Parked precariously beside a ridge somewhere along Sumulong Highway, the Red Mazda 3 bears witness to a promise. Seated in the front seat, I was just steps away from a steep drop below. Despite the seemingly precarious state I found myself in, the risk was well worth it.
In front of me was a panoramic view of Manila - sleeping yet sparkling under the sheets of a cold night. Rows upon rows of houses were twinkling below, while beyond, were glittering concrete skyscrapers silhouetted in the dark. Looking at the patterns of light - of roads and highways lit by lamp posts; of homes illuminated by tiny light bulbs perched on garages and front doors, one would see a web of interconnection. The lights reveal that everything under the same night sky fears being mislead by the darkness.
My heart was racing when I first set my gaze into the horizon . The person who accompanied me there may not have noticed it, but for a few seconds I had some difficulty catching my breath. "I've waited nine years for this," I sighed while fixing my gaze towards the direction of Ortigas. Suddenly, I felt the slow but continuous trickling of memories filling my head. At first, all I could remember were random images - blurry and difficult to recall. However, as I look farther into the city while listening to the humming of the wind and the chorus of insects gathered near the trees, everything became clearer to me.
The quiet recollection was interrupted by passing dump trucks moving at a crawling but roaring pace. They are heading to the quarries behind the hills. Occasionally, Patok jeepneys bound for Simbahan scurried behind us. They carried a handful of passengers, drunk and weary from the toils of work. Back in high school, the Patoks were stuff of legends. They were a perfect conversation piece whose notoriety in zigzagging along narrow stretches of Aurora Boulevard bore a stamp of experience. For us juveniles, to hitch a ride outside the jeep and endure the dizzying trip from Santa Mesa to Cogeo without clutching on the estribo was a rite of passage before gaining manhood.
I entered college still basking at the borders of my teenage existence.
A few sojourners on motorcycles made a brief stop-over near where the Mazda was parked. For fifteen minutes or so, they stood there enjoying the grand view of the city below. However, their loud and careless chatter interrupted my moment of nostalgia. I cannot remember what they spoke but as they begin to mount their bikes and continue their joyride, a flashback occurred to me.
Their voices echoed the slurry sounds I heard the first time I went to that place.
It was past midnight on a Saturday night. After a very lengthy party meeting at the university, we found ourselves in a convoy of vehicles heading toward the direction of Antipolo. I was in the company of students - scheming, political, and yet despite their manipulative inclinations within the party, they were leaders willing to serve for the good of the studentry. In those days, we were torn by inner strife between two rival philosophies. One was more transparent and democratic, and the other was close to being Orwellian. Searching for ways to unite the party, we found ourselves gazing towards the city lights while the same serene darkness surrounded us. Daybreak came but we never found the glow that would make us whole again. Yet, despite our bitter division, we were the office holders of the college student council for the next two years.
For some reasons, the same ridge became a testament to my dreams. I attempted to conquer my fears of driving just to be in that place with the one I will invite to keep me company. The thought of embracing the chilly silence, with only the same distant shimmering lights to bear witness to our moment of connection was the ultimate Emo moment I could imagine.
Nine years and I am still searching for that sense of connectivity.
And I still need to earn my driver's license.
But last night, it felt like the connection was almost there.
The brief respite took only an hour before reality sets in. Mom was insisting that I return home. My companion has work the following morning, and I, must detach myself from gazing too much at the distant skyscrapers because the longer I set my eyes on them, the more I am being reminded of how far the lights are,
and that some lights can never be mine.
"Tara, lets go home."
The key was turned on and the engine starts to rev. As the Mazda makes a U-turn to head back to the valley, I refused to turn my head and look back at the ridge we just left.
"There will always be a next time to dream and remember," I told myself. "What matters is that I never forget."
In front of me was a panoramic view of Manila - sleeping yet sparkling under the sheets of a cold night. Rows upon rows of houses were twinkling below, while beyond, were glittering concrete skyscrapers silhouetted in the dark. Looking at the patterns of light - of roads and highways lit by lamp posts; of homes illuminated by tiny light bulbs perched on garages and front doors, one would see a web of interconnection. The lights reveal that everything under the same night sky fears being mislead by the darkness.
My heart was racing when I first set my gaze into the horizon . The person who accompanied me there may not have noticed it, but for a few seconds I had some difficulty catching my breath. "I've waited nine years for this," I sighed while fixing my gaze towards the direction of Ortigas. Suddenly, I felt the slow but continuous trickling of memories filling my head. At first, all I could remember were random images - blurry and difficult to recall. However, as I look farther into the city while listening to the humming of the wind and the chorus of insects gathered near the trees, everything became clearer to me.The quiet recollection was interrupted by passing dump trucks moving at a crawling but roaring pace. They are heading to the quarries behind the hills. Occasionally, Patok jeepneys bound for Simbahan scurried behind us. They carried a handful of passengers, drunk and weary from the toils of work. Back in high school, the Patoks were stuff of legends. They were a perfect conversation piece whose notoriety in zigzagging along narrow stretches of Aurora Boulevard bore a stamp of experience. For us juveniles, to hitch a ride outside the jeep and endure the dizzying trip from Santa Mesa to Cogeo without clutching on the estribo was a rite of passage before gaining manhood.
I entered college still basking at the borders of my teenage existence.
A few sojourners on motorcycles made a brief stop-over near where the Mazda was parked. For fifteen minutes or so, they stood there enjoying the grand view of the city below. However, their loud and careless chatter interrupted my moment of nostalgia. I cannot remember what they spoke but as they begin to mount their bikes and continue their joyride, a flashback occurred to me.
Their voices echoed the slurry sounds I heard the first time I went to that place.
It was past midnight on a Saturday night. After a very lengthy party meeting at the university, we found ourselves in a convoy of vehicles heading toward the direction of Antipolo. I was in the company of students - scheming, political, and yet despite their manipulative inclinations within the party, they were leaders willing to serve for the good of the studentry. In those days, we were torn by inner strife between two rival philosophies. One was more transparent and democratic, and the other was close to being Orwellian. Searching for ways to unite the party, we found ourselves gazing towards the city lights while the same serene darkness surrounded us. Daybreak came but we never found the glow that would make us whole again. Yet, despite our bitter division, we were the office holders of the college student council for the next two years.
For some reasons, the same ridge became a testament to my dreams. I attempted to conquer my fears of driving just to be in that place with the one I will invite to keep me company. The thought of embracing the chilly silence, with only the same distant shimmering lights to bear witness to our moment of connection was the ultimate Emo moment I could imagine.
Nine years and I am still searching for that sense of connectivity.
And I still need to earn my driver's license.
But last night, it felt like the connection was almost there.
The brief respite took only an hour before reality sets in. Mom was insisting that I return home. My companion has work the following morning, and I, must detach myself from gazing too much at the distant skyscrapers because the longer I set my eyes on them, the more I am being reminded of how far the lights are,
and that some lights can never be mine.
"Tara, lets go home."
The key was turned on and the engine starts to rev. As the Mazda makes a U-turn to head back to the valley, I refused to turn my head and look back at the ridge we just left.
"There will always be a next time to dream and remember," I told myself. "What matters is that I never forget."
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