Tumahimik na naman ako. I told myself that I was writing this damn thing because I needed to let out the thoughts in my head. Sure, I let some of them out. And it did help. For a while. See, I had no idea when I began writing this that the writing would open up other doors: doors to memories that had been lying dormant, doors to emotions that had been stewing away in the darkest recesses of my soul, doors that led to mirrors. Eventually, all I found was me.

I couldn't take it. Had to shut off that part of my brain for a while, that part of my soul that was crying out for release. Blessed, blessed, release. No. It never came. I was the only one turning away. I am still the only one turning away. So I stopped. I let myself get so involved in work, that I lost track of everything else.

Still, I find myself back here, pounding away at the keyboard like there's no tomorrow. And I do realize, there are stories that have yet to see the light of day. And so, I write.

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I find myself thinking a lot lately; when the day is done, and the darkness starts to settle in, I find that the memories take over. They come in torrents. I do not like the way they start rushing in. Most times it's because something as innocuous as a pebble stuck between the ridges of the sole of my shoe happens to catch my attention. Yes, a pebble. Damn pebble.

Last night I walked home. I haven't done that in a long time, and since the night was cool and clear, I thought it would be a nice change from my all too droll routine. Before I set out, I made sure all my papers were organized, put on my jacket, and walked out to check the lock on my bike. With everything secure, I set out.

It was nice to feel the pavement underfoot. I started off just minding the path I had chosen for myself (back at the office, I'd decided that I would take the longer, more scenic route). I had plenty of time to kill. Pretty soon however, I lost myself in the familiar rhythms of my footfalls. My mind began to wander. All that I passed seemed to blur into colors and shapes and sounds. I let my feet lead me where they wanted to go.

I began to daydream a little bit. I thought wistfully about childhood, how as children, Manong and I would climb the hills behind our house. We would race each other to the top and fall to the ground, panting, our bodies wracked with silent peals of laughter. I though about the time I fell down the hill because I'd slipped on a loose rock. I rolled the entire length of that slope until I came to a stop by our father's old workshop. Manong had run all the way back down, screaming bloody murder. I heard the terror in his voice. I remembered how he lifted me ever so gingerly, as if he was afraid I might break in his arms.

I vaguely recall other people rushing to us: mom, her sister, some of the neighbors. I remember looking up at the sky through a tangle of arms. The clouds looked close enough to touch. I wanted to reach up my bloodied arm and tear off a bit of that cloud to put it in my mouth. The moments that followed were all a blur.

Back on the street. After about half an hour of walking, I turned a corner and I realized that I was nowhere near home. Somehow, somewhere, I had gotten turned around, and was now on the other side of the city. I cursed under my breath. I'd been distracted, absent-minded, totally foolish. Darkness was settling in around me. I decided I'd just take a cab home, so I dug around in my backpack for my wallet. I rummaged around my pack for a good 10 minutes. To my absolute dismay, I realized I had left it back at the office, right by the stack of papers I had set aside for the next day. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

No choice but to turn right around and head for home. Now that I think about it, I could have probably just walked over to the house of a friend who lives in that area to borrow cab fare, but it didn't occur to me at the time, and besides, I didn't want to see anyone. So I set out again, this time my strides longer, my pace quickened. I took several shortcuts. I hurried past the houses, the dimly lit alleyways, the street-corner littered with the refuse from some drunken brawl. Beads of sweat started to form on my brow.

As I walked, I kept thinking about my brother. We haven't spoken to each other in over two years. I remembered the last time we spoke to each other. We'd been arguing that day. The argument escalated into something that was beyond our control, and we began hitting each other. I don't even remember who threw the first punch. His friends had to break up the fight. The last thing he ever said to me, as he stormed away was, "I don't to know you any more." He screamed this at me, spat blood, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

Why is it we often end up hurting the ones that we love the most? I never meant for things to end up that way with him. Hell, I don't even remember why it was so important for me to be right, to have my own way. During the course of my musings, I got distracted yet again. Didn't see the pile of gravel out on the curb. Walked right into it, in fact. I took a step back and made my way around it.

It would only be another 10 minutes and I would be home. Before me lay the familiar stretch of road that I passed every day on my way home. I started walking up the slope, I saw the light on my front porch: warm and welcoming. It was then that I noticed a faint scratching on the pavement. I stooped down to look under my shoe. A pebble had lodged there, right between the crenelations of the sole. I pulled it out from the rubber, held it in my palm.

