhere else is right where you are right now? The things that can elicit unique peregrinations are only found in nature.

Let me avow this for this entry: I’d be making this entry quite crude and easily comprehensible. It has never been my primary intent to make people understand the things I type here; I want them to think deep, delve into an abysmal pit of imagination. I want them to utilize the faculties that they, we are gifted with. It is a privileged to be the only specie on earth to be able to imagine the things that has not yet unfolded or will never unfold realistically. I’d like to think of it that way. No other, and I mean no other is capable of such; and by having that singular distinction of being the only specie able to think in terms of intangibility, not using it to our heart’s content defeats the purpose of being a quality distinct to us. What’s given to us, we must use. The law of use and misuse by Charles Darwin may evoke a slight nudge of fear; that when we do not use or not constantly use that of which is inherent in us, there might be a possibility that it might go down the drain.

While I was sitting on a fringed ledge in the morning, and as I was contemplating on the beauteous, simple yet inconspicuous poetry of nature, I happen to notice that even as trees grow on the inclined sides of clambering mountains, they still emerge erect. I noticed no one tree heeds meekly towards the inclination of the mountain sides. They fight the force of which every man has been archetypally plagued by: gravity. They fight so they may announce to everybody else that they, amidst the trials and tribulations, can still manage to adroitly manifest their will to go on. If humans be that way; look beyond the plight of wretchedness and look at these tribulations within the context of temporariness. Life is a flux of regularity, one that is too obvious that even the blank stare of apathetic eyes will notice. Cliché: “What comes up must come down!” If we hold strongly to that tenet, and not put ourselves in a singular distinction of being the only person bombarded with seemingly insurmountable odds, we might be able to get out a much better person.

Back to these underrated trees. They sway carelessly. They go with the blow of the mountain breeze. Their leaves, the striving and the dead, rustle as the mild breeze of the morning sweeps indiscriminately. The melody as the leaves of diversified trees graze each other is but music to a tone-deaf. Nature plays a melody even the deaf can hear; I included. And atop the branches, which grow at a glance in wild randomness, are little birds that chirp exuberantly and in revelry towards the liberation with which they were so bestowed inherently upon. One bird that caught my captivated and awed eyes is a bird clothed in bland black and white plume. Its downside is perpetually white, whilst atop it, the plume that protects in from the heat of the vengeful sun is blindly black. Even though the dualistic nature of its feather and color arrangement, it is not without a purpose. Nature does not fabricate something useless; it may be out of necessity or out of compulsory. We too are gifted with the capacity to ideate and imagine that of which is not yet tangible. Tangentially, the trees too are gifted with the rigidity and strength to go against the force of gravity just to reach the canopy of where sunrays are of abundance. Everything is of a reason, which at our current faculties of reason yet knows. Everything has a purpose; the works of a divine entity? I cannot prove or disprove. As of this current still moment in time (still as when I am writing I tend to corral myself away from the pressure of time-conformity), I am still indebted to the iota of inspiration nature has emanated silently, though loudly. Listen to what nature has to sing, look what nature has to offer, its eccentricities are all too common and salient for us to remain destitute and oblivious. They are there! We are tasked with, given the weapon of boundless imagination, to decode what nature has been esoterically showing. We are, as nature concludes, a part of it.

Look beyond the surface! Look below the mirrored and reflecting façade, it shows you nothing but a vague misrepresentation of yourself. There is more to nature than what is ignored. Sleep is also nature’s presage that we are in dire need of solemnity. Once in a while, we have to recuperate that of which we have lost when we were mechanical. Sleep is automatic. In an instant after now I would be heeding the call of the somnolent hums of the aggressive goddess of sleep. But the little lenient time given to me before I enter into the dark realm of quasi-death, I’ll be thinking of you. Not to be a satiety towards an insatiable desire of closeness, but as a temporary remedy of impatient waiting. How can one satisfy something insatiable? You can’t. What can satisfy your whimsical wishes but the object of those whimsical wishes itself. I hope even within the universe where real is what is intangible and what is bona fide is everything imaginable; I get to be with you. Dreams come true! They really do. For how else could you explain the happenings of recent unfolding if they don’t? We’ll be where we truly be; right where we are right now. =]

