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.

I’m so tired, and I really don’t know why. It isn’t really a very physical kind of tiredness. It feels more like my emotions have been all tied up in knots and I can’t seem to find the strength to untie them just yet. What happened? I look at my hands and they seem to be the hands of a stranger. I no longer do the things that kept these hands busy.

Yesterday I walked past our old neighborhood. I used to live in a tiny, dingy little two bedroom place with seven other people. I'd go from waking to work to drinking until I would almost pass out and head back to the shithole I called home to sleep only to wake again to stare at the walls we'd plastered with posters of girls in lewd poses, frozen forever in some frightened state. They all stared out at me, their steely rabbit eyes pierced the fabric of that threadbare sheet. Some mornings I would draw the curtain back just a few inches, and if my timing was right, the girl next door (the one whose cascade of shiny black hair would send a grown man panting) would be in the upstairs bathroom getting ready for school. I never knew if she left the damn window open on purpose, if her fingers wandering the expanse of her caramel colored skin knew just what they were doing to me as she went about her morning rituals. Those mornings, I could hardly find a silent way of breathing. I would find myself hurrying into the grimy green-tiled bathroom so I could rub up against the flat of my palm only to end up wracked in the blessed release that was always coupled with dry heaving cries, my cheeks damp with the faintest trace of tears. And of course I'd still have the rest of the day to face. I would get myself ready as well and head out to face the day. Most of the time, slightly hungover and dehydrated, my fingers fumbling in the space of so many pockets for a cigarette, a match to light it with. The ghosts of so many lonely mornings like a line of paper dolls, following me out into the blinding light of day.


You've all done it. Huwag nga kayo magmalinis diyan. Even if you haven't, you've certainly thought about it. About watching someone from the secret places in your heads, about being with someone who isn't your husband | wife | girlfriend | boyfriend | lover | partner, whatever the fuck you have. Or even if you have no one to screw. You've done it too, if only in your head. Your hands grope about in the dark dirty spaces of your minds looking desperately for something to cling to, to claim, so you'll be able to say that you too are alive.

You don't even know it, but this starts now. It starts the way it ended -- without much fanfare or fuss -- in the quiet of a room that's seen better days, and certainly much better times. It starts because the walls have been slowly breaking down whether we knew it or not. Whether I knew it or not. Now I know. I know that the poems I've written have all been tiny fictions of a bigger fiction I've been feeding. The story of my life. It's time to strip away all the pretenses, the plasticine facades, the sanctimonious bullshit that's invaded the way I wake, work, eat, move, fuck, rant, rave, scream. Of course that's not true either. I do little else but work these days. Who the hell has time to scream anyway? This starts because I'm tired of creating fiction in my head. It's time to write down the truth. And the truth is, this has nothing and everything to do with you. The truth is, I have no idea what I'm doing any more. I can't tell any of you. You know it, and still you watch me squirm in the uncomfortable silences I once promised myself I'd never return to. Do I sound angry, bitter, ungrateful, and resentful? Yes, man! Hell, yes! The only thing I wonder is this: why the hell has it taken me this long to admit it? Putang ina! Bahala na! No more pretending. I'm through with it.