one phone call

Library. Hey. Are you sleeping? She patted me on the shoulder.

No. Not really. I dabbed my eyes and forced a smile.

The guys are waiting by the parking. Movie. Tara.

Thanks. I can't. Pointed to the pile of papers before me. Need to do these. But really, I just wanted to lie in bed and hug my pillows and sleep for a day.. and forget. Everything.

Don't worry. Things will get better. I promise you.

Thanks. Forced smile.

____________________________________

Going home. So you're going to Cagayan? When are you coming back?

That's the third time you've asked me that. Do you have a problem of sorts?

Forced smile. No. Not really. The phone rings. I speak. But all the more I sulk. The problem was just getting bigger. I wanted to go home. Fast. To that bed. Fast. To Wonderland..

_____________________________________

Home. Opened the door. I'm home.

You're early.

Yeah.

Bad day?

You have no idea. That was an understatement: It's a fucked up day.

_____________________________________

In bed. I was about to sleep. To fade away for hours and hours where I won't get hurt, where I won't be rejected.

Should I call? I didn't want to. I wanted to. I didn't want to. Next thing I knew, it was your voice I was hearing. I haven't heard it for eons. We talked.

_____________________________________

Sala. Your eyes are soo red. You overslept!

Slight chuckle. Nope. I didn't have to. Later, I will sleep. Smiling.

something wrong

Morato. I walked Kix to the jeepney station around midnight. We almost knew every brick on the pavement as we've always been there since the first time we sessioned three years ago. We trod along the familiar avenue, and like in the first time, I marvelled at how the place was so cozy and safe. Bright lights. Well-dressed people. Fine restos.

But something caught my eye on the sidestreets. A family sprawled on the sidewalk, sleeping. Shirts sooted, hair in disarray, frames shouting for warmth against the cold of the night.

I suddenly remembered how manic I felt after watching Sex and the City in Gateway. For some reason, I couldn't reconcile basking in the glamour of New York one second, and sighing at the dirt and grime of Cubao the next.

The problem is, once you've seen and felt the problem, there isn't any turning back. The nagging discomfort of knowing that something is wrong is a sword that will forever hang over our heads.

But the bigger problem is--what are we to do?

desecration

My haven has been infiltrated. My sacred place. My special nook. The only place in this city I go to when I need my peace and quiet. My headquarters where I schemed and studied for the best glories, and fuckups, of my postgrad school life. It is being robbed from me by a... by a pesky bitch who has brought her own army.

If there's such a thing as a bitch pest control agency, I would have called them days ago. But life isn't that easy and things will have to be settled civilly. Bummer. It will then just be a matter of tolerating each other's stenches. And he who tolerates best wins.

The war for this minute, but sentiment-charged, territory is on.

And like a boy who's being bullied for his lollipop, I will stand my ground.

cold turkey

The sem is over and I feel displaced and incomplete. I feel like my dirty old usb without its cap. Lacking. Naked. Ugly.

Maybe that's why I'll be going to cbtl later to help a friend with her take home exam. Secretly, I want to ground myself with a routine I've been so accustomed to. Pitiful. I know. Who in the world wants to do acads stuff over the break? But somehow I can't do without my reviewer. At least not just now. I'm still having cold turkey.

That's why I better hit the beach soon or just sweat off this drug called school--for now.

Because in less than two weeks, school will start again. Hopefully by then, I'll be normal enough to stand my next 6-month dose.

p.s. Oh I forgot. I've to write a paper for November. Haha. So much for my two-week rehab.