Debris

Slanted stems of sunlight bathe the room in the aftermaths of a stowaway morning, and my eyes catch movement, elsewhere. Elsewheres are faraway places. A quick brush, an agitation of sorts, the noiseless rustle of absence. One more hand slices into the stillness and I realize it is the mirror, stirring: the mirror is the explanation, and my hand is in it. There doesn't always have to be a reason. I look, and my elbow materializes.

That is my wrist, and that is my hand. The sunlight lingers, waiting. My fingers are flipping through the pages of a slim volume; my fingers are looking for a memory. There is no face, and I move away, grateful. You will only find that which you really look for. The air hangs heavy with what comes next. And I'm sorry, but there are no more gaps I can put you in. 

Hand and book disappear, reappear, and I scoop them out of the mirror.

Somewhere, mute, small and distant, a misplaced hollowness. Here, the poem I was looking for.

Daylight.

I used to tell you my dreams.
- Louise Gluck, "Siren"

These short, sudden silences, in syncopation with each other, like the miscalculation of tears, and, in between, the small pauses. The words, spread across spaces, as mute, as immobile, as the reach of this depleted while. The sky dissolves the moon, and the stars slip away, like nights often do. And because everything melts into everything else, we lose the moon. Soon, that gush of sunlight, bathing the sylph-like vagueness in clarity and certainty, revealing the gaps, the hideousness, in things.

Fluorescence, fizzling, flimsy, faint, fade, futile, forsake, forget.

None of those sapphires, today.

Give me a pretty, unpretentious scarf, instead, with nachos and lots of cheese on the side. Give me The Postal Service, please, no Maria Callas, not today. And maybe a good two hours of lingering on the sidewalk, ice cream in hand, to soothe the heat in my mouth, a pair of aqua blue, no-nonsense flip flops to cool the frazzled nerves down, and sunbeams to even out the coolness, because too cool can eventually turn into a cold, and the frozen center is what I mean to thaw, today, yes, today. Let me read my book in peace, the one where happy endings come true, but not before the heroine decides she will live her life, first. Then you can pull my hair back in a pony, or pigtails, and bring in lots of wind to make the loose tendrils dance, and I will sashay to the song in my head, in my head, the songs in my head that I will listen to, finally, after long stretches of pretending, of pretensions, of teetering along heights and trying my damnedest not to appear like I am teetering, no stiff trousers and turtlenecks, give me my short shorts and tank top, make the shorts gray, the top pink, thank you, no make-up, no excel formulas, no worries. No. Today, I will laugh and sing and dance, and to hell with what they all may think, let them have double dutch ice cream.

Or, strawberry.

An idle mind...

Thoughts can be such devils. When so much time is in one's hands that one runs out of things to do, the mind takes over and disaster often follows. The mind takes one to places better left alone, and yet one goes to visit because the lure of the imagination is hard to resist. Granted, yes, a wonderland could lie out there from which one could harvest a whole slew of new things (but as if I needed another wonderland!). And what if the wonderland turns out to be Captain Hook's lagoon pala? Pa'no na?

I can't wait to go back to work. Baka mapunta pa ako sa bahay ng "The Others". Ayoko nga.

Once again,

a tree.
This time, the rain.
This time, the night.

Ripple

That's how it is when it comes. First, a teardrop of a thought that falls into clean, clear space. Next, an encumbrance of pain struggling out of the quiet. Then, the surge of memories swelling outward, outward.

And one is back, again, to the stillness.

Except that it's seldom ever the same one.

Your lethargy,

sprawled, limp, on the chair.

My eyes trace its drowsy lines and I ask "why the weariness?" and you say, "I don't know. Maybe it's this sudden shift from hopelessness to hope."

I nod. 

Still,

this restlessness, this wandering into near nearness, this wondering if that scent is the scent of rain, of evening, or of something else. If I kept still, still enough, long enough to be still, will this wandering, this wondering, this maddening roaming in pursuit of that stillness, cease?

Teach

the feet to arch, nonchalant, on heels. Each conversation is a potential fight to be won. Paint the eyebrows just so--even a frown should spell not doubt but mere deep thought. Stare when stared at. Don't storm off, just walk away.

Women on glossies and other surfaces: stop looking.

Resist

Simmering after that extended outburst did you think it'd be this soon the blue takes over In the middle of pretending to give options would any of those two have done it for you That secret relief oh that blessing of an exhale over his refusal to choose it brought in the calm oh what heaviness a sigh takes away what appeasement after the knockdown how tempting to give in to the pull of that traitor of a smile tiny and tugging

For S--

We talk of sadness and agree

not to.

"Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths."

-Etty Hillesum-

And so, it goes, that we sometimes find ourselves gasping from running too fast. We race with seconds and outrun minutes, trying to beat deadlines, chasing whatnots and what-ifs.

I had just such a run today. But, for some reason or another, I found myself stopping midway because I realized I had forgotten what it was I had been running after. What was it I was chasing? Whose invisible fingers were putting creases on my forehead (good thing they were temporary--the creases, I mean)? What was it that made me worry so, that gave me such restlessness, such unease?

Halfway through the lunch I was picking like a bird on, Sheila asked me, "why so quiet?"

I told her I was trying to remember what it was I might be forgetting.

And who's to say that our lives aren't all spent running? One of these days, we ought to have our heads examined. Perhaps, there is some winding mechanism there that we can turn maybe counter-clockwise or a button we could press to slow down and therefore ease the agitation?

Differences

Tell me about your childhood.

Tell me about what you woke up to each day, and what woke you up. What time on your clock? Were your sheets soft? Were they thick enough? Could you remember the scent of the sun on your pillow? Or were there more important things than sunshines and pillows? And did it matter? Did it matter if you woke up early or not?

Did you get lots of presents during Christmas? Did you celebrate Christmas? Were Sundays fun days, or were they just gloomy transitions to Mondays? Did you have ice cream on Sundays? Or were there more important things to spend on than ice cream?

Tell me about the people around you. Were they nice to you? And what is "nice" for you? Did they smile a lot? Did they smile at you? Did they tell you you were pretty and did they tell you enough? Did they hug you when you were good? And what is "good" for you? What is "bad"? What did they do when you were bad?

I'll tell you about my childhood. Let's compare notes.

Then maybe we'd understand each other more, and judge each other less.