After I fell, that time when we were kids, I hadn't been allowed to play on the hill anymore without an adult present. It saddened me. I missed my rowdy afternoons with Manong, being high up, feeling the sun on my arms and face. I missed the way we would run up and down with absolute abandon. My brother saw this. I don't know what he was thinking, but somehow he found a way to convince dad to let us study with our older cousin after school. That day, he had a large grin on his face. He told me we'd be going somewhere. My cousin gave him a nod and said, "Let me know when you're ready. Tapusin n'yo muna homework n'yo."

I was puzzled, but was anxious to find out what they were being so secretive about. So, I went through my homework as quickly as possible. Then we all took a walk. It was a 15 minute hike. When we reached the top of the hill, I saw the most magnificent boulders I'd ever seen. They had so many shades of gray, and brown. The jagged edges reminded me of the dragons we'd read about in books. The largest one was bigger than a house. Our 17 year old cousin was going to teach us to climb. For months we kept this up. Manong and I would head to our cousin's house to do our homework and to study, then we would climb until it was time to go home.

It's something my Manong and I have always done together since then. We used to take trips together, climb mountains, do a bit of bouldering when we could find challenging rock forms. When a climbing wall opened just 4 blocks from his house, we were as happy as kids in a candy store.

I held that pebble in my hand last night and remembered all of that.

Tomorrow, I'm calling him. I don't know if he'll hang up, or if he'll listen. But I do know I need to try. There are too many things that need to be said. I need to tell him how I miss our climbs. I miss that triumphant and arrogant look he gets on his face as he reaches summit. I miss the talks. I miss my brother, the foundation holding up my rock.

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When I got home, put the pebble on my mantel, along with the things I keep to remind myself of what I should be looking at. Sometimes, I don't look hard enough anyway.

J has calmed down considerably (see previous post). Now that she seems like she's more rational, the calls are actually something I look forward to. They don't call every night any more. Ok lang naman yan sa akin. Umabot na kasi sa point na hindi na ako lumalabas sa gabi para lang siguradong andito ako sa bahay kapag tumawag nga sila. Hindi naman sa naiinis na ako sa kuya ni J, o kay J mismo, dahil biglang nagbago ang mga schedule ko dahil sa mga tawag nila. Hindi rin naman ako nagrereklamo kapag sinisigawan na ako ni J (oo, kung minsan sinisigawan n'ya rin ako dahil siguro sa frustrations n'ya sa mga tao o kaya sa sarili n'ya). I really don't mind. I understand that she's just scared, and that she probably feels really alone right now. So I just let her shout at me. After she's done doing that, she always apologizes anyway.

But, yes, she's calmed down. She seems (sounds) like she's doing much better. One of our recent talks made me think a lot about my own life. It's funny the way that happens sometimes. Sometimes something that seems like such a small thing makes you stop and think about your own life, makes you take stock.

I had been out the night we had that conversation. They weren't supposed to call that night, and I wanted to take that opportunity to just get out of the house for a while. And it had been a while-- since I'd gone out, I mean. So naturally, I got rather drunk. I don't remember how many beers I had. I only know that I got home early. Well...pretty early for me anyway. It was just after 1 when the phone rang.

***

J's Brother: Oh good, you're still up.

Me: Oo. Kakauwi ko lang. I thought you weren't going to call tonight.

J's Brother: Sorry about that. J was insistent. Short lang naman daw. May sasabihin lang yata sa 'yo.

Me: Ok. No prob.

J's Brother: Salamat ha? Not just for taking the call tonight. For everything. I know I've been a bit of a jerk about all this, but I'm really grateful.

Me: Ok lang yan. You know I love J too.

J's Brother: Yeah. (a pause) Ok. Here she is.

J: Hello. (her voice sounds a little hoarse. i seem to detect a smile on the other end of the line. in my mind, all of a sudden, i picture the stairwell at the university i went to. there was a certain time of day that the sunlight would hit the top of the stairs making them look like they were slanting a little. the shadows they would cast would always be soft shades of blue-gray.)

