A friend once told me “do not try to fend off the good” apparently this has always been my problem according to her. Given that it is non-clinical, and it is encroached upon the merits that it is all based on pure alcohol induced speculation, I guess, I should believe her prognosis.
“Everyone is a character, in a plot of this book told by a satyr or a romantic. You could either live lavishly like the Divers or die tragically valiant like El Sordo defending the Spanish hilltops.”
But I was not anywhere near any of it. I could no longer see fit to entwine myself to the life of a poet. Sure, I still believed in desserts and an occasional ticket pass to the pictures, but I seemed to have lost something between the sweet taste and the closing credits.
From a table napkin dispenser, she withdrew a couple of sheets that she used as substitute for parchment paper. She could have written an entire volume on them had it not been for the limiting light from the blue screen monitor overhead. I can’t remember what exactly she wrote there, knowing her, she could have probably written something about the cooling waves under the moon in those sultry nights or something about a duck. She wrote happily, and lived, and coyed with the boys her age, she did it all. She was a God.
Until one day she ran away with an older boy whom she met in a smoky room. I can still remember that night quite well; they were smoking by a dying florescent lamp under a frameless Joan Jett poster taped on a wall. I never had the chance to talk to her about that in fact, and I reckoned that we must, like we used to in the past. There was an occasion when I saw her in a middle of a crowd somewhere in Cubao, I knew it was her; she had a Mao cap on, carrying a canvas tote.
I guess for now I will just have to see her in our conversations, in her stories, or perhaps this time, among the pages of my fictions, until then.