ang stupid stupid ko nga. inaamin ko na ako iyon. utang na loob. patawarin mo na ako. naguiguilty tuloy ako. pero hindi ko napigilan ang sarili ko. seryoso ako dun sa tnxt ko. kung pwede lang sana na mabalik yon eh, papalitan ko talaga yung ginawa ko. hindi ko na alam kung ilang mali pa ang magagawa ko.

ginusto kong sabihin iyon personally. pero nga, nahihiya talaga ako. siguro nga bata pa ako. kulang talaga ako sa experience. hindi ko naman masisi yung sarili ko dun sa ginawa ko. weird kasi ang feeling na nararamdaman. meron talagang nag-urge sakin na gawin yun. sorry talaga.

ang mga cellphones ngaun ay tila wala ng silbi sakin. oo nga naman, may point ka. hindi mo nga talaga malalaman kung totoo ang sinasabi ng isang tao sa pamamagitan ng text. pati rin sa tawag. malay mo, may abilidad yung kausap mong ibahin ang voice nya diba? di mo kasi makita eh. pero ganun din eh. kapag nakita mo sya. hindi ka sigurado kung totoo nga ang sinasabi ng tao. pwede rin naman siyang magsinungaling.

pero ang masasabi ko lang hindi ako nagsinungaling dun sa sinabi ko. hindi ko man mapoprove yun ng mga theorems, postulates, o written documents, maaaring maprove ko yon sa pamamagitan ng actions.

malay ko bang ikaw lang ang pwedeng magpost sa blog mo. pwede rin namang ibang tao, diba? pwede rin naman na may ibang taong nakakaalam ng password mo sa blog. pero alam kung ikaw yun. mararamdaman ko kasi kung ibang tao eh.

sorry talaga kung nasaktan ka. kung tutuusi'y ayoko rin namang ipakita ang personal na mga messages sa text. gusto ko rin naman yung actual na sinasabi. pero namiss nga kita talaga noon. hindi talaga ako nabore non. pero namiss lang talaga kita. ganun na ba kabagal ang oras at namiss kita three hours after tayo last nagkita? pasensya ka na, pero mahal lang talaga kita. at hindi to bola.

Twisted Halo

Like springtime starting to fall, my angel showed a new side of her face. It was the most unusual thing she ever showed me. It was like she had her time, and she had enough. The way she acted about her anger is an understatement of how she felt inside.

Three strikes and she was out! What I could not take was that the last strike came from me, I couldn’t believe just why she couldn’t devote herself to her responsibilities. She should have her patience and teach me valuable lessons. But this is not about her departure; this is about how I could not undo that third strike.

*12 hours until her departure

A constellation forming a gossamer of immense proportions on a starry night stands out against the other billions of stars. This may remind me of how everything is related, or in my terms: everything happens for a reason.

*10 hours until her departure

Was it wrong to undoubtedly speak the truth? Or was it just the outcome of the two successive strikes, of which probably damaged her dignity? Even angels have feelings, too, and hers were certainly hurt. But, she has to have her patience in order to do well in her job. I mean, I can’t blame her for it, but I can’t blame myself, too. It would be stupid if I blamed myself for speaking the truth!

Looking back to the events, I made her look stupid! I embarrassed her! Fortunately, she was young enough to handle the mistake. She always understood me. I just realized that after making fun of her actions, her intelligence, her reputation, and herself that beneath those fake laughs were tears and pain. Why do people discriminate others? And, that was just what I did. Unfortunately, she was an angel that was young enough to lose her temper, and she pulled off her limitations so low. I blame myself for that.

*Eight hours until her departure

It’s too late! She’s decided. I may never see her again. It’s just that you should do well at present so that when the “present” becomes the past, then that past will not haunt you back. It may not be the last strike but minor mistakes that clumped up to a tumor, which might have spread its infection. I’ll miss her…

*Seven hours until her departure

I’m wishing for her to change her mind.

*Six and a half hours until her departure

—Still wishing for her to unpack her bags.
What’s happening? She’s an angel? She should not abandon her career. How about a bloody, red mark on your permanent record? Perhaps, you’ll be getting difficulties in finding a new job. Ha! Take that.