Me: Hey. How are you feeling today? (i always start off with this question when we talk because i really don't know what else to say. i guess i'm just awkward that way. i mean, i never know how to keep conversations going. somehow, they just dwindle on me.)

J: I'm better. Much better. I still feel like the roof is going to cave in on me at any moment, but I've learned to live with it. No, I'm not paranoid. It's more of a physical feeling. Like everything above my neck has become so heavy. Hindi naman masakit. Just heavy. But I'm happier today.

Me: That's good to hear. (i pause to take a deep breath.) Sorry ha? Medyo lasing na ako. Hindi ko sinabi sa Manong mo. I'm fine naman. I can listen to you if you want to just talk. Sorry.

J: (a pause) That's ok. (she chuckles softly) I just wanted to tell you something lang naman. This is what I wanted to say: (another pause, as if she were composing the words in her head.) I'm very grateful for all the nights you take my calls. And I'm sorry that when I get upset at myself, I end up taking it out on you. I don't mean to do it. I know I could choose to act differently. I'm really trying. (she sighs.) I take it out on kuya too, and on everyone around me. I hate that I do that. I really do. Because I know it's not me. Not the me you knew back then, anyway. Not the me that I once knew. So I really want to work on getting better. (at this point, she starts crying again. i imagine her sitting by a window, a flock of birds flying past in the sky outside. i imagine gray clouds and the silhouettes of branches.) What I'm trying to say is, I know how much you've been patient with me. I know how much you care about me. And I know it must make you sad to hear me this way. So if there's anything you need to talk about, if there's ever anything you need to get off your chest, if you ever feel sad or alone, I'll listen to you too. I know that you have your own shit to deal with. I know you hide a lot of the things you feel from those around you. But you don't have to hide it from me. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it together. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere.

Me: (i pause for a beat, and take this in. here's a woman who has endured the kind of pain i will probably never experience in my lifetime. the kind that is senseless because it is senseless. the kind of sadness that is maddening because often you don't know where it stems from. i can't imagine it. i can only guess at how difficult it must be. here she is, offering to be my sounding board whenever i need one. my shoulder to cry on. my confidant. amazing. she's just so much stronger that she knows. i want to tell her this, i want to tell her that she's going to be ok, that she's already on her way to getting better, but i don't. i want to tell her all i've kept pent up inside me, but i don't.) Thank you. I know. I'm here for you too.

J: (her voice brightens up again.) My doctor says that if I make progress, I can probably take a trip later this year. I can go home for a visit. Can you believe it? It's something for me to hold on to. I really do want to see the rest of the family, and you, of course. Manong thinks it's a good idea, but that I shouldn't get my hopes up until it's definite. I don't care about that. It'll happen. I'll make sure I'll be better by then. It gives me something to work toward. You know what I mean?

Me: Yeah. That's great J! Sana nga makauwi ka.

J: Yeah. Ok. That's what I wanted to say. I'll talk to you in a few days then. Good night na. Matulog ka na. Before you sleep pala, uminom ka muna ng tubig. Baka magka-hangover ka.

Me: (i laugh.) Thanks. Yeah, I'll do that. Good night.

J: Good night.

***

She put the phone down after that. I kept the phone receiver to my ear for another minute or so. I just listened to the drone of the dial tone. The only thing repeating in my brain: J could be coming home. Oh God, what do I do? How do I tell her I love her.

I know I've been silent for a long time. I have no excuses. Only stories.


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Right before I stopped posting, I received a call regarding a friend of mine. This friend. We've known each other for years now. Nearly two decades. She's probably only one of three people who really get me. I haven't seen her in years though, as she now makes her home halfway around the world. We stay in touch as often as we can. But you know how it goes, right? Days pass. Then weeks. Then before you know it, it's been almost a year since you speak to someone. We all grow apart from each other in many different ways, and like the sand on the shore, we're constantly being pulled in by the undertow, tossed by the current that is our life.

"Things happen," I told myself. And while that may be true, it's also true that we have a choice in the first place, of whether or not we want to stay in someone's life, whether or not we want to be present and show up and do the work of making our relationships work. With my friend - and let's call her J by the way, so there's less confusion - I did try. In the beginning.

