The Rush

It was already around 9pm and the corridors were deserted. I went out of the laboratory to find you outside, waiting for me. You asked me to accompany you to the comfort room, so we went.

I went inside first. It was dark. But you felt for the switch on the wall and turned the lights on. There was nobody inside. If it was left to me, I'd keep the lights off.

You went inside the cubicle and I followed you. You laughed. When you were done, you turned and kissed me, and I kissed you back. Hotly.

We were so into it I felt like we were devouring each other.

I pushed you to the wall and pressed on you and held you tight, your body heat surging into mine. Anybody can come in and if I get discovered I might lose my job. But we did it still. It was exciting.

After, I looked at you and smiled and I laughed a bit, shaking my head inwardly. We went out of the comfort room, back to my laboratory.

My lab partner was inside, but she noticed nothing. Though I was secretly smiling and feeling my slightly sore lips with my tongue.

And I chuckled while I was transferring the 500 microliter cadmium and lead solution into the beaker. Nobody knew.

It was exciting.

Ruins

I used to be proud of our house. I remember my family moving in even though it wasn't completely finished. So we had to endure sleeping with the smell of paint, and being pestered with insects attracted to the light since the screens weren't on the windows yet. Wood, cement, and noise galore.

When it was done, our house was really beautiful. It was quite small though, but it was enough for the four of us. My dad used to be an interior designer and has some know-how on things like building houses, and I can say that he did his best with the small lot that we have.

I liked the spotlights hanging from the structura best. Imagine having those illuminations in your house when I was used to ordinary apartments and my grandma's ancient house. It was amazing. The fluorescent lights weren't exposed - they were in niches on the ceiling covered with silvery thingies and corrugated platic thingies. No chandeliers, those wouldn't fit. There were switches everywhere. I especially liked the halogen lamp over the aquarium, and the two half-disc lamps attached to the living room wall.

And the furniture! They were designed by dad himself. The modern formica dining table overhanging from a wall. The rounded cabinet. The kitchen with its stylish gray and maroon tiles and the brick thingy dividing kitchen and dining area with its arc-shaped hole where you can strike a pose.

And the bathroom which was always kept spotless by my mom. How my brother and I used to take a bath together and play with the shower and the shower curtains, and occasionally with the flush toilet.

The carpeted bedrooms and our new double-deck bed. My own cabinet and bookshelf. My own table where my cassette player, my keyboard, and my toys were. The arched doors with circular windows. The modern multi-flecked paint on the walls. The special corner for my Dad's Buddhist altar, smelling of ash and incense.

The house always looked its best on Christmas. The Christmas lights outside alternating with green wreathe-like thingies with red cherry-like balls. The lavishly decorated Christmas tree! How Mom would adorn the brick wall thingy with artificial plants and flowers and blinking lights and decors which vary every year. When alone, I used to turn off all the lights except for the fading ones on the Christmas tree and have an emo moment while listening to music.

I had my elementary and high school classmates visit my house often, and they were always charmed by it. I was proud of our house.

We were financially stable then. Dad always had these big jobs from well-known companies, and we lived happy and contented in our beautiful home. But then after a few years, his projects became fewer and less frequent, until a time came when he didn't get any jobs at all. And at the same time, my brother went mentally ill. The house changed then.

The glass on the cabinet was smashed by my brother on one of his frenzies. Some of our appliances had to be sold because we had no more money. The aircon had to go. Mom's sewing machine. One of our TV's.

The fish in the aquarium died since we couldn't afford to feed them with their special pellets and flakes anymore. I cried for some of my favorite pet fishes. We placed them on buckets and left them to their deaths (though the hammerheads and the janitor fishes endured longer).

Our cable TV was cut off. The landline had to go as well since we couldn't pay the bills anymore. My Dad and I were having big fights every night. My brother physically tormented me with his crazy behavior. My Mom wasn't at my side.

The furniture was moved to suit the movements of a poorer life. Before they were used to beautify, now they had to function as efficiently as possible. Lines for drying clothes were installed on the living room. Laundry everywhere. Parts of the wall dividing our rooms were taken down to suit my brother's demented condition until our whole second floor became one big disorganized room.

