Walking in Filth

The Knowing

2009-12-21T00:21:00.000-08:00

"Are you not afraid?" she asked trying not to look at him, he stood with arms folded, resting the back against one of the emergency room's walls. This girl sat on a wheel chair, half conscious, as if her crying was work, a mark of blood looked like drying at the back of her head, crumpled within the strands of messy hair, a victim of robbery, the wound gashing because accordingly, the thief hit her with a rock. '

It must have hurt, but she'll live though' he thought. Even those women in the streets with two or more children looked like they're living through it. He looked back at her, made sure he'd look her in the eyes and see what emotions were there or perhaps, what she was thinking. Was I afraid for the bloodied girl in the wheelchair, or for the most beautiful girl in a wooden chair next to the female doctor who smiled at her? "I am afraid, but we sure should be happy."

The truth was she was there, the woman of his wide and awake life, sitting near him like she used to, but not like she needed to worry about being far from him for a pretty long time.

After a couple of minutes, she called him out and mouthed some words that he thought he understood correctly, "medicine? I'll buy them now? ok," he replied readily. When he realized that it wasn't what she meant, he approached them and asked hesitantly what it was about. "You can buy it outside of the hospital,it's cheaper" the lady doctor with eyeglasses smiled at him too. He wondered what she's so happy about, the doctor.

He woke up in a dream where he wouldn't need anyone to allow him in, not without giving him an idea of what he should or should not do. But this is not about him or any of the invented stories. This gave him much desire and fear and hope and direction, there will be no turning to other matters without taking this, in consideration.

The victimized girl in the wheelchair never uttered a word, she seemed too exhausted to even go through the prelimenary questioning. It was scary indeed, as the red blood seemed to dry up, while I saw the marked line build up so slowly, the sense of my feet on the ground felt no less than a little gash of thin security. I thought I've always known it would happen, but never knew how to react.

"Are you not afraid?" He asked himself while she asked him, then she let out a little cry, and I hugged her. "I have never felt better, we'll live it through." Like everyone else.

Internet

2007-08-12T02:53:00.000-07:00

It seems that there’s so much little time today for anything than it was a century ago. Time has always been of essential value ever since, for family, work and relationships, but not as valuable, or invaluable, as it is for today’s generation.

Everywhere I look, I see prints and insignia of what people fondly call the “dawn of the computer age.” Multi-tasking for instance may sound too strenuous a word for your grandpa, but today’s young generation looks almost like they’re born with a strand of wav. mpeg or html file embedded in their DNA. It seems unusual for instance, when I sometimes feel that the youth of today’s generation has somehow lost a firm grasp of the primordial reality of the world.

They are simply gifted with such gifts, to simply put, an innate ability to perhaps listen to an ear popping mp3 file, to nibble with a cell phone, to cross a 5 lane highway (in a Philippine infested traffic fashion), while talking to his pal, in the middle of the day, and of the road, all at the same time

There’s too much of something that’s taking so much of our time today. Entertainment has been a primary necessity that it is just too unbelievable in fact, though so true, that there are people I know who would dive into a cold turkey, once her cellular phone has been taken away from her even for just a day.

The reality in the world of the internet, no matter what the form, the chat world, the RPG games, the online games, or otherwise, has taken much of our waking lives that at times they even steal much of our lives at sleep. These realities overlap, no matter what the format is, against the true primordial reality that is, without the tv’s and computers.

If there can just be a way to determine the extent to which relationships, romantic and otherwise, has affected, created, and felt more realistically in the world wide web than in real life, then I would surmise that such relationships has been growing exponentially.

These realities just take too much of what our human senses can handle, that such realities has taken a toll against what our reality should be. The internet life of many of those I know transcend, almost invariably, their lives when at home, and with the family. A friend for instance, seems to take more interest and revel at conversations held against the monitor screen than the one she has, always without pay, with a real life friend. The gadgets we have that are supposed to entertain us, puts up an invisible curtain that separates us somehow to what is right there in front of us.

Human senses can only sense too much, and multi tasking is indeed a strenuous task, but because the dawn of entertainment is supposed to entertain, and entertainment in the human sense has always been believed to be stress free, we indulge in them without fear.

Walls are on fire

2007-03-24T03:01:00.002-07:00

you stand in the middle of the earth.
As I sit on this chair.
walls surround your fences.
and the walls are on fire
and the earth holds the walls.
and the earth is lost inside you.
and your wings are tirelessly swift.
yet you walk on them all in fluid grace.
and floats above them all the more.
as chains feed you, and the water sucks you in.
as I fail from this needle hole.

So I stand to move toward you,
and the walls grow fists, and collapse thicker.
and the earth deeper. farther.
They strangles the mind that reckons,
This small step I take,
or the endless number of covers.
Not even the slightest trace of those walls.
nor those steel floor shackles.
That grabs below your feet and pins you down.

I fail to see, even the myriad of seas in between.
and the mouth that drinks on it.
and the man who owns the mouth.
and the God that killed him.
and I do not know him.
yet I long to touch you.

Sonnet

2007-03-24T03:01:00.001-07:00

I’ve been following you since this morning,
As I woke into this huge bed of dirt,
And walked in God’s filthy mandate weeping,
At times hovered over the weak of earth.
I stepped firmly the sand that prowled that’s you,
and laughed with no thought of you being near,
I danced freely round the pale black of hues,
For there’s no taste to drink of faith-filled fears.
I rolled over and over those non sense,
As you looked on drooling with a starved knife,
with empty threats and your non existence,
made you look as cheap as this very life.
I ask you please show me that you exist,
Now that I stand before your dreaded place,
For that non sense where my morning ceased,
Ends the night I would sleep in your embrace.

Sestina

2007-03-24T02:59:00.000-07:00

*%#!

She came to drink from my glass sink.
Just to break it, and spill around the curve.
So fuck her! and mend the bleeding sore,
Leave her to suck that maggot whore,
take my gift, the whole empty half,
of what’s left of my groundless earth.

But her presence lures back this sick of earth,
as though she cheers to a knife that sinks,
underneath my skin, when it breaks in half.
As her own confused weak curves,
pull me close, to hug her slash throat whore.
And sip through again that bloodied sore.

Fuck it, what else could mend a lethal sore?
Come drag yourself back to this strip of earth,
where I’ve slipped and thought of no other whore.
As loved as you! while I gently sink,
down the edges of your sweet curves.
How sick of me to ask for your share of half?

