A Bus Ride

I warned my mom the other day that we won't fit inside the Tamaraw FX. It's New Year's eve and our lifelong tradition says that we should all go to Favorite Aunt's place and spend the Media Noche there. But the stubborn matriarch insisted that we will all fit inside the car. She even accused me of setting up a romantic date with someone on New Year's eve and that's the reason I don't want to join.

Come New Year's eve and after all the bags were accounted, it turned out that there is just enough space for six adults and two kids. I told my mom that nothing could change the fact that we are just too many, and it would be insane to tell the maid and the driver's assistant to squeeze themselves against the wall of luggage at the back of the car.

Defeated, my mom let me go my own way. 

The jeep ride from my place in Santa Mesa to Edsa Crossing was uneventful. There were the rant tweets alongside the New Year greetings to friends on Twitter. Bipolar lang. When I arrived at the infamous crossing, my real journey began. I wasn't done yet with my grumbling when I saw the great mass of humanity converging along Edsa.

How will I get to my destination on time?

It didn't help that most of the south-bound buses will take the Skyway. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes, nothing going to Bicutan showed up. I was deeply alarmed that my seething temper will linger way past New Year. I don't want to spoil the jovial atmosphere, be seen with a foul mood, or go emo while everyone's having fun. I was told to eat ice cream to relax, others tweeted that I should chill.

Then came the bus. 

It was dilapidated; a machine that's almost falling apart. It reminded me of that hell-spawn Pascual Liner and Saint Rose buses that ply along the congested highway. It was packed to the brim - of workers - rushing to get home. I climbed the stairs only to learn that the available space was at the door. One sharp swerve and I imagined myself getting thrown out of the bus and into the pavement, with crushed bones and flattened skin after being ran over by other vehicles.

But I have to reach Bicutan.

"Konting urong lang po sa gitna." The bus conductor repeated so often, he could have recorded and played it on a cassette tape to save his voice.

"Yung hindi po magkasya ang katawan sa next bus na lang po." I felt like a sardine, sending tweets inside the can.

Lucky for us, the bus was slow moving. But every time it stopped, more people pushed themselves to get in. Soon, there was no more space that the bus conductor had to order the doors closed. We were approaching the Magallanes flyover. We must brace ourselves for the bus' 160 kph soar across the expressway.

on second thought, being surrounded by laborers on a packed bus make u understand what others are going through. it makes you more emphatic.
— Mugen (@soul_jacker) December 31, 2012

kawawa naman yung mga nag iintay ng bus sa ayala mrt terminal at magallanes. doors closed, bicutan na bukas nito.
— Mugen (@soul_jacker) December 31, 2012

There was a change in the wind's direction. No longer furious at what I had to go through, looking at the weary passengers made me feel that my gripes were nothing compared to what these people had to endure - everyday - just to get home. All those squeezing and shoving; a sun soiled worker's body odor wafting under your nose, the snail-paced march of vehicles along Edsa, the mad rush to be at the dining table for tonight's feast. I made a good call to let my co-worker - who lives in Laguna - to work from home. I finally understood what she meant when she would have to fight limb to limb just to get on a bus.

The cool breeze and the gentle swerving of the bus as it cruises SLEx had blown away the bad vibes I was carrying in Edsa. Siguro sa awa sa mga pasahero, and my rubbing elbows with them changed my perspective. Sabi ko nga sa isang kaibigan sa Twitter, the people here have no idea that I was telling their everyday experience. It humbled me to a point that I have completely forgotten why I was mad in the first place.

The bus stopped a few feet away from the Bicutan overpass. As the passengers from Manila get out, more people pushed themselves to get in. I guess for these commuters, the bus conductors and the bus drivers, these scenes are part of their everyday commuting. But for me, who seldom use brute force - to have things my way - the little eye-opener was heaven's way of saying that I should be grateful - still - for the perks I get.

A journey ends, as others begin. Each one reaches their destination, one way or another.

It is often that I only see my defeats, especially during this year-end reflection. But when put alongside humanity's collective struggles, it turns out that life isn't really about me or my failures and victories. It is about my blending in with others that makes my time - here on the planet - that matters.

Cheers to the year ahead.

Happy New Year! 

      

Shelter Me From The Storm

Pinagkait man ng tahanang matutuluyan,
sa piling ng mga rehas na bakal
at malalamig na tubo ng Maynilad,
doon ay natagpuan ang
pansamantalang taguan sa
marahas at mapagtaboy na lansangan.

Specter

He was sitting at the far end of the table. He was wearing a grey shirt and a pair of jeans I must have held in the past - when he stayed home for sleep-overs. I looked at his direction, briefly, and there he was, drinking his beer while his eyes cast downward. 

He was browsing his phone.

I dropped by, unannounced at the party when a friend asked for intervention. He was having troubles wrestling his demons, and he thought my arrival might turn the tide in his favor. When I showed up, all eyes were on me. Some even walked closer, patted me on the back, hugged me tight, as he sat there, still glued to his seat.

"J," I said, as I tried to be casual, like nothing had come between us. For old time's sake, perhaps, or maybe to show everyone that there's no bad blood at all. 

He nodded in response.

Old times. It is for this reason I hastened downing my warm beer, while puffing sticks of Marlboro, like my throat wasn't hurting. I smiled. I tried having small talks with everyone, but at the back of my head, I was counting the minutes before my graceless exit.

"Kamusta ka?" He asked after toasting my bottle to his half-empty glass. 

"Ayos lang." I smiled, while walking slowly backwards. The conversation ended there.