*Five hours remaining

All that’s coming into my mind is the harps of heaven playing the melody of Rondo (Alla Turca) or Turkish March by Wolfgang A. Mozart—sad when played andante and Poco Moto. Sadder when played by broken strings. It seems to render to sirens echoing the music against the raging fury of the ocean waves.

Could I just say sorry? I could just act sorry, then, because actions speak louder than words.

*Four hours remaining

This is the time when patience is hardly needed. Four hours and she’s off. No matter what happens, I have to respect her decision. Anytime now, she’s going.

Eventually she’ll have her freedom. She will fly away!

*Three hours remaining
—

*Two hours…
—all wasted

*One hour remaining

I’ll miss her… I’ve got to say my goodbye.

*30 minutes more passed

I can do nothing about it. Even my saddest sorries would not alter her decision. She already prepared her things and gave her most sentimental goodbyes.

*30 seconds to go…

She walked to the window and spread her wings, which blocked the bright blaze of the sun surrounded by an azure sky. Above the horizon was the gray lining welcoming her.

*Three seconds

Tears filled my eyes as I ran toward her.

*Two seconds

A tear dropped slowly from her left eye.

*One second more

…and she left ground while I shouted SORRY!!!

—I woke up and I was still shouting sorry. “Sorry” reverberated in my mind. It was all a dream. I went to her room. While going there, my heart beat fast. The silence scared me. I opened the door, and n top of her bed stood a letter addressed to me…

I could not take it anymore!
I won’t be back…

Yours Truly,

human instinct

life is so glassy that the soul is like a phantom that could always dart through fibrous layers of memories.

Everything is just so transparent so that injustice and discrimination could be seen through people. Even my brother’s dog has had some experiences of prejudice. You see, the dog always knows. He knows when my brother’s there because he is not as epileptic as he is when my brother’s there. How my brother pampers him may be the cause. But when my brother’s not home, he would always get his ass kicked by someone from the house once he starts being such an imp. Anyway, enough of the dog…he’s always tattered when my brother’s not home.

Let’s look at two scenes from which I’ve been at:

1Once, when I went to 7-eleven to buy some snack, there was this lady who entered. She looked like a traveler who was somewhat like a contestant from Survivor with dirty clothes—all with the large bag, a 500-ml bottle of water, and nothing else visible. When the guard saw her, he might have thought that she was crazy with her Igorot-like look. “Maybe a thief,” the guard might have thought or “Maybe a rogue,” or “Maybe she was plain crazy!”

So the guard questioned her. She put down her bag and answered: “Bibili po ako.” The guard, doubting still, followed her while she looked for what she was going to buy. Eventually, the girl paid gladly and went away. It’s much like Jean Valjean out of prison with a yellow card. He always was unaccepted at inns, although he looked tired after a journey without food, because he was an ex-convict and had the Yellow Card. Luckily, there was Monseigneur Bienvenu who sheltered him at his humble abode. But look at the injustice at Valjean’s time (18th-19th century): Valjean was imprisoned 5 years for stealing a loaf of bread, and 14 years for successive attempts of escape—a total of 19 years in prison.

2When I rested at Starbucks with my mom, a girl entered, and she was dressed so well. I was about to get my frappuccino at the corner, when…

“BANG!”

Before going out of Starbucks, the girl forcefully put down the breakable pitcher of water where the straws, packets of sugar, and milk were—and “where they were” was behind me. Talk about a near-death experience. I mean she could have thrown it at me.

I realized that earlier that night, I saw her at Music-One, and she was listening through headphones, music, which I could hear (I was about 2 m from her), and she was dancing wildly and quickly that she could have toppled the stack of CDs. I initially thought that she was attention-deficit, but her act at Starbucks vindicated my idea that she was crazy. She was well-dressed, and she looked like a shopaholic. But really, she was crazy.

Now these two stories are metaphors of which we can induce that people do judge a book by its cover. Face it; it just is human instinct.