So I pull away, only for *%#! to grow in half;
into two, into countless wounds that sore.
with the soft of your lips, the idle of your curves.
Curse the root of my insatiable earth.
While at first I see you, my days endlessly sink,
Now in your kiss I rot like a house of whores.

Forgive such wrath, I would not know of whores.
for you are my only, so be my other half?
To lick your corners, that God-quenching sink.
let me thrust deep again in our pool of sores.
Despite the unheard screams of my earth,
Despite to throw some fruitless shits to the curve.

You should stay flightless, don’t turn the curve.
don’t listen to my tongue lash of whores,
For you are the gift, if not, then you are my earth.
Leave me now, and holy be these self-cut halves.
you’ll probably run away from this sore,
and stare gladly from that steel cage as I sink.

Fuck those vows that choke the earth!
It smothers desire, it bends, it curves.
For there’s much more chance inside our glass sink,
To make us oblivious of the truest whore.
Those dagger vows that cut us all in halves!
and stabs whole even a *%#! that *%#!s in sore.

Tanka

2007-03-24T02:58:00.001-07:00

Now the chains that lay
Whisper behind bullet doors,
With burning handles,
And begs still under its hooks,
For a billion more like it.

Haiku

2007-03-24T02:57:00.000-07:00

The boulders peak through
Outside the slender window…
Into the death slit.

playing guitar

2006-09-28T02:46:00.000-07:00

All I wanted was a guitar, though frankly I do not know how to use or play one properly, save for some two or three different chords which I have learned lately and had been forgetting many times, I still wanted one badly. I can't seem to get myself absorbed with the playing really, and I did try to play a song once but it went so wrong I'd rather not say. The one that hanged alone behind the glass window, that particular guitar I had been eyeing on for so long now, despite the fact that I can’t recall the name of the store, but it must have been some music store I assume.

I've been walking along our town's main road that particular day, and I must say I can't remember any other day and it made no difference. At any given time of the year, everywhere I look I could always see people playing their own guitar, but I didn't mind them for I knew always that soon, the moment I see the flickering neon lights with letters on it, I just knew that I'd be able to see my beloved guitar hanging behind the glass wall of that store, which name I couldn't quite put.

So I did, and I dint even had time or good purpose to look elsewhere but to look at the guitar, and it was beautiful, and it wasn't mine. Too beautiful in fact that if a fellow town person would make an attempt to approach me and show his guitar with the intention of making me look, not like I don't have one, but make me feel that I don't have one, then those vivid sole instances that I can gather with me and my guitar, no matter how thick such glass of walls might make us seem detached, would prove to provide much lesser pain in me than what most of the town people would assume I'd feel.

She

2006-09-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

She took the steps without much looking or trying, without much inhibition, she felt at ease with the descent as much as she would receive from a brief afternoon walk. And I saw the back of her head and gawked and stared at her face, and kept on with her last remaining steps, as if doing it would make a lot of sense, make sense out of nothing, or make something sensible, or something really, when in fact I’m aware that I looked on simply because it would be the last, and a delay of a few moments or neglected glances I felt made a crucial disparity. In the height of such moment of subtle inconstancy and carelessness and stupidity, especially against me and totally against me, I could not imagine what kind of thoughts, or if there's any, she might be bringing down with her or leaving behind her haste now, as she winds down hurrying past the long cold iron stairs that swirls and confuses me the more; vindicating my already stalled and decent mingling confusion, as to see her hair and her head to toss and turn and sway while she puts up her smile that almost laughed as she took flight, now that everything has been said, or at least I had something to say, and that, or this, should probably hurt, and there's no telling how foolish an attempt to describe all of these for nowhere and no thing would ever suffice, if such instances should materialize. But it did of course, it’s just that I am still quite unsure and denial makes a lot of good and reasonable sense.

relief

2006-08-03T01:25:00.000-07:00

He had been running for the longest time amongst the trees and the filthy mud of soil and rocks, his hands had become so bruised and cut he thought he could no longer find any use for them, and his bare feet had become swollen by the cuts and incisions made by the many thorns and the hundreds of blood sucking maggots that somehow, despite a conscious effort from him to avoid making contact with them, had found their way through him quite effortlessly. He had been runnning after that night spectacle for days since the unfortunate time when it came to him and showed itself to him, though without an intention to do so, and had since made itself known to him completely, luring him towards itself perhaps without the knowledge of him at all nor of the deep fondness from him which seemed to associate them both to each other-

And so he had been running after it to no avail, and he's quite aware of this himself, for everytime he believed himself to be in an arms length close to it, it eludes him quite too easily with a swift shuffle of feet,or with a sharp ducking maneuver, or by simply bending or if matters comes to worse, with a piercing shout would yelp at him then roll out into the woods- and in a brief interval of time, before he even becomes attuned to its attempt to advance itself away from him, leaves him behind a good mile away, waving at him from that distance and at times yelling complements at him if it deems the task to be appropriate to do at the moment.

And so now the night spectacle stood at the summit of the hill looking sharply down at him complementing the dark night with its own luminuous presence, as he himself, after coming to an abrupt surprising halt, stood helplessly at the edge of the lake and then began to raise his right arm and quite carelessly, pointed with his one of his fingers, at the direction of the spectacle.

The wide and inanimate lake prevented him to go on with his intentions to run after the spectacle that now settled itself- staring intently at him as in a gratifying manner- and as though the spectacle itself was breathing hard from too much of its own running; and as if in provocation as well- up at the summit of the hill from where the same soil somehow connects the hill to the land from where he now stood.

He then turned his gaze to the thick bushes that trailed to the left of the lake and found exactly the same symmetrical observation to the right of it- there is absolutely no possibility whatsoever that any sort of path could lead him or bring him towards the hill, not even to the foot of it.

So he made a condecsending shake of a head but not while his right arm extended its stretch a last time, a few inches closer to it- pointing and cursing at it in an excessively blunt and exagerrated manner.

Then after a long while and probably just out of plain exhaustion, he had found himself succumbing to a bow on his own, and at any rate, he eventually found it sensible to declare it too unnecessary to even contemplate on what to do next nor even try to come up with a plan, or anything at all that would suggest the pursuance of such incredulous intentions. For the mere separation of the hill and the lake, and the gripping force of gravity that held him to the ground, and the death that lay on the lake itself, became evident to him- too evident in fact that it seemed only inevitable and fitting for the spectacle to had deserted the summit and had disappeared into itself as soon as the sun peered through and shone its light across the hill, and above it all.... 'what a relief' he finally thought to himself and then turning his back, flew home.