If I will be posting this entry on my blog, this would be the very first to be made and posted on an afternoon. My mind is tediously wan during afternoons, and I just couldn’t seem to organize any coherent ideation during such time. This very moment, I’m thinking about the tons of pallid black and white write-ups to be read as a consequence of summer school. Summer is impinged with a connotation of being a fun-filled season: from cold and rowdy beaches to finite shorelines, from the scorching caress of the grandiose sun to the whistling chill of the night zephyr. Whilst I here am in a committal. In servitude towards an impending hectic heinousness catalyzed by a paced, haphazard summer class. I’m not one to complain, I did choose this at my own volition, perhaps away from coercion (I’d like to think I made this choice on my own).

Bereft of anything interesting to do, I just turned off my exhaustively grumbling AC. For the thought of it perturbing the atmosphere inside my outlandishly childish room (this room was not mine to begin with, so do widen your understanding as to why that is so, as for further elaboration on what made it so, will be for another time other than now) without rest and intermittently killed and resurrected, springs feelings of guilt (one that is easily bludgeoned to oblivion). I do fear that someday my AC would give up on me, suddenly cough its last breath and muffles its last hubbub of farewell. Do not give up on me now, for the thought of the disappearance of your gelid embrace is ominous, and a plight I do not want to be experiencing. Give me a little whiff of candid moment: I do have a hard time keeping myself comfortable when it’s torrid. I desire the chilly touch and goosebump-inducing caress of circulating mechanically-fabricated breeze, one that is only conceived by an AC. I have once again turned it on, not with a peevish intent to ruin it, but because for only 10 minutes or so, the chilly air escapes even the tiniest hole pervasive within my room. AC! Do not think of me as someone who is abusive towards you, I care for you, and I need you! Our existence is symbiotic; for without me you’d be in your slumber, and without you I’d be in my primitive way of torpor.

I’m a desultory person, and this first ever afternoon entry will not be an exemption. I have currently read a snippet of Terri Cheney’s “Manic”. And my favorite line thus far is “Death sounded like a vacation to me, a holiday!” I was like flabbergasted and at the same time astonished as to how she made the idea of death so freeing and easily swallowed. I have always asserted even before I loved my life, that death is the quintessential teacher of every sensate, sentient being. If juxtaposed with life and living, life and living cowers and sulks face-facing-the-wall position. Death teaches us that nothing is in a day beyond forever. Life ends, simply put! And anything in it does too. That tenet may be obnoxious, as it clearly is; for who would ever love the thought of being temporary? Death is like a vacation! How else can you make it more alluring? None else.

My second favorite line thus far as I was reading my sixth page, and reverted back to reading the first page is: “Suicidal ideation can be the only thing that keeps you alive!” It smacked me right in my face; in a smack of pugnacious intent. I felt the pain as that line smacked me. That line holds so much though succinct. Thinking of death keeps the steam engine rolling. As some point in our lives we do think about dying: When will we die? How are we suppose to die? What do we do hours before we knew we’re dying? What is beyond this bodily entrapment? Is there life after death? Questions we cannot answer when we are not yet on that point, that rarely occurring point in our lives. I do believe that when we have not yet thought of these things, we have not yet desired to live our lives to the fullest zenith of which we are capable. It is only during the anxious fantasizing of dying, the thought of savoring your last breathe, the idea of slowly losing grip on the blurred fringes of life, and the sensation of having to touch the last people dear to you, that we feel the importance of life. Think of dying and see your life in a much vivid and panoramic way.

I do not want to sound creepy and all, it is not in my outlandish intention to fear-monger. Life is imperpetual. Death on the other hand is the inevitable wall with which no man has ever surmounted. It comes once and it lasts. Sometime, after I finish this, I’d be continuing my immersion on Manic. I have found the spark that would make me read this kind of books. I have not been a fan of books with stories; I find them conspicuous and inveterate, but full of vivid scenes (not sexual in my connotation of vivid by the way). I hope this becomes a start of many more reads in the uncertain future.