It was tough for me to see her leave. It's been what? My goodness. It's been over 10 years now since the last time I saw her. I still remember that last time. She'd shaved her head in protest because she really didn't want to leave. But what could she have done? Her entire family was leaving and there was no way in hell her father was ever going to let her stay behind. I remember how I rubbed my palm against her scalp, how the stubble beneath my skin felt like sand, how I wished I did have a bit of sand at that moment. I don't really know why. I also remember that it's the saddest I had ever felt at that point. Of course now, I've had more experiences, I've grown. Now I know how pain is like one of those annoying relatives we wish we would never visit, but they show up at our doorsteps time and time again. I've had my share of it, like everyone else. So yeah, I know.

J and I wrote to each other. Real letters, on paper, in envelopes - words that would spill out like water. I always had so much to tell her, and she always had volumes to tell me. In a way, that's how I came to fall in love with writing. I began to long for the waiting: the anticipation of the next letter, and of course I never knew when would it would come. And then after a year, I began to dread it. So I stopped writing. She called a few times, I made the usual excuses. I still promised I'd keep in touch. And so the years went by. We'd talk a couple of times a year, on Christmas and that kind of shit. I went on with my life, and she with hers. We exchanged email addresses. I updated her from time to time. Then all of a sudden, exactly 8 months ago she stopped replying. I wrote her a long email. You know, my attempt at making up for all the years I'd been lax in my correspondence, but she still didn't reply.

Then, a few weeks ago I get a call from her older brother (who never really liked me to begin with, who always saw me as the guy out to corrupt J with his disregard for "the norm"). He told me that for the past year, J has been (in his words) in limbo. I found out that for the past five years J has been seeing a shrink because she'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I was shocked, and that's putting it mildly. She never let on in the notes she wrote me. She never gave any sign that anything was wrong. Her brother told me that J had tried to overdose, that she had been in the hospital. He told me that when she came to, she was incoherent for the most part, that she would just let loose a rambling stream of syllables, but that when she became lucid the only person she asked for was me. I didn't know how to feel about that. I still don't. Actually, her brother didn't seem too happy about that. But there it was, he called me to let me know, to tell me that they'd taken her home already and to ask me if he could call me the next day when he was with her, because he thought it might help.

What else could I have said? I said yes, of course. So every day since I got that call, I've been staying up late, so I can be there when he calls. He passes the phone to her. Some days she talks, some days she just listens, mostly she just sobs and it breaks my heart. I've never had to deal with anyone in that kind of state before. I am used to dealing with anger, and violence, and hate. I am not used to the sadness that seems to have taken over her body. Some days I tell her about my work. Some days I read some of the stories I've been working on to her. Yesterday, I made her laugh, and I felt a little spark of hope. After I talk to J, I talk to her brother. He tells me what it's like, how terribly tiring it is to be around her sometimes. He tells me that she gets so violent sometimes that he has to hold her, pin her arms behind her back until he feels that she's calm. He tells me he's grateful to me for taking the time to talk to her. I don't know how to feel about that either. No, I do know, somewhat. I feel like a fraud. I feel that there's so much more I could have done for her if I had just kept in touch. They'll be calling later. I'll answer. A part of me dreads having to hear her empty voice on the other end of the line, but I won't put the phone down. I'll talk and talk, and I'll try as hard as I can to fill that empty space with words so that maybe she'll find enough strength to see that she has words of her own to hurl at the darkness.

Do you ever notice how the city changes at night? It seems to take on a different personality, like someone donning a costume, or perhaps taking one off. The sun begins to set and the shadows grow dark and blurry. The edges of buildings seem to melt into the background as the first fingers of darkness sweep up without warning, engulfing everything in a sickly copper hue. Lamps are lit. Windows betray the silhouettes of people pacing, sitting, moving to the rhythms of a day that has already left them for another life somewhere on the other side of the world. Sometimes I like to walk, and watch, and wait. One sees all sorts of things at night. The night is a brazen seductress, out to win your heart. She promises many things, many of which fade as dawn rears his pale head to wake the sleeping city. What are the promises that fall from her lips? Sleep. Rest. Abandon. Disguise. Stories. Mindlessness. Uncertainty. Danger. Lust. Love. Fire. Passion. Silence. Noise. Community. Madness. There are many things. The words drop down from the sky like the souls of a thousand birds, whose bodies have already flown off to a warmer place.