Teacher & Student

2006-07-20T23:13:00.000-07:00

The wisest of all students was about to meet with the wisest of all teachers that unforgettable day. Many of the towns people had already gathered closely around the designated classroom where the meeting would be held, already some were on their toes even before the meeting had begun, eagerly looking on to catch even a glimpse of the renowned student who was speaking with his other colleagues as if in a pre-game huddle. There stood some of the more disconcerted old people, most with their arms crossed over their chest, a considerably far distance from everyone and from all the happenings, under the shade of the trees and some leaned on from the neigboring building terraces, brushing their long white beards in a dubious and almost mistrusting manner, exerting the best they could perhaps, to impress the most disinterested look they could muster.

So as the lean vibrant student stood in front of the tall wooden door, acting as though to fix his tie and his hair, though it was quite unnecessary, the sound of the towns people's murmurs and whispers echoed in chorus, attesting to a unified shrill of anticipation and nervousness. THen after throwing a last look at the people behind him as though to derive sympathy and strenght to go on, the student turned the knob, grabbing it forcefully, but turning it slowly as if passionately.

THe last they saw of him he turned away and had closed the door behind him.

Description of Aye Can't stop Thinking of Usyet

2006-07-19T20:36:00.000-07:00

He woke up one morning with a certain suddenness like a song had just been turned on with a flick that would never leave his head... He walked his walk towards the empty kitchen in a slow pathetic manner. This he had done intentionally, and the showdown of needles that clattered his stomach affirmed to this intention. Then he sat on the most readily accessible white monoblock chair he could spot, while the attempt of distorting his mouth kept him from grinning.

He sat there for sometime, staring unknowingly at the pentagonal wooden clock right above and in front of him, and noticed its fine red hands strolling along, but quickly lost track of them many times.

Even the penetrating morning silence he had failed to take note. The song now seemed to revolve round the same easy lines, and at times, on the same phrases too, but it sounded just right. He slouched in the chair, his back bent in a dismal arch, the left hand fell lifeless on the table edge from the wrist, and both his feet crossed each other, stretching as far as comfort could inbue them.

30 minutes before first class, and he had been slouching there for considerably a very long time, especially that it was a thursday morning. He would be late, but this imminent delay he had welcomed too with such spirited mood like a rightful excuse to an irrepressible furor of excitement

Then the light of the flourecsent bulb had then caught his attention. So he tried to follow the light, as a detective tracing its path, and later found himself staring at the flourecsent bulb itself. While the same song played industriously and his face never failed on its distorting acts, until it seemed that if someone had observed him intently, one would conclude that he was making faces at him and in a very insulting manner too.

THen Mother had asked him a question, and he had heard it sufficiently enough but had thought that the manner by which his mother had asked the question was quite indifferent and apathetic, like behind a glass wall. So his mother dropped it and decided to leave him.

THe needles in his stomach continued on pressing and as time went by felt more like nails, and he welcomed it in high spirits, spinning them himself as in a dance. He brought the spoon to his mouth for the sake of putting something in it, then took note of the half fried egg and the steaming fried rice that lay, then left the breakfast table, and left it all, almost in a leap.

The last time he saw her was a couple of hours ago

The real happy birthday

2006-07-17T18:21:00.002-07:00

You were born and I hope you remember, because there would be no reason to go on if you do not...

Remember on your very first birthday?, though im quite sure that you do not recall it but i hope you really do, your curly hair glistened your wide forehead and those pathetic shades, which were forced unto you, had fallen to the floor many times either because of your almost flat nose which by then, and probably up to now, could not seem to support any form of eyeglasses, or it may have been just because it irritated you so you did the best you can to throw them out of your face. And yes, take a look at that, grab the picture and see the many bundles of gifts and boxes on the sofa, which could probably had accomodated a dozen of other kids, then yet of course they were all yours but you do not recall them, do you? and during those moments it didn't really matter to you, did it?

it's was your birthday stupid

But seriously, i tell you, stop celebrating your birthdays this way, in the same manner by which you have celebrated your first couple of years when you had learned to crawl, to stand on your own feet, to walk, to run, to speak, go to school and eventually, when you realized that you had been learning so many things from all those years and someday, and you had dreamt and wished for this so many times, you would become a grown up man.

I'm pretty sure you would agree with me if i say that birthdays, as much as you would like to disagree, should not in any way, be celebrated. All the other days of the year you should be spent on those celebrating but most certainly not on your birthday. That would be absurd. For those days, when you had stood in front of your birthday cake and had blown the candles and had rushed towards your gifts and had played games with the other kids, are all gone. Now you are back to your one year old self, the one who didn't care, who woke up on his birthday and had gone through the day oblivious to everything else, and found out that it didn't truly matter for it was just another ordinary day.

But of course your birthday is special, who am i kidding? I wouldn't want to mislead you, especially not you. But I tell you honestly, on a very special day like your birthday, the only singular day of the year when you, as the one who had gone back to your one year old self, should be spent entirely on frustrations. Yes frustrations or shall i say, shortcomings if that sounds less frustrating. Not that i intend to frustrate you or something. It just makes a whole lot of sense spending your birthday remembering your past and present shortcomings doesn't it? Yes it certainly makes a lot more sense, i tell you. For your shortcomings, as much as you would want to disagree, mattered more than whatever you had intended to celebrate on your birthday and more importantly, your frustrations could very well be a far better bases in your attempt into trying to define and spend your very special day.

You should be thankful for your shortcomings and so shall we begin? take for instance, you should be grateful for the time when you were young and you had wished to become a scientist but realized later that scientists only exists in movies?

Or perhaps you remember those moments when you finally realized that your ambitions to become, say a solo guitarist, or a vocalist, or a comedian, were better to be left alone as ambitions? for the farthest you've gone as to being a famous artist was to sing in front of a handful of people and then be patted at the back and to be praised by your friends saying how natural an artist you are, and you definitely wished they weren't your friends the next time?

Or perhaps that time when you were so young and one day you woke up and had dreamt of becoming a renowned black belt martial artist but only had gotten as far only with your brown belt?

Or maybe that other time when you woke up and suddenly felt how noble it would have been to be an outstanding and brave eagle scout and went on about it but had fallen short one rank and ended up as a Venturer scout instead?

Or that moment when you woke up and you were so sure of yourself, too sure in fact that you had sketched your plans up to your deathbed, and had dreamt to becoming a seal team squad leader and eventually a respected 4 star general (who wouldn't kiss a shadow of a presidential ass), but had gone only as far as a group commander of a small high school or perhaps only as far as passing an academy's entrance examination?