The rainclouds outside are gathering; and rightfully so. They cannot effectuate a passion-imbued downpour of scarce rain if they do not rip themselves of their pride. I hope it rains tonight; better if right this very instance. I have been loving the rain since my lapsed memory can trace. I’m loving the rain more as it reminds me of a sneaky idea; it reminds me of someone and I’m assuming (impertinently) that it too reminds (her) of me. Wishes are free! What ifs are incessantly ubiquitous! YKWYA (I’m hoping you know what that means too)! If there is one thing I want to happen right this very moment, it is to make it rain. The rain is the representation of the love story between the earth and the sky; the sky’s way of embracing the earth, and the earth in turns emanates a soothing aroma of dust-meet-rain. 5, 4, 3, 2… And I just noticed I started making this at exactly 3:15; what is up with 5? Perhaps, and rightly so, it’s life’s way of narrating a boring, yet beauteous story of boy-meets-girl. Let me end now in 1… =]

How do I start? That has been an archetypal dilemma-inducing question that man has been plagued since time got conceived in ticks and tocks. Where do I begin has been the corollary question before that. If you may ask, or I may ask myself how I got to start off with that seemingly ignoble question, my answer would be ‘I do not know’. Life’s just full of rhetorical questions. It is its momentum. But what do we get when we continually ask questions we do not even have answers to? I say we get what we’ve been clamoring for: a diversion.

We unequivocally think that everything in life is about us. It rolls for us or towards us. We are the object and subject of life. Talk about self-aggrandizing! And by disagreeing on this is reason enough for me to conclude that I am correct! Pun intended. Life’s a corny joke; sometimes we do not get its humor. Laugh out loud once in a while. It reinvigorates our system!

Relegating back towards the first topic of life being a series of rhetorical question, I begotten one myself a while ago riding a crude, fear-mongering ferry boat. But before I relentlessly continue on that, let me first frivolously describe concretely on what I was riding as it is something in and of itself worth the effort of pressing tiny boxes corresponded with letters. A ferry boat; it is somehow a rudimentary method of transportation. It ferries bubbled up humans, perfunctorily journeying the sediment-heavy waters of the infamous Mactan Channel. The waters of which when churned up by the algal-infested propellers of these ferry boats, emanates an effluvia novel to your volition less sense of smell. It has been a part of the lives of the people of Lapu-Lapu, and that I think it is something that even when is gradually embargoed by bureaucratic modernity, will leave an unabridged void. The infamous ferry boat! Even though renovating the way you surfacially look is otiose, you have been a part of seemingly every citizen of Lapu-Lapu’s lives.

I guess we are again lost. Let me again ask for your kind consideration towards my meanderings, it is in no way a sign of conceit, but rather of indecisiveness and a chaotic method of organizing. Back to the rhetorical question than has begotten me when I was sitting lifelessly undulating upon every little tempestuous waves. This question transpired when I saw a family of Badjao (I do not know if that is the correct spelling of their tribe, but it sounds the same and maybe means the same). I saw them counting their collected alms for the whole day, followed it with genuine curiosity. The amount of their alms shattered my verbiageness appearing implicitly within my mind. For the rest of the day, they only got 18 pesos worth of alms; they equally distributed it to each other, unreluctantly. The oldest got the highest amount, which if you may ask, I do not know how much. I then asked, how do they sustain every day, if hypothetically, they get the same amount of alms every day? The effusion of hopelessness is clearly molded on their faces. Though there were signs that they were at least copacetic with what they got, they moved on talking in lingo once again. I tried to listen to maybe decipher even a sentence of what they were mumbling and babbling apathetically in a voice shattering even the agitating zephyr as crude boat divides the surface of the wan sea (I do not even know if the waters there were salty). But all to no avail! Not even a single word I could comprehend. I gave up and moved on with the listening of the rustle of the waves whilst simultaneously appreciating the flowing poetry of nature. I then stopped my doldrum ideations, and rhetorically asked myself, all the while typing it in my cellphone: “What is harder? Having to live life on a day to day sustenance or having to live life not aware of the opportunities of now because one is busy looking and planning for the dubious future?” As there are people, like the Badjao’s I recently observed a while ago, living one day at a time, living life as if today is all that matters. Doesn’t it? Now matters! For it is only now that we are certain of and about. Tomorrow might never be, and as humans as we are, we always want to be certain. Our life is staged in the show of today. And once today’s show is over, the backdrop falls, and we again prepare for another show.

