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?