And those moments that you realized that you were a frustrated baseball and basketball and chess superstar all at the same time and had gone to play in school but only as far as that?

Or maybe those times, like these days, when you had written poems and stories perhpas, things of literary sorts, and at those moments when writing had loved your own work but after a while and after rereading them had become disgusted with them?

This includes of course those moments when you had failed to achieve the littlest and simplest of things like trying to tie your shoe laces or say, to graduate from college? And how about those relationships you had failed to sustain or even failed to begin, or failed to end substantially even, for reasons you still are trying to understand but quite couldn't?

I could go on and on and make you remember all of them but of course that would be surely impossible and the truth is it's really up to you now, wouldn't you agree? It makes a whole lot of sense doesn't it? I hope it does and i hope when you reach 23 years of age you'd take my advice and celebrate your birthday in this manner, more meaningful and defining manner- relive your frustrations for they're a big part of you and be grateful too.

So you are 23 and your ears hurt bad. happy birthday, anyways.

Morning & you shit

2006-07-16T19:37:00.000-07:00

I'm aware of the fact that when the day would come when i will be left with no choice but to forget all of these poor attempts in trying to imagine your face in my dreams and when I'm awake, and had found them severely lacking of taste to picture only of the curves and colors of your face and the indescribable details, and found it too insufficient that for the last couple of days my mind had been construing desperately, any thing that would most likely suffice and fill the need for me to think of you, or more appropriately, for me to miss you as i always had been since I've known you.

Take for instance, when in bed or in the sofa this morning, when my right hand covered my face and a couple hid my half shut eyes, while on my sides or on my back, as though suggesting that i'm taking a sunday siesta, but the truth of the matter was that for some reasons i'm high circling in some sky, all skies looks the same, while the cool sun rays beating heavily all around wherever I look, and the air perhaps had been too strong it almost made anyone fall to the ground willingly, and the images of wings flapping like soaring eagles coming in from the left and all sides, the sense of too severe freedom that would have been enough to define your face, and consequentially you yourself when i'm with you, but then it did not suffice.

So I turned my body another time and one of my leg now searched for the most comfortable side of the sofa, my fingers still covered my eyes, at times my forehead, still suggesting that I had been taking a quiet nap, when in fact i've just woke up. But the truth of the matter again was that I had been rolling unto the vast green field of absolutely fine bermuda, rolling as far and as relentlessly as one ex-convict would, while the scent of some sumptuous noon meal came rushing from some place, and seemed to be listening to the sounds forks and spoons make everytime mother had been busy, and attuned completely, that at any given time, as long as my favorite music on the radio keeps on rocking, I could go over that some place so long as I've washed my hands, and dig in like there's no tomorrow. And at any rate too, would my retrievers come along as well, but only after we've had enough of rolling around and jumping around and playing around in that vast field of the finest green bermuda while the warmth of the cool sun rays beat all around us and the wind combs through all of us. But still, of course, these too would never suffice.

And so it occured to me much later that i've run out of any more reason to stay down so i had switched my place some place else, some place that didn't matter, only to pursue further what poor attempts i've got left to describe all of these and you of course. But even before i've given up and had contemplated on standing up, it became clear to me that i've been in the most refreshing suite of some sort for too long already, still half way through the cases of beer including the one that i had been grabbing onto, though quite loosely, while in front of a huge plasma tv watching simultanously, all the seasons of all the programs and movies i've learned to follow religiously, while my hands, and so as all of the others who had been with me all along, had been sufficiently sored by the excessive punching and fiddling with the gamesticks and our eyes too had been too sore yet seemd to protrude joyfully and the more, but of course not after we've gone thouroughly with the days game events and had sored our feet and dried our throats from whatever game we have had to engage, and had gone through all of it without a tint of what have we got to do tomorrow nor what tomorrow would have to do with us. And all of these, now it did not come as a surprise, would never suffice.

And so while I am, or we are, immersed in all of these, rolling and the flaps of wings, and getting graciously drunk , it never occured to me that in my dreams this morning, I've already dreamt a million times of such scenes which were, if i'm not mistaken, definitely more convincing than these rolling around the ground and flying and drinking- indeed, for the only problem with those dreams was that they always seem to, and always had been, utterly impenetrable- but not too undetectable during the first few moments after one becomes awake, instead too impenetrable that when the time one had already known fully that he or she is indeed awake, as I this morning, one inevitably would find it not only logical to make oneself believe that it is only normal to wish you were still asleep, but i myself found it perfectly sufficient to resort to imagining your face and from that point onwards, start to think of you, or miss you- but then indeed just try and look at me and tell me how possible that would have been, when here in my sofa now I have been lying down, twisting and turning and twisting, while my hands had become too numb in those petty attempts in trying to keep on playing dead like a dog, that is it even possible that for the sake of simplicity, your face would even be enough for me to imagine you or even think of you sufficiently?

The Ball Player

2006-07-16T19:36:00.000-07:00

The game began and Dood was standing in his bright red baseball uniform across the playing field, clutching his brand new mitt the team had just issued them with his left hand, while pounding the bottom of his right fist against it lightly, perhaps to keep himself afloat and calm, for the excitement and anticipation was too high he even almost thought it was unbearable. He stood there in great anticipation, hands on his knees, on the farthest right corner of the field (for he played right fielder), too far actually, that if he did not focus his stare hard enough or squint his eyes in the proper angle, it seemed quite impossible for him to see the tiny white dot across the field which had caught his attention the moment he arrived in his position, but of course from where he stood, there was nothing else to see except that spec of dot, for everything in all direction was a wide yellow plane of field made out of an imperceptible composition. For even if he had tried to kick the ground with his spikes to examine the unusually yellow ground, he found that it was unfamiliar, too unfamiliar infact that he chose not to mind it at all. And even when he had tried to tilt his head up (he tried once), he could only see the same wide yellow plane of fields composed of that imperceptible substance of sort, in the sky, and thought to himself that surely if he had laid down in the ground and looked up the sky, it would be exactly an identical perspective when he was standing up.

He was grateful for that spec of dot during the course of the game. For if it wasn't for the tiny spec of white dot, how difficult it would have been with him alone and far from where the pitching and batting and the stands were held, and how dull and unentertaining the game would be then for him, now that not a single ball had come pass his direction. And so days had passed before he even started to truly wonder what that little dot could probably be, or mean, and thought to himself perhaps it was the only person or thing that is visible from where he stood. It could probably be the second baseman, Aloysius, whom he had not seen for quite sometime now. The last time he saw him, he recalled, they slapped some high fives and engaged themselves in some quick banter of sort about how the other team had mistakenly chosen them for an opponent- what a bunch of losers- he thought as he put up a wry grin. The memory with aloysius was quite blurred, considering the length of time it took him just to jog from where Aloysius was (second base) to where he's standing right now (right field). It must have been a week! he thought, now with his right fist enclosed inside his glove, his shoulders propped up and his body stiffening in anticipation, as though in a few seconds from now, a ball would pass blazing in front of his field, while his eyes continued on a surge of frantic searching, searching the horizon for an incoming fly- any incoming- but there was none.