Now has a plethora of opportunities. Paradoxically, we cannot notice it as we are too inclined of preparing for the quandaries of yet-to-be’s. I have been staunchly advocating that life is composed of nows; there never has been anything if not now. The past is there for us to guide us and lead us to where we are ‘now’, the future? I believe is not even sure of being existent. The opportunities of now are more than enough to carry us to where we desire to be.

Let me end this entry with a poem from nature: a golden sunset whose rays permeated the dark clouds that has shrouded its source. It has been one of the most breathtaking scenery since I learned what the word “etaoin shrdlu” means. The free flowing verses of nature are the epitome of creativity. Its lyrical take on every line ebbs like the fragrance of a slowly-crushed aromatic flower. That golden sunset became more memorable when I knew she looked at it too. Before I knew I saw that plight as just a beautiful prose of nature; but when I knew, I saw it as a romantic sonnet composed by nature to make one aware that everything and everyone is under the same sky, trudging the same ground, and breathing the same pungent oxygen-filled air. It’ll be remembered just as those resilient Badjao’s will be.

Tonight, as I lay myself to forceful rest, I’ll be counting iteratively 5’s. 1.) Firsts pave the way for next’s; 2.) What ifs slowly becoming tangible; 3.) Found out Wednesdays are commemorative of confirmation biased specialness too; 4.) The choices we make led us to where we are right this very instance, which I’m sure is a much better place than anywhere else; 5.) Hoping that what we had ends which will mark the beginning of what we will be having. These are the 5 things that will be sedating my neurotic mind tonight, my temporary anesthesia as a relief towards the odium of the unfairness of circumstance. 5, 4, 3, 2… Would what we have end if I say that all things life has thrown at me led me to where I am now, if what we had was a beginning? 1… =]

Going home from a very strenuous day (since summer classes started, every weekday has been strenuous), riding a mini-version of a wartime vehicle that was once used to carry the injured and the dead, I found myself being reclusive again. Incarcerating myself in a semi-translucent, totally invisible bubble where the voices whispering impertinent messages, never stopping until I heed it and imitate it, becomes as loud as the reverberating muffles of exhausted engines. Although this petulant whisperers could not move far away from the posts upon which they are leashed to, their barks just don’t seem to end. Even after ignoring it for a substantial amount of expedient time. Call me schizophrenic, I’d like to categorize myself to someone like an inquirer; nothing sensible, perceivable, semi-invisible, is safe from the half-galling, half-satisfying self-inquiries.

Enough of the self-aggrandizing presumptuous self-labelings, and relegate to the topic of being in a multicab (the mini-version of a wartime vehicle). While I was sitting comfortably, with femur hanged on the vacant side of where I was flatly, quasi-restfully sitting, I happened to cease inquiry of all and sundry, and suddenly took notice of where I was. An old lady once said, “How can thou know what is doing in the heavens, when thou seest not what is at thy feet?” This was I think was directed to Thales. I stopped to realize that random peregrinating and aimless inquiries of things non-extant will not bring me somewhere plain and solid. I got surprisingly guilty; surprisingly not because of the fact that I got guilty, but to the candid circumstance that I do peregrinate wherever as long as it is encompassed within the realm of ideation; and I just noticed that I was ceaselessly doing that. I figured that this was the trip I suffered from continually staring at the spangled heaven and counting virgin stars (virgin, for no man has ever touched it..XD). Good heavens that I did!