I lost my room. The double-deck was cut down into two beds since my schizo briother can't sleep on the upper deck anymore. The carpet became dusty. My radio broke down. The expensive lights were taken away since they consumed too much electricity. Soft yellow lights replaced by cheap unattractive white ones.

Then the water tank in our whole area got busted so we had to fetch water for our daily needs from the artesian well blocks away. The bathroom became dirty because of the well water, and my Mom lost the heart to clean it so often since the floor was always wet.

Now when I go home on weekends, I can't help but feel sad about the sorry state of our house. Cockroaches and mice have infested our once pest-free abode. Every time I come home, a light has been replaced, or an unnecessary door has been removed. A side chair disappears, or a furniture has been moved. We don't do Christmas decors anymore. The Christmas tree is years left dusty in its box.

When my room was still partially whole, I placed a Hogwarts poster I made on an ornamental window so that those outside can see it. I placed it there so that passersby will know that a bonafide Hogwarts student stays in that room.

But I've lost my room. The second floor already looks like a ward with four beds arranged side by side. And I don't sleep there as often.

And I can't even look up at my Hogwarts poster now since a mini sari-sari store is now placed on our front garden, and its roof blocks the view.

The last time I went home, the store was closed and empty of goods. Bankrupt. And I'm not earning enough to support my whole family - them and their medicine.

I used to go home to recharge. To soak in a sense of stability in a place where I grew up. But now when I go home, I just feel more depressed. I can't wait to go back to my new bed, new table, new everything in my new dorm.

I call my cat, Baby, and pet him, as I get lost in the memories of what my family used to have, of how much we've fallen, of the big responsibility now on my shoulders.

And now, as I'm typing this, I cry a bit, because I remember those days when I am still in good terms with Dad, my brother was still sane, and the house was still new. How everything was beautiful, in and out of the house.

Our house is in ruins, in more ways than one.

And for now, all I can do is cry and remember.

Gravel

Gravel looks different when seen with the yellow light of a lamp post.

In the day, it has a bluish-gray tinge. At night, it looks gray. Most people don't notice the bluish-gray tinge gravel has. In most drawings, gravel appears gray. When you ask people what color gravel has, they will answer that its gray. Some don't even think about gravel at all.

Gravel is beautiful. I love how the shadows emphasize the geometric shapes of gravel. You can't miss its texture. Sometimes, I imagine touching the jaggedness of gravel with my fingertips.

I love how a path layered with gravel gives an illusion of uniformity although it's not.

I think it won't be easy to paint gravel. You have to consider it's three-dimensional shape. You must have a knowledge of just how much blue or gray or black paint you need to use. You need to consider where the shadows will fall. It's easier to take a picture of a gravelled path and paint it than start from scratch with your imagination.

Gravel is one of the things which doesn't have a distinct shape. Of course, in general, rocks don't have definite shapes either, but gravel gives a more illustrative example.

I wonder about how gravel is formed and about its properties. I wonder about its chemical composition. I imagine it has loads of oxygen and minerals. I wonder about the name of the rock where it comes from. I wonder how a machine is able to break gravel rock and transform it into relatively uniform pieces.

Gravel is better than sand, in some ways. Each piece of gravel is distinct. Sand grains are too small to standout on their own. Gravel gives a feel of independence and uniqueness. Gravel is beautiful but it will hurt your bare feet. Sand is soft, but it will give you a grainy uncomfortable feeling when it sticks on your skin or gets inside your clothes. You won't have those problems with gravel.

In my dormitory, there is a single lamp post left on when it's late. I like to go outside the dorm when there's nobody around and look at it and watch insects fly around it. At times, when I'm smoking, I like to look at how the light makes my cigarette smoke more opaque.

Often, when i'm smoking just outside the dorm, I'm listening to music as well. As I ponder about my thoughts and emotions, I lean on the stone railing, and I look down on the path made of gravel.

It was there that I discovered that

Gravel looks different when seen with the yellow light of a lamp post.

Good Morning

I woke up to feel you beside me. It's been ages since we last slept together. Those days when you can sleep anytime beside me were long gone - now we can only snatch time together in rented rooms like this.