So days had passed and nothing had changed, and then he had started to feel a little disappointed that he still had to be part of any play. Then gradually it happened, that from a totally energetic and devout right fielder, who since birth, had known nothing else but the joy and the dream and goal of being able to play for their hometown team, had now been left out by the entire game- alone in his own little field- and so it was only inevitable that he now started to entertain the idea of taking a short quick nap. For the actions, or more appropriately, the entire game, he had noticed, had been far from him since he had taken his position, too far actually, that not a single drive or pop up fly ball had shown itself across his limited jurisdiction- the yellow plane horizon in which he had been staring enamorously and soulfully for the last couple of weeks- waiting, anticipating, and sometimes, even praying for the action to come. So now his eyes was starting to hurt from lack of sleep, and his head too! So he thought a quick rest would do him good. Besides, he thought to himself, the coach wouldn't mind it at all and would understand him, it is actually more beneficial for the team, because they probably would be needing him most effectively during the last few innnings, when the game is most important, and surely he had not had any form of rest for the last couple of weeks and it is only proper. Moreover, for days he had been standing in that same position, eyes on the horizon, hands on his knees, alert and in absolute focus towards the on going game, for he could not afford to let a single ball pass him, it could end his entire career- and he could even count the few number of times he accidentaly or, out of necessity, had closed his eyes or veered his look elsewhere but his field of jurisdiction.

The decision was not easy for him, never in his entire life would he even dream of letting down his team. But he needed a quick nap badly. So reluctantly, perhaps because his body was ailing too and that he couldn't possibly go any further without any form of sleep, he decided to take a short quick nap while standing up, and re assured himself that if the action would come, he would hear the sound of the fast approaching ball and that it would wake him up and he'd be on his feet right away to catch it.

The days turned into months and months into years and still he had not seen a single ball come even close his horizon. This startled him and made him question, and even made him cry for some lonely nights when the little spec of dot, whom he had always assumed to be the second baseman, had denied him even the faintest trace of light for him to devour upon. His mitt had started to decay, and his uniform, out of the dirt and the imperceptible yellow substances had already deformed it, almost like a rug. He himself had grown a lenghty beard and his hair had become corrupt from all the long hours under the wide plain of yellow horizon, basking under it with nothing for his mind or body to engage upon except for that tiny white spec of dot, whom he had always assumed to be his team mate.

But years had passed and he had grown to be an old old man. He had began to sleep more frequently,for his playing fervor and anticipation too had declined drastically due to an extreme lack of action, and had started to feel quite hopeless and utterly incapacitated as a player. But his love of the game kept him afloat and calm, and his love of the game never faltered, not even once from all those years. If the game would only show him that he is part of it then he would feel much, much better, he always thought. It was just that the game, he had occasionaly judge, had deprived him of any of its goings-on, even the faintest light of a play, and had neglected him for all his worth as a right fielder. But these absurd ideas did not bother him and did not even make him angry or furious, his hopes was still as high as it has been from the beginning when he stood his post, hands on his knees, eyes on the horizon, though on some lonely nights he had thought otherwise- but this, he never came to realize (or denied to acknowledge) out of respect for the team and his team mates.

His love of the game was so deep and so powerful that even at this point, when he had lost much of his physical capabilities, at this point when he could not even stand up on his own, and his hands had began to lose its sensation, and when he thought his legs wouldn't even budge and his back started to ache due to old age, and when the intervals between his breaths had started to shorten fast, and that only his perfect vision had provided him with a bit of competence, competence which he had during those great years of his career. While an occasional sporadic blinking and wincing and writhing in pain deprived him of any form of sound sleep, while lying down the yellow ground on his side, the worn out mitt stucked under his head for comfort, the bright red uniform now had become an oak gray, staring firmly in desperation now and then at the tiny white dot, which he had assumed to be the only sign that the game was still going on. And so he held his breath for the last time as his eyes wandered amorously towards his yellow horizon, still waiting, as the pitcher walked slowly to the mound to throw his first pitch of the game.

.

untitled

2006-07-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

A stream of impenetrable dreams still lingered in Thomas’ head as he woke from his sleep one early morning, a rush of fine headache accompanying it as well, as he suddenly became aware of the gravity of his day ahead. The covers flung behind his bed as he sharply leaped off the bed and crawling onto his knees towards his wooden drawer, examined the pack of cigarette inside, which he had kept, in immense satisfaction and fervor, the night before yesterday. “If there can only be another way to move out of this godforsaken town,” he thought to himself as he turned the knob with one hand while the other held the drawer for support, for it was already old and wobbling, while a trace of sweat had already started in his forehead. A sort of a disapproving grin crept his face, though unknowingly, even before he had laid hands on the cigarettes, which, after skimming through its rectangular edges, had smelled of stiff and sensual aroma, impressing upon him a sense of fulfillment and greatness, almost as if in a passionate dream.

He too had noticed abruptly the red broad mark that circled the pack and the foreign letters that surrounded it, as he forced a couple of cigarettes out by pounding the base behind his hand, and bringing it close to his mouth, close enough for him to nip one between his teeth, and simultaneously lighting it with one twist of his wrist-as in a ritual. “It has been two months since I've had a puff, since those stores had given up on trying to sell any form of cigarettes nor liquors, in reverence to one of those absurd ordinances issued, almost in a weekly basis, by those equally absurd town officials”

And so for the last couple of days he had been sneaking, and he felt he had no choice, inside one of his boss' safe cases, for he had recently just decoded one of Aldo's safe pin codes- finally, after all those years of secretly stealing glances over Aldo's fingers as he punched in the numbers once a week to slip in the bulk of his profits inside, and so Thomas had since been carrying out singlehandedly, small scale thieveries of some sort such as this prized pack of cigarettes that he deliberately stole, and neatly he had done so, the day before yesterday.