Returning to where I was; in a torrid, shaky, cushioned but stubborn bench, and a congested residue of a wartime vehicle, where knees of complete strangers meet, feet accidentally and indifferently steps on another, and sweat-lubricated skin touches unbranded clothes. Being obsess with cleanliness in a place like that will irk you more times that you could be irked in a month’s time. That aside, and as I was flatly dropped when the bubble of self-reclusion popped, I noticed every entity silently being tumultuous as they are fighting their own battles. The tiny unnoticed situation that I was fortunately a part of that time, and I was given the privileged to opaquely scrutinized, was a giddy insight. That there, was a microcosm of life. Life, compressed into a tiny rectangular muffling and rolling vehicular absurdity. The tempestuous silence was epitomic of everyone selfishly living their own war-torn lives; acolading themselves with exuberant cheers when they achieve something, while cantankerously blaming others of their shortcomings and mishaps. We are all silently and secretly selfish; we strive for those that which benefits us more or benefits only us. People, as was rightly represented by the sporadic microcosm of life, build warranted or unwarranted barriers to deflect others. We do not want to be experiencing pain. And regrettably so, and inasmuch as we try to deflect pain, we still experience it. That fear of having to inevitably experience the very thing we try to avoid is what causes the internal altercations. We are our own enemies! And we project it to others for we do not want to make executioners of ourselves. Humans!

Inside the multicab that I was comfortably positioned were people of diverse characters and roles. There were some who, even though the ride got smooth and the road became hole-less, still held tightly on the bars inefficaciously preventing one’s unreposing motion. Some did held meekly. Those who held tightly where those people who are afraid to take the plunge into the abysmal drop of the unknown. They fear of pitfalls and held on as tightly as possible to where they think they are safe and adroit. They perfunctorily go on with their stale lives, hoping not to break away from the itineraries. Whilst those that held meekly the bar of life’s wharf, are ambivalent. They desired to break away, all the while holding on, tying still the ropes of their rudimentary bamboo boats. They are the ones who fantasize of a better life, only after risking. These are more pervasive than those who held anxiously to life’s wharf. And, unqueer enough, in the microcosmic multicab, more did held meekly; letting go of it once in a while. Ambivalence! Leads nowhere but half a step from where you are.

Also, flamboyantly inches away from my personal zone was a chagrined nurse. And in front of her, desperately working an appeasement was her partner. Not to sound as if I was eavesdropping and all, but I happen to overhear their humorous conversation of life struggling with tranquility rightly due to love. I mean, who would not overhear? When their voices tamed even the cough of metallic engines weakly churning up vitality to heed the whim of its stepping lord. Within the microcosmic context, these are the people who think of love and commitment as perfectly molded by someone divine, and when they find out that their primal concepts are erratic and capricious, they din in rebellion of it not being as what they want it to be. Even life has rallying activists. They incessantly ask why does it not fit the thought-off imaginaries and whimsical hypothesis, and that it should be as what they desire it to be. Sadly though, life has its own will. It’s like a self-adjusting treadmill. We never know when it decides to apace or when it decides to slow down. It also is sporadic in its decision when to incline up or incline down.

We may be attached to the strings of the puppeteers of life, but we are capable of dancing our own dance. Inside the microcosm of life, I happened to realize that we are only so much in control of our lives as when we are trying to let it control us. Sometimes we think as being a liberated individual, away from the dictates and strings of bureaucracy, and do not happen to check whether or not there are strings attached to our collars, we’ll continually be blind.

Enough of thoughtless and arbitrary meanderings, I have a plethora of soporific and sedating pages of black and white papers to read. It is not to my own conviction, but as of the moment, let me just become a serf to learning. I’m actually ecstatic for tomorrow, not for school but for something after that. It keeps me awake! It’s always a wonder when you are looking forward to something. It shaves life off of doldrums. Let this day end, and tomorrow begin. This time, I’ll be making sure to be keeping decisively that of which could remind me iteratively of a what if becoming a what next. Countdown starts in 5, 4, 3, 2... Wait! This is what life is all about, letting go of the bar of life’s wharf then jumping off the abysmal pit of the unknown. 1! =]

In a flash of a microsecond, every symbol of modernity that is surrounding me, sulked into their little corners of inanimation. The grumbling AC, howls in bass as it slowly curbs in forced silence. The incandescent bulb, incarcerated atop the ceiling, blinked ephemerically, before it became subversive with the darkness. The spark of modernity was unplugged for a while. Everything, in a specific area, was shut down. Man’s conspicuous dependence towards a byproduct of neglect, popped out like a pinched pimple. We lose vigor when we are bathed with darkness. It’s like our life gets diffused and disappear together with the light that grazes every nook of reality.