We change as well at night. Sometimes we become the kind of people we abhor. In the past year and a half or so, the city at night has given me many things and has also taken many things from me. When the silence in my head gets too deep and oppressive, I head out to see what I will find, what will find me. Oftentimes, it's a drunken haze that catches up with me. One bottle goes down the drainpipe of memory, another one follows down the path to forgetfulness. I forget a lot of things at night. Like her, for instance.

One night a few months ago I went out alone. I needed noise to fill the silence in my head so I made my way to one of my usual haunts. Upon entering, the blaring music invaded every single cell of my body. The words being screamed into the microphone were unintelligible but they seemed to hold me to the spot, as if some ancient monster crawling up from the depths of hell lay before me challenging me to stand and fight. I had thought the noise I would find there would calm me, but I was wrong. It only made me feel smaller, and helpless, and so I drank way too much, ended up hunched over underneath the lamp post out on the street corner mumbling to myself in a string of incoherent syllables.

She heard me, stopped and asked me if I was ok. I didn't know her. I have no idea how she managed to wrest my home address from my trembling lips, but she did. The next thing I knew, she had put me in a cab. I heard her telling the driver where to go. She squeezed my hand, told me to get some sleep. There are no memories of her face. The only things that remain are the sound of her voice, the way her hand felt like cool water on my skin, the scent of rain. I don't remember if I thanked her.

The night takes away much from me. I find myself wondering if I'll ever see her again, if she's seen me since then but has thought better of approaching me. If she did, I know what I'd say. Hello. There's a lot I don't remember about that night. Thank you. Maybe we can meet sometime when the sun is out, when the illusions we create in the darkness can be stripped away to reveal more of what we often choose to hide when we're carried away by the fading of light.

I got up this morning to overcast skies. The first thoughts that went through my head as I drew back the curtains were: Summer isn’t supposed to be like this. Summer is supposed to be warm and thick, and so bright you have to shield your eyes from the glare. Summer is a time when everything seems clearer somehow, when the dreams you keep closest to your heart feel larger than life, when you feel like you can take on the world. Well, that’s what summer means to me anyway. Truth? I haven’t had a summer like that in a long time. Maybe I just got cynical as I grew older. Maybe. It’s not even a big deal anymore. I go through the days like a magnet pulling ever closer to some inevitable conclusion, instead of being the one propelling myself toward the end I envision. What that conclusion will be, only time can tell. I guess what really changed was me.

In the summer of my 13^th year, my Dad took us all to Marinduque for two weeks. My Manong was 17 then. Dad allowed him to take two of his friends from school along and so I was left to myself for the most part. There I was awkward and shy, growing taller (by the second, it seemed). And suddenly Manong didn’t feel like I was “cool” enough to hang out with him any more. I didn’t mind so much, as there was so much to explore. Dad had a childhood friend there, and we all stayed with him and his family. They had a daughter around my age and we took to each other immediately. That summer, we did everything together. Their house was small and a bit cramped for 9 people but most nights were spent in tents anyway (Dad was – still is – a big fan of camping). In the evenings we would all be down by the isolated strip of beach which was only a 15 minute walk from Tito and Tita’s place.

During the day, their daughter helped me to shift the rounded pebbles of to one side to make a path. She showed me the places where she went to hide from her parents. There was a small cove at the far end of that strip. We spent hours there just watching the waves, and the boats off in the distance. They looked like pieces of colored glass dotting the ocean at odd intervals. And we laughed a lot, and talked a lot. We talked about school – our favorite teachers and subjects, classmates we couldn’t stand. Our families – how she wished she had brothers and sisters, how my Manong brought home his girlfriend when our parents weren’t there to catch them having sex. Our plans for the future – she wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be a teacher like my Mom. How very far from that I’ve strayed.

The last evening we were there Dad got drunk. It was a different kind of drunkenness from the way he usually was when we were back home. Out there underneath that endless sky filled to bursting with the most brilliant stars I’d ever seen, he actually looked happy. I saw him lean in close to my Mom and take her in his arms. She was smiling and laughing in a way that made my chest constrict just a little. I wanted to hold them in that pose forever, to freeze time so I could have them like that for always. Tito was tending the fire, and Tita asked me to walk their daughter back to the house. I turned away from looking at my parents, a little regretfully. I guess I had a feeling that it would be a long time before I ever saw them that close again, and in a way, I was right.