But then of course the next time would be entirely different, Thomas reminded himself, for that next time he would be stealing real money instead of cigarettes, he thought about this thouroughly but somehow the thought of stealing his boss' money did not seem to bother him even a bit, it even felt the more trivial and natural as he dwelled on it the more, and this feeling, or more appropriately, this bluntness had bothered him. Besides, had he not succeeded in stealing the cigarettes, the idea of stealing his boss' money wouldn't even have been a possibility. So for a while he had contemplated deeply on this plan while sitting on the bed and looking past the bedroom wall infront of him, then he suddenly felt the need to find a more secure place to go about his smoking-for he would be a fool if he'd be caught now by the officers- so he stepped aside towards the darkest edge of his room while warding off the visible smoke with his other arm -as if getting rid of them meant their absolute absence- and sat there for sometime, knees over his chest, anxiously staring out the window from time to time as one pursued convict would, his head bobbing up and down against the bedroom wall, and only the freshly drawn smoke had gripped him firm and somehow had subdued him with an infallible surge of jubilation & freedom, while he continued on with these deliberations.

“I would have to kill him if i have to, if he stands in my way” he re assured himself, as though saying it to himself would make it the less criminal, while the room's shabby reputation seemed to be re-introducing itself slowly to him, seemingly reminding him of all past and present misfortunes, like a biting affirmation of sort that his plan was only all too appropriate and necessary, if not God sent-an absolute no brainer for a person he is- the choice to go about it as swiftly as possible had sounded of perfection; The room was still quite dark that morning except for some chops of sunlight peeking through the window sills, an opened cabinet nailed against the wall, unwashed clothes hanging all around, a faulty study lamp stood helplessly in his table flickering, as if in a bow to him, begging for him to fix it, a heap of plastics, books and garbage cluttered the cratered floor, and the rich dank and heady smell that no other previous occupant have had adapted for all those 5 years of solitary living, made him feel the more futile- the room would have been a bit more pleasant of course if it hadn't been for his own insistence to keep all those windows shut for God knows how long already.

“I've been saving money in the most sacrificing efforts ever since those people up there in the town hall have gone all crazy but to no avail. If I don't do anything about it, the least that could happen to me is that I'll rot down to my own end and die, if I'd stay long enough in this godforsaken town” He almost thought he was talking out loud to himself, “Far away, far away, there's no other way, I do not know of anyone who has that huge amount of money to buy me out of this mess” His head had stopped bobbing up and down and had found refuge against the bedroom wall while he brought up the scorching embers of the cigarette towards his lips and found the heat somewhat condoling.

"Living here is more like living inside a prison cell, and that's to say the least..", He had already taken out a pen and had began scribbling on a piece of paper even before he knew it, it occurred to him that he intend to write her mother, whom he had not seen or spoke to for the last couple of years, and to slip to her information that could surely be welcomed with a strike of awe and disbelief. "With only the west border gates connecting this town to the outside towns and to the rest of the country, and all throughout the outskirts had since been barricaded with exorbitantly tall walls of some sort, adding up only to the multitude of border officials who patrols along the edges of the town premises, in full battle gear and loaded arms I assume, drooling over in anticipation for anyone who had finally found the nerve to make such desperate attempts to escape, and shoots them in the head, and, if there are too many runners and they're in a more playful mood, will shoot them somewhere else less lethal, say in the foot, then let them writhe and beg in pain, and talk to them too and tell them jokes while at it, but more often than not they'd shoot them straight in the head, for the attempts had been more seldom the last couple of months, unlike those first few months when the people up there had begun to go nuts, and besides, it was a form of competition between them officials so they really thought they were true sportsmen. They did so quite casually for the last couple of months, like in a duck hunt, I saw one incident even with my own two eyes, that one man, I do not know his exact name but I've seen him around strolling nearby the marketplace, was limping in the street the other day and a few of his fingers were bleeding and if I had not been too inspecting, I wouldn't have known they were actually missing as well" He felt the heat of the embers and swiftly had thrown the cigarette away and replaced it in his mouth with a new one. The truth, unknown to Thomas, was that the rest of the border, aside from the West gates, was a thick defensive line that is totally impenetrable, too impenetrable that not a single runner had succeeded, and especially impenetrable for an ordinary worker like himself who has totally nothing but his meager salary and an outfitted body to define him, the meager salary that had also been steadily dwindling over the years as much as his ailing body had, due to some unknown economic and social reasons (his boss would often explain), which only seemed to justify his sordid helpless state as one of the many worthless subservient towns people who, for one reason, does not have enough nerve to try an attempt against a bullet, or who simply does not have enough bribe money to get them out the west gates.

For quite some time he sat in his room scribbling over the table, writing almost everything that he could muster to his mother, from the petty corruption of the town officials to the more abhorrent extortions and killings and scams, he even told her mother about the recent ploy of the town officials, he had learned this just recently too, to put the identity of the town mayor under extreme confidentiality and to swore onto its secrecy, as to minimize the probability of assassination- which had been one of the more frequent problems the town officials had faced, it's a problem of course for them only because of the difficulty and tediousness with all those constitutional election procedures and crap that in actuality, were of no value at all, for the delegation of a mayor was all for formalities sake and nothing more- a town official is as powerful as another, the only thing special about a mayor was that he receives a lousy gold plated ID card that is marked in bold letters with the inscription- TOWN MAYOR. Well, 7 mayors had died since the town officials up in the town hall had started to go crazy in the head, and since then, it had been quite reassuring on the part of the town officials, for they now could focus their strengths on the more essential, at least for them, schemes and harassment discourses against the town people. He wrote all of these as he tried to recall, but couldn't quite remember, the last time he had written actual words and letters, or anything for that matter, so he went over the writing more slowly and at times reread the sentences so as not to confuse the words. He intended for his mother to understand the entire situation, of the town and of his situation especially, for there weren't too many souls outside their town who had the faintest of an idea of the real situation of Thomas, and more importantly, of Thomas' town. The letter, after he had finished and had folded it into the size of his palm, could well be a concrete evidence that could immediately incriminate him against the town's laws, he had realized later, and had forced him to sneak the folded letter into his back trousers pocket and contemplated on dropping it off the town's post office on his way to the warehouse.

Deciding to finally prepare for the day's work, Thomas cooked breakfast for Aldo, and after some time had drive him and himself to the warehouse, and go about his own petty work as warehouse supervisor, and personal minion for Aldo of course. Inhaling and exhaling and soothing his mouth, he coughed and laughed a little, as he held his breath in playful intervals for as long as he could remember pft pft pft.... to be continued

B.S. reflections

2006-02-25T03:29:00.000-08:00

That day the barrio was a ghost town. From afar about two tricycles in slow motion crawled along the road. Everything was closed even the one-stop, by the road vulcanizing shops. People might die of asphyxiation, or rather, loadphyxiation (severe deficiency of prepaid load) because the nearest open sari-sari store was a stone's throw away, that is if you're an olympic gold medalist. It was like midnight only that the sun was up and was sitting right above your scalp like it's only a couple of feet away. The heat that day could have acclimatized anyone who's planning of being the first ever Filipino to reach the peak of hell and survive to tell the story.