Astonishingly enough, it is during that short, evanescent time that I got to contemplate on the unnoticed beauty of darkness and the games little things play. When everything turned black, as the eyes of the unacclimatized search for a snippet of glare as he succumbs to the undaunted charge of darkness, I laid down my semi-sheeted bed. And as I was laying flat, arched by the curve of the submissive cushion (therefore I was not laying flat..), I caught a glimpse, though transient of the revelry of those who frolic and strive in darkness. The silence, whose existence is slowly becoming endangered. People now do not stop to listen to the things he/she cannot comprehend. The existence of silence may be ubiquitous, but we are no longer aware of it being always there. It is only during times of electricity-less that we get to hear the ever-existing silence. And surprisingly enough, it is not totally silent as first perceived by quasi-deaf beings. Silence is an unceasing sharp hum, of which the pattern of sound is indistinguishable. It craves for attention, it clambers the cochlea of your ears, wishing for you to hear its subliminal message; ‘I exist!’, it continually hums. The silence is our inner, suppressed selves, our hidden desires, and our buried wishes and dreams. We get only to listen to it, when we close the ear that is in trajectory to some deafening, professionally arranged tunes. These tunes are others dictates towards us, their expectations, their want from us. They nag so much near our ears, that we forget that we have our own voices. Silence is natures gift towards mechanical people. They should listen to nothing some time, it is therapeutic!

Another little thing that plays in frolic as darkness blooms are little playful lights. These lights dance in child-like passion. And although these petty lights are numbered in almost extinction, they do not hold back. As these little lights enter whatever nook approaching my room has, they flicker in faint yet frolic dance. It is as if they dance to the sharp hums of silence. Sometimes they disappear in a sudden shake of their bulging body; they reappear in a surprise entrance. They disappear as suddenly as they appear. I feel the pain of these petty lights as they only become visible as all else becomes shrouded in an almost invisible shroud of darkness. The eyes can only see enough as the little lights allows it to see. As I was archly lying behind my back on my semi-submissive cushion, I only see bland black and white. Gray is non-sensible. For if it is, then I doubt it is something from this realm. Back to these little flickering faint light, the color of which is invisible during day.

After I got expedient and got too much of these flickering lights dancing one dance of regularity, I shifted my attention to the semi-translucent curtain. When light strikes my eye, my eye that has become totally dependent of white light, this curtain is dustily colored green. With irregular lines stitched on the surface to inefficaciously conceal the insides of my room. When the AC grumbles in effortful blowing of commensurate air, this curtain dance in an avoidant belly dancing. But when the darkness dominated my perceived reality, this curtain slouched, got straight in emptiness. It was lonely and it felt unloved. The light outside, produced by the spangled heavens, pierced vigorously on the lonely curtain to give me a little natural light inside my semi-dark incarceration. This natural light, commensurate of its title as the harbinger of hope, made me see some inanimate objects inside my room. The computer table, rigid and strong, scaffolding the epitome of the modern age, sits blankly on the calm of lightlessness. I was fearful that it might rebel as it was shocked and awed by the sudden unplugging of life. But I noticed it being introverted, so maybe it will stay still and silent.

The last thing I noticed during this predicament of black staleness, is the click of the clock. Its perfunctory clicks are annoying, but I could not locate it anywhere, since my eyes are enslaved by the absence of light. So I let it be. I closed my eyes, since where I was and where I was going is colored the same, black, I did not complain. But as quick as the light faded is also as quick as it flashed. The source of all modernity returned, and it was due. I carried my body towards an erect position, and donned a smile. It was this night that a first became a catalyst for many, or so I hope, but I am willing.

I ran out of sporadic, nonsensical, aimless meandering as I turned on again the epitome of modernity. As I was making this, I am constantly shifting from one window to another. During that fleeting moment of lightlessness, I got to hear the voice that beforehand I only get to hear in wishes. 3:04, concise, but will surely be remembered for all of the annoying clicks of the clock. Though there was 56seconds of wasted could-have-beens, it was still all worth it. Being blind for a fleeting time catalyzed the audacity to try to call (YKWYA), is well worth the bargain. I’m looking forward to many next’s. But I’m hoping also that the next’s will not be without light, as I have a slight irrational fear of darkness. 3:04! The time of what has remained of my life. =]