As we walked back, she asked me to write to her when I got back home. I promised her I would. In the shadows of their tiny patch of garden, a lone yellow light high above us illuminating the dry, parched earth, I felt time slipping away from me, from all of us. It frightened me so much, that I only realized later on as I was walking back that my hands had been clenched in tight fists by my sides. And so I did the only thing I could think to do. I leaned in really quickly, and kissed her. It was the briefest thing. Just as quickly as I’d leaned in, I pulled my head back. When I felt brave enough to lift my head I saw she was smiling at me. A little sadly perhaps, but maybe it was only my imagination.

The next morning, we packed up all our stuff and left. I still see her now by the side of the road in her faded yellow dress, waving her hand so hard it looked like it might come off, Tito and Tita by her side calling out to us to come visit again soon. It would be years again before that would happen though. I never wrote to her like I’d promised. My parents were arguing considerably more, and I just shut myself off. I returned only once, just a few years ago to attend Tita’s funeral. Tito and his daughter seemed happy to see me. They asked about Dad and my Manong. I told them all I could tell them. How could I tell them that I hardly know my own family anymore? I asked about Tita, if it had been difficult toward the end. She told me that her mother went peacefully, in her sleep. We’ve kept in touch since then. Maybe it will never be the same as when we were two kids, 13 years old, but it’s still good. I don’t have many friends who know me as well as she does.

Where did that summer go? How did life just fly by me? I find myself longing for the days to just slow down because I feel like I’m losing so much. These days I find that I’m so disconnected. Even the thoughts in my head scatter all over the place as I rush about trying to get this thing done, or that thing done. In my heart I’m still in love with that summer, with its people, with the stories we created together. When did that time pass me by?

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I checked my site meter when I logged in a few minutes ago. My traffic has gone up exponentially since yesterday. I don’t know who’s responsible for that, but thank you. Very, very much. I’m amazed that people actually find the things I’ve been writing interesting. I hope that some of these stories resonate with you. Whoever you may be, wherever you are, and whatever your life looks like right now.

Here we are huddled in our little cubicles like lab rats. Sometimes I wonder if it’s only me who feels like the walls are caving in, the spaces getting closer. Sometimes I feel so claustrophobic I imagine what it would be like to run through the office tearing off my shirt and tie screaming obscenities. Am I that odd? Why can’t I be that guy on the other side of the floor? There he sits at his work station, his eyes always alert and on the lookout for some pert young thing to pounce on with his lascivious stares. He seems happy and content with his life. Always flashing a smile, always neat, his clothes pressed to perfection, the crease on his pants legs sharp as a knife edge. All that thanks to his wife. Yeah, the guy’s married. She’s a real catch. Mabait, matalino, maalaga, malalim, maganda. Which is why I can’t figure out why the hell her husband is screwing the boss.

Our VP isn’t really the most attractive woman. She’s tough, and she scares a lot of the guys here because she can be very abrasive, but she’s dedicated to the work. I’ve always thought that she seemed a little lonely. All she does is work. Literally. She’s here before everyone else, and she’s here after everyone else has left. I think that if anyone ever bothered to get to know her they’d find that underneath that tough-as-nails exterior, is a human being just like everyone else, that she’s probably had her fair share of pain too, and that she probably rubs everyone the wrong way because doesn’t know how else to deal with it. But like I said, she just gets on everyone’s nerves. Even mine. Hell! Basta, ang sungit n'ya talaga!

My office mate recently got a promotion. I guess we all know how that happened. Not that anyone ever says anything about it. Everyone just smiles and acts all nonchalant about the whole thing, but when the boss is out of the room, they all whisper behind the cover of their hands. As if it justifies what they do, as if they don’t get hurt themselves when they hear that someone else has been gossiping about them. Their giggles echo all the way over to the coffee maker and water cooler. It makes me sick.

That guy. Now, he’s all bossy and shit. He makes the other people feel like the work they do isn’t worth crap. I used to go outside with him on smoke breaks. We weren’t very close, but he was one of the few I actually looked up to. He’s very driven and ambitious, and that’s something I wanted to emulate.

I remember the night of our Christmas Party. He had this look in his eyes that positively reeked of predator. He was staring at our VP so hard I felt like he’d burn a hole in her dress. So I asked him, “Bro, bakit ganun ang tingin mo kay ma’am?”