He decided he should go to nashruddin's place so hit the road with his bike. He doesn't want to call it a scooter because 'scooter' is too girly and he doesn't want to call it a motorcycle either because V, the bike, is too girly.

Harley davidsons, Badjas, F1's and those ten seater Habal-Habals are motorcycles. But not V. When was the last time I went to church? The tires screeched with dust as he made his way through the narrow road. His head was frail and spinning and his eyes felt like a rotten tomato from watching, or more appropriately, staring at too much TV. Everyone's going to mass, why not me? but why me? i'm not the only one who's not going. why should I? Out of nowhere, a tricycle was a couple of feet in front of V. Instantly, he slammed on the hand and foot breaks that made V budge so hard it almost outbalanced her. He's better off drinking and driving than dreaming while driving for sure.

Then just as Z Iscariot was about to hit the second to the last turn, a barangay patrol car stood in the middle of the intersection with two men in long sleeves who looked more like hoodlums than tanods, which they probably were, with long fire arms which were proabably dysfuntional garrands. One of them made a hand gesture signalling that he can't pass and that Z had to better move along if he didn't want faucets dripping in his belly, at least that's how their manner of directing traffic spoke of them.

That must have been trouble, Z Iscariot thought, perhaps an accident or maybe an ambush or a street massacre. He imagined corpses, blood all over the road, suspect being arrested, old ladies crying, bullet shells, and that yellow police line do not cross tape. He turned his head for a last look at the people standing on the sides, looking anxious as if they were anticipating something. Then he decided to take the longer short cut. He had no choice.

As he moved about the longer route, the thought of how he bought two cigarettes from the takatak boy in a red light in front of a dirty old lady with a baby on her arms that was begging of him for any spare change bothered him. The poor blind beggar who held on to a boy for guidance looking like they hadn't eaten for months. The mother on tv, who has lost her child and husband.

He didn't stay long at nash's place, he hit the road again after returning some of the VCD's he borrowed the other day. He decided to take the shortest shortcut back home, the crime scene team was probably over with the incident. He was to about hit the curve when he saw that the road was blocked with about a hundred people whose backs were turned on him, walking ever so slowly. That wasn't trouble back there. There weren't any accident or massacre or corpses or blood all over. There's a passing procession, a Prusisyon. He had no idea what to call it and he doesn't even know who their patron saint is.

Why should he join in when their backs are turned on him? so he turned his back too, forgot about them and made a U-turn and figured the longer short cut wasn't that long after all.

Iscariot was in full throttle as he passed by the Cathedral. He saw the huge cross on top of the modern white Church through the side of his eyes. And just as fast as the thought of attending mass this weekend crossed his mind, it was gone. He used to attend Sunday mass regularly and his prayers would usually last for at least 2 to 5 minutes at night. But that was probably a four years ago.

Now he'd shrink in anxiety and he'd rather engage in corporal mortificatoin rather than to lead prayer in class, or in any place or occation. The last time he stuttered and stammered on the words, the Lord's prayer has never been that difficult and he still is quite unsure if he memorizes it at all up until today.

Toma on Sunday. Toma next Sunday. to purchase that scandal tol was selling. ADIDAS. too much for the body is the temple of the soul for i probably don't have much chance of getting through the pearly white gates much more with the temples inside. i ate pork yesterday.i ate pork today and i'm going to eat pork tomorrow. i'll drink and i'll smoke. and i'll drink and i'll smoke.tsk! Folk Catholicism.

The truth is Z is more of a chain smoker rather than a chain sinner and if he'd be asked to choose if whether he'd do good or bad, more often than not, he'd choose the former. He has always loathed the idea of people going to church for the sake of it. People do pray but right just as fast as the last word of the priest was uttered, and just as the people stepped out of the church, their horns and tails would jump out, springing back to life once more. he thought it much better that he rather keep his pitchfork away from the church rather than to stand and sit and stare on the ceiling.

It's hard sometimes when you think you believe in something and find out later that you really don't.

He arrived home in the afternoon exhausted but not as much as V. and that night, his father watched tv. his mother cooked their third meal for the day. his Lola and his brothers were there. All is well and good. He watched tv and saw the colors in it with his 20/20 vision. He's so full after a sumptuous dinner that he had to give in to the itch for more nicotine. He walked out and smoked his lungs out. beautiful. perfect.

In bed going to sleep, he clasped both his hands and he acknowledges the fact that both are functioning, and complete too with all ten fingers. Then he said a couple of sentences right before he dozed off.

That something he thought he believe himself to be is a non-believer. But that night he found out he was mistaken. Out of the 5 short sentences he spoke in his mind, the last sentence was 'AMEN'

untitled

2006-02-15T19:31:00.000-08:00

It was time to go.

A thunderous roar echoed across the crimson horizon, chasing a couple of birds away, as if it resonated from a belly of a dying whale. It was almost night and some of the street lamps that towered behind the cluttered trailer vans were already lit, and the rusty ticket booths were slowly being crowded by passengers. While a series of black smokes started to crawl lazily, on top of the ship like a blotted ink against a pretty canvass, he looked up the tranquil sky, and saw the early moon peeked through a little between the clouds. The sky seemed to shift from one painter’s hand to another, the puffs of clouds illuminated by the weak light of the sun. Once in a while, he would search for a familiar face in the crowd. And everytime his eyes turned and looked and be fooled once more, he felt the more annoyed. He knew very well she can't possibly be anywhere near this place.

"Excuse me, but i think you're next." came a fair voice from behind him as he continued on squinting on the placard that read 'FARE rates as of July 12, 2001.' "huh?," he murmured to himself trying to restrain his disappointment. He had no idea of the immediate change in fare rates so he brought just the exact amount of money for the trip, for it was safer that way and atm machines were available in the island. Because of this, after some quick deliberations in his head, he decided that what will be left of his money can only afford him two meals instead of the supposed three, one pack of cigaretes instead of the usual two, and no snacks, coffee, not even videoke for him until the end of the trip. "Oh fuck," he cursed a little more than a whisper, oblivious of the people who were starting to get restless in line.