The air was pleasantly cool, and I felt cozy inside with you. Outside, the wind might be howling, the rain pouring in torrents. I really can't tell because the room didn't have any windows. But whatever was happening outside, I didn't care much. As long as we're together, we'd be alright. In this room, we are protected from the elements in the same way as our love protects us from sadness and other dreary thoughts.

I woke you up. Well, as much as I'd love to let you sleep more, our time was nearly up. It was 4 in the morning already, and the checking out time will come within 90 minutes. I turned on the dim red lights. And we made love one more time.

Shower time, and then you watched the morning news. I lit a cigarette and smoked while listening to music from my fone, even singing now and then. I told you how it would have been in our own house, me turning the radio full blast and smoking while you watching news and drinking coffee. You smiled.

I looked at the mirror and remembered the past ten hours. How we ordered food and ate together, taking pictures in between mouthfuls. How we watched that "art film", and how you didn't like them much. And how we laughed and how we hugged and cuddled and kissed... and loved. For ten hours we were alone, and we were able to do things we couldn't do outside.

Time to leave, and we took one last look at the room which served as our heaven for a little while.

Outside, the skies were stormy, and we were wearing our jackets, ready for the rain but there was none. You suggested that we walk the remaining distance, and I agreed because the idea was also in my mind.

It was a gray dawn and you kept saying how you liked the time - when most are still in bed. We crossed the bridge and I looked down on the brown and swollen Pasig River. I remembered my childhood fear of crossing bridges - that fear of falling and drowning, being swept away... And I was very conscious of the people crossing the bridge with us for they might take it into their heads to throw me into the river.

It was a long walk and we were approaching Robinson's Pioneer and I kept singing "Think I'd like to stay a minute longer" and later, "Tuesday morning in the dark.." though I knew it wasn't Tuesday but I wished it was for it would have been perfect.

And then we had to climb the overpass to go the other side of EDSA. We ate breakfast at Jollibee, and we laughed at the cute guy behind the counter who kept making mistakes and how we argued whether he was gay or not.

And then, it was time to go and part ways, although if it was left to me, you know I would have loved to stay with you since I had nothing to do anyway. Classes were suspended.

On the street, in full view of the bustling EDSA, I asked you if you wanted a kiss right there. You raised your eyebrows and dared me by sayig yes, but you knew I wouldn't do it anyway, so we just laughed and turned and said goodbye.

The sky was still gray, as if dementors were roaming somewhere above, but as I climbed back up the MRT station, I kept thinking of what a beautiful day it was beginning to be. For us.

It was a good morning.

The Knight's Tale I: The End of A Dream

The Count was walking to and fro. To and fro. He had already created a few feet of severely flattened grass where he was pacing. His eyebrows were knotted. His fists were balled hard. Something seemed wrong. And nature was, once again, mocking him with its cheerfulness.

He looked up and saw that the sky was still bright even though dusk was approaching, and the red sunlight filtering through the forest canopy was pleasing to the eye. But there was nothing right in the world anymore. Nothing right. The hunter... His hunter... is dead.

He killed him. He had no choice. He was to revive him but things went wrong. Horribly wrong. And so the hunter died, in his arms. The one he loved, he killed. Those who love him, killed. Those associating themselves with him always get killed.

A cursed life not worth living. So he killed himself. Jumped off the cliff where he buried the hunter. But, somehow, with a cruel twist of fate, he lived through the fall. Whether he transformed into a crow at the last minute, or whether something else saved him, he didn't know. Only that he opened his eyes not to welcome the eternal darkness of death but to see the mild glow of fireflies playing on his face.

Why wasn't he allowed to die? Why did he have to suffer more? Why can't he just take the coward's exit and simply run away from it all? Why?

It has been three months since the fall.

Now everyone he saw around the corner of his eye was the hunter. Every turned back. Every sound of running footsteps was the hunter coming back to meet him. Be with him. Every sigh came out from the lips of his hunter.