He replied, “Wala lang, trip ko siya bakit?”

I was silent for a few seconds. In my head I was ranting. Man, what’s wrong with you? Yan ba ang ipapalit mo sa asawa mo? Fuck! Your wife’s amazing. She doesn’t deserve that shit. Who the hell in his right mind would cheat on a woman who makes Paella the way your wife does? And then I realized, hell, my dad did. He did it to my mom countless times, over and over. And he never knew that she knew, that she’d lie awake at night in their room, the one right next to mine. I don’t think she knew that I heard her, that the stabbing pains I felt in the pit of my stomach as I listened to her sobbing into her pillow never totally went away. I still carry antacids with me wherever I go.

Basta ganun na nga. So I just told him, “It’s up to you man.” And it all started there. He told me to mind my own business. He now acts all high and mighty, as all jerks who think they’re god’s gift to mankind will act. No more yosi breaks together. His wife still makes him a lunch pack 4 days out of the week. I say hello to her whenever I pass her on the street. She always has a smile for me, and tells me to take better care of myself. She always seems to glide off as she walks away, as if the story she’s in is one where happy endings really do happen. I feel bad for her. And I feel bad for our VP too. No matter what she’s like at work, she doesn’t deserve that shit either.

Parang nawala nalang ako. Ang labo ‘no? I just shut my big fucking mouth and work in silence. Yeah, that’s me. Everyday when I see him, I ask myself, “Bakit kaya may mga taong katulad niya? Taong katulad ng Dad ko.” Sometimes the thought crosses my mind too: “Why can’t I be you?” And then I remember, ayaw ko nga pala. But I never do anything, never say anything to make a difference anyway. So does that make me, in fact, more like him than I’m willing to admit? You tell me.

True story. When I was younger my parents used to do a lot of drugs. There was a lot of pot lying around the house when we were growing up as kids. My dad taught me how to roll my first joint. Aside from the pot, they also did a little LSD. Ano pa nga ba'ng magagawa ko? That was my family. The only thing I really knew to be concrete and real. Outside, the world proved to be a string of disappointments. I never really learned as much as I wanted to learn in school. Never really made the kind of connections I wanted to make with people. Everyone out there just tiptoed around each other. They chose their words so carefully you'd think they'd been prepped by a lawyer for a hearing. It was either that or they'd say everything they could think of to shock the pants off of you. It was all so fake.

At home, at least, we could say whatever we wanted. It might have been the effect of the weed. Who knows? It was a precarious kind of balance that we had to try to maintain as Dad would often get into his shouting moods, his hitting moods, his slam-his-kids-into-the-furniture kind of moods, while Mom watched, often too stoned to protest. Then there would also be the slow and easy kind of moments where (after the shouting, the near killing, with my Manong close to tearing his hair out because of frustration) we would all apologize and dust ourselves off to survey the damage. Most of the time it would only be a couple of chairs, a doorknob or two, a few plates or glasses, a vase that had been in the living room for as long as we could remember. I remember that vase. Carnival glass. I used to love holding it up to the light so it would change in hue. Its ugly rounded handles were tinier than my fist. They reminded me of foetuses, the way their tiny forms lie in close knots. After all of the wars we'd waged in that house, that poor house that never did anyone any wrong, we'd tidy up and talk as if nothing had happened. But things happened. You can't possibly emerge from years of that without it affecting something rooted deep inside of you.

I don't do drugs any more. It's just a personal choice. I don't have anything against them. As far as I'm concerned, people can fry their brains any way they want to. I guess I just grew tired of the numbing that I had mistaken for stability. Yeah. Sure. I don't do drugs any more but I drink so much the phrase should be "there's blood in your alcohol" instead of the other way around. Fucking hypocrite. I'm still doing the same old shit. Sabi ko na nga ba. At the end of the day, I'm still back in that same living room, 8 years old, prone on the fucking concrete floor, with my father standing above me about to hurl a vase at my head. I don't blame them. Him. Or her. Even if she stood by, unsure of how to deal with life, with the realization that her child was harboring an anger in him too huge for the living room, the house, the street, this city. Hell, I don't even blame the drugs, or the dysfunctional family dynamic we had, still have. Know what's fucked up? I still fucking blame myself.