"Excuse me, but are you buying a ticket or do i have to buy it for you?" the voice came louder now, almost irritated but sarcastically fine.

"Oh, sorry i was just...," he stuttered "Just get it over with, will you?" said the woman behind him with a half smile obviously trying not to sound irritated.

He noticed she was carrying a backpack almost as large as his, but with three other medium sized baggages on her side. She was fairly slim, her eyes were just above his shoulder level so he assumed she was with someone for she couldn't possbily be able to handle all those baggages.

"What's the problem?" she said with darting eyes and at the same time pointing at the placard in front of him, it read: Departure time- 7 pm, and on top of the booth the clock read, 6:23. He stared blankly at her like he didn't know what to do next,

"Oh ok," he said, coming to his senses, he hurriedly scuffled through the top most compartment of his backpack, his huge and worn out backpack that made him look like an amateur climber, searched for his wallet that contained his money and his school ID (he couldn't possibly afford not to get a student discount now that he had to skip a meal and cut the nicotine) and handed the money and ID to the man in blue polo shirt inside the booth with a pencil stuck out his ear, and after a short while received his money change and finally his ticket. He took his backpack and started to walk off and thought he heard sighs and murmured words that sounded foreign like of a different dialect but he couldn't grasp which one.

He looked up and noticed that they were already starting to crane the metal stair of the vessel down with the help of some people below who pulled the tip of the stairs as to position it in its right angle. He also saw the red flag that was still on the starboard side of the vessel which fluttered relentlessly with the strong wind. She looked pretty much the same, he thought, a little bit groggy and old as usual, the white paint all over seemed to be peeling off rapidly that some rust were being exposed, but her name seemed to be well kept with its six letters protruding all blue and bright, like an old maiden who has been stripped of youthful skin but has possesed richness in soul through time that the name alone confessed everything about her. Just the way he remembered.

"you should be happy now." he thought, as he trod the filthy pavement towards the long queue of passengers. Once in a while, the back of his palm brushed his irritated eyes due to the fumes from the passing fork lifts and trucks, that if he opened his eyes for so long it started to sore and so he tried to close his eyes as frequently as he could, but it was evident that the blinking didn't help, for his eyes began to secrete tears instinctively, to minimize pain or way of protection. And as quick as lightning, it crossed his mind that maybe it wasn't the fumes that wet his eyes. But just as soon as the thought came, it was gone and he walked on.

"Same time of the year, same ship." he thought as he dropped his backpack to the ground and tucked his ticket inside his left shirt pocket. It was this time of the year too, last year, only it was morning, when he and izen had both gone off to the island of Sta. Cruz. This time of the year when the joyful days of summer were just about to begin, when many people visited Sta. Cruz for its magnificent beaches with fine sands that when seen from afar shone like pink chorals under the sun. The beautiful landscapes and caves too, lured the people from neighboring provinces to come, and perhaps even people from the cities up north and some tourists as well. "Casa Maria," he thought, it's the name of her family's resthouse where they usually stay when they visit Sta. Cruz, and last summer they had gone there, just the two of them. He immediately grabbed his backpack from his left and dragged it to the right and back to his left side again, as if to help his mind shove off the unwanted thoughts.

Many times he had cursed this meandering of his as useless and pathetic, especially of memories passed and memories that always leaves a prick that seemed to hurt his brain, but not as much as his heart. "tangna tlga" he finally said to no one in particular while he stood reluctantly in line for his turn to board Ferniz.

Suddenly, somebody poked his shoulders from behind. It was the woman with the baggages.

"Hi, uhmmm... i was wondering...," she hesitated and he can tell by her looks that she was about to say something important and he immediately knew what it was so he was the first to speak.

"what's you're cot number?" he said, his eyes on the boxes beside her.

"Blue- 49." she said smilingly.

"My cot is not that far from yours. maybe i could carry those two boxes for you all the way to your cot. i'm sure you can manage the other one." he said without looking.

"All the way up?" she asked

"Yes." he replied.

"Thank you, thank you so much. you see the porters are such a pain in the ass, don't you agree? they extort money from you as if you would die without them." she said determinedly.

He just shrugged for he didn't know what to say, picked up the two boxes walked a few steps as the line moved closer to the foot of the metal stairs.

The vessel roared its last as the rear most part of its hull moved a few inches away, slowly from the rubber tires that fended the concretes of the wharf. Some of the fortunate porters and vendors were scrambling, rat racing down the steps of the stairs, but still some of the more diligent vendors were still in the middle of their business transactions, seemingly unaware that in a minute or two, the whole of the vessel will be entirely freed off the land.

Blanks

2006-02-14T02:26:00.000-08:00

He was beginning to sense a feeling of distaste, for his eye's focus was so hard, intensified like battle was between his mind and the waters in front of him, as though his eyes was about to pierce against the surface of the water like a bullet against the windshield of a car. Why now?, he thought.

The water was a hue of blue and green from about a hundred feet from him and the shore, and dark blue from far across the horizon as far as his eyes can see. It bothered him now, his knees slightly jerked as if it felt apprehension by itself. It must be the colors and the light, he said to himself. But when he began to move his eyeballs a little bit farther about a few feet from the certain spot where he was staring, he felt a sudden shudder, like a quiver inside his head, slowly crawling across the left side of his skull, as if it was taunting him. And as expected he felt irritated. No not now, he said out loud as he touched his head near his eyebrow with the side of his clenched fist, brushing it harshly.

He never did understand this feeling with the waters, or with anything that has something to do with it. The fact that the color of the sea changes with distance seem to bother him seriously, his mind cannot think of anything else but that, his eyes as if disabled, was stuck staring at the water with a kind of unwanted authority over the sea, yet his eyeballs is unable to move. As if he had never seen water before, the concept of which was too unfamiliar and new to him, that somehow, his mind can't grasp the idea of any part of it, the sense of how really is a liquid state.

And just as he thought his mind was going to snap, it was gone. And as usual, his mind lost track of what has just happened, he was so used to this by now that it was easy for him to lose the thought. But each time, he's unable to divert his attention to something else, because it always ends up in silence. And then there was the silence in his head , no thoughts, not even the uneasiness he felt a moment ago was gone. Taking a deep breath, he put aside his knapsack and grabbed a stone and started to pile it up one by one, just beside his feet, as if he was trying to build a tower of rocks or something absurd. But he had done it without effort, unconsciously picking them up and placing it on top of the other. His hands as though on its own, own will and he is not in command. His mind is somewhere else and somehow he knew, some place inside his head, at the back of his mind perhaps, he's aware something terrible is going to happen.