He kept seeing the hunter in other men's eyes. Kept seeing them in other's hands, other's faces. He kept seeing him everywhere because deep in his heart, he was hoping that the hunter was still alive. Deep in his heart, he was hoping that the magic which was supposed to bring him back did work, even if it came too late. But if that was so, it would have been a more horrible fate for him and the hunter both - the person he loved the most, buried alive by his own hands.

It has been three months now. And he had already convinced himself before that, perhaps, this chance of a new life meant something. That perhaps, he wasn't supposed to die just yet. That there were more things which would happen to him. And if that was so, what was the use of carrying on with something which will only make him weaker? What was the use of remembrance? What was the use of hopes and dreams when they would only bring him down?

He knew and understood all this, and he did just what was right for him - to let go.

Just three months.

And suddenly, the answer hit him - what was wrong with the day. What was wrong with the sky, the forest, everything. He closed his eyes.

That the time for the truth has come. That the hunter is gone. That there's really no coming back.

That all his dreams of him being with the hunter - the hope that has sustained him for years was all for nothing now. That all the emotions he has spent for the hunter - they had nothing to go to now. The one he threw his heart at, its unwilling recipient, is dead.

So he had no choice but to make the hunter leave his heart for good. Pushed out of his mind. Eradicated completely. Every small thing. Every memory burned. For the good.

Three months gone, and now he was feeling something else. The hunter's leaving had left him with a vague sense of emptiness. Will that place in his heart ever be replaced?

Tears fell heedlessly.

"Is it really over?" he asked.

***

The man hiding behind a tree shifted his weight, making a branch snap with a faint crack. His eyes darted to the Count, alert in case of discovery. But the Count was absorbed with something else. He was standing still, staring at the sky. He was looking at nothing, yet tears were falling silently down his face.

The man behind the tree wondered about what he was thinking. He wondered about such displays of emotion. But there were more important things at hand... Matters of the heart were not of interest to him anyway. Not very much.

He raised his right hand, producing fireflies out of thin air, creating a soft glow in the slowly creeping twilight. With a gesture of his hand, the fireflies flew as one towards the Count, and still the Count didn't notice. They illuminated the Count's face, making him look softer and more vulnerable.

A shadow of a smile appeared on the wizard's own face, but it was soon gone, replaced by an intent look of purpose.

The Count opened his eyes.

Where the World Can See

It's weird being a "writer"... Like we're all hollering out to our readers. Like we're all clamoring for your attention... It's like

"Read me..."

"Try me..."

"Listen to me..."

"Feel me..."

"Hey..."

"Stay..."

I think that when you write, you can't help but expose something about yourself. I'm an avid blogger (I haven't met anyone more addicted than me), and I'm also an avid blog reader, and I know about these things (I don't need to be a CW major to learn about these). When my friends write about their stories - the topics they choose, their tone, how they look at things - those reflect their personality, and by reading their entries, I am, in a way, immersed into their own characters (unless they are professional writers but I'm talking about blogs here). Being placed into their own shoes for a while. I get to know them in another level - perhaps in ways they are not even aware of. I get to discover their secret feelings and intentions.

Just the fact that they have a blog for instance, or when they start a blog but can't maintain it - these things already say something about themselves. For example, this blogger always talks about this guy, even abusing him through words. But what does it really say about her? It means she's in love with him. This blogger always talks about serious stuff. What does it say about him? He wants to be praised and to be considered an intellectual. This blogger always raves about his sex life. What does it say about him? (I might be wrong though.)

It's risky being a writer, because when you are exposed, you become vulnerable. This leads me to the question - why do we need to put up walls? Why can't we just show who we are? Why are we afraid when people get to know too much about ourselves?

Because when they find out about our secrets, they can use them to hurt us?

Why can't we trust our readers?

I used to be a man with many secrets. As I grew up, I learned that there was nothing wrong with sharing. Nothing wrong with asking help from your friends. But looking at who I am now, have I overdone it? With the contents of this blog, you can even call me an open book and I won't disagree. I've placed my heart where the world can see.

But there's a reason, reader, why I am doing this. There's a reason why I chose to talk about this. But I won't tell. I will never tell anyone. Not a soul.

There are secrets I will take with me to my grave. Not because I want to, but because I just can't.