Between the two words I was able to speak, and a hundred thoughts I wished to convey, all I remember now is his kinder, gentler face. The face I used to steal glances when he was across the table, having a meal. Or when I open my eyes in the morning, and find him sleeping beside me. Clipping my lips, I turned around to return to my seat. It's enough charade for one night. My friend is begging for us to leave.

It was never my intention to be a specter, or make everyone feel awkward. And should I have other choices, I would have bailed the tropa without crashing the scene, or cast a long ominous shadow over the unsuspecting revelers. But the friend asked to make the explanation on his behalf, for his sudden disappearance. I obliged.

After all the gestures and display of body language, and after successfully pulling out the tropa and returning him to his right state of mind, I say time and time that it's okay; that I had to come because much was at stake. But when I look back, and ask, what will linger for a long time.

It is the feeling... the fissures of the heart.

Blame my frailty for this confession. But that night vented what I have tried to keep within. For all the distance I claim to have covered, the truth remains. 

I have not moved at all.

Parting Gift

She wakes up in the morning when everyone upstairs is still asleep. As the guardian of the little one, she gets out of the sofa, washes her face, and takes the baby from the sleeping parents. The little tyke closes his eyes before everyone does at night. But his sound slumber doesn't mean the end of her work. Sometimes she stays up until midnight to pacify the tantrums of the older one. Some late evenings, she helps the matriarch climb the stairs when my arms are not around to lift her from the chair. 

Whatever I know about her came from other sources. She was twenty five, has five young kids - three of them living with their father. A kasambahay even said that she put one for adoption. Another said she took care of children, whose parents worked in a mining firm. For all her hard work, it took months before we finally spoke. To have conversations. I often distrust outsiders and seldom do I pay attention to non-families at home. 

Despite her tireless dedication; the monotonous days when her eyes are glued to the children; the feeling of being left out when the family eats at a restaurant and she has to tag along as the nanny; what stuck in my head was the time she self-medicated the elder kid by dispensing an adult cough syrup. The incident remained our point of divergence. 

It has never changed ever since.

The rare small talks however didn't stop me from knowing her a little. From overheard conversations, to quiet observations, she revealed herself as human as she could ever be. She goes out for a drink with the lesbian driver when stress knocks her sanity. She tells about her little boys, who has never set foot in a shopping mall. Once, she mentioned that my nephew's broken toys (the ones I hid in the trash bin) are playthings for her children. She even lost all her belongings when her father torched her small house. When asked for the reason of her father's malevolence, she said it's his way of turning to ash the vile memory of her estranged husband.

Trivial, her stories were. But it was these little gems of knowledge that I held close to my chest. Who would have thought at a young age, our nephews' nanny had gone through the most unimaginable of tribulations. Thinking of her children alone - the youngest - as old as my elder nephew, living in sordid, lonely condition in the plains of Tarlac makes me feel how blessed our boys are.

It is this thought, stubbornly marked in my head that lead my feet to the corners of Carriedo. Christmas is a time of giving. What better way to put a smile on someone's face by showing one's generosity where it matters deeply.



Permanence, no matter how we desired was never the nanny's intention. She announced her end of service a few weeks before Christmas. She must go home. Unsure I am, if she spared some thoughts of coming back. With better offers elsewhere, and mouths to feed at home, practicality must reign over emotions.

What I am certain of is her heart is torn apart when thinking of her separation with our kids.

"Higa mo na lang si Diego sa crib." I found her one morning, sleeping next to the younger. Her arms clutching the baby tight.

"Hayaan niyo na kuya," She said in a soft voice. "Hanggang bukas na lang po ako." Respecting her decision, I continued walking, wordlessly, until I reached the stairs.

The nanny departed the next day with farewells and well wishes that lasted longer than the other nannies before. For in our hearts, despite her shortcomings, we felt her sincerity in watching over our little ones.

Knowing that she will return to her kids, whose lives are more uncertain than ours, there was an unspoken consensus at home. Maybe our spirits are fused together when making those who serve us feel at home.

Mom and sister each have their own gifts

The nanny will never come back. But in her heart and those of her sons, a little parting gift in behalf of our little boys - she loved so much - will make them remember.

From Aloy en Totoy (Diego and Lenin)

It is in the spirit of giving that we make life enriching.

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

Between Exes

Yet you still value the things you've lost the most. Because the things you've lost are still perfect in your head. They never rusted. They never broke. They are made of the memories you once had, which only grow rosier and brighter, day by day. They are made of the dreams of how wonderful things could have been and must never suffer the indignity of actually still existing. Of being real. Of having flaws. Of breaking and deteriorating.

Round and round I strode around the dining room, while the host laid down the place mats on the table. She was gorgeous and charming - like the last time we met. Sniffy the Terrier barked under the heirloom table. Still unused to my yearly presence, he sees me more of an intruder than an old friend.

There on the table was a Banana Cake. It crowned a ceramic plate. Golden brown and smooth as a cushion, the host boasted spending an entire afternoon baking the cake. Also on the table was a creamy pasta inside a Tupperware container. Probably a leftover from lunch. Despite the temptations of food and stories, my eyes trailed the sunlit portal leading to the balcony.

Shunned behind iron grills and glass sliding doors, the last rays of the crimson orb bathed the garden plants with natural light. I walked closer. Slower. As memory as old as a lifetime slowly blurred the line between now and before. 

I remember. I stood there in that same balcony, while the much younger host laid food on the table. The overcast heavens still heaved of rain as the passing cloudburst left the ground soaked, and the leaves moist with mountain-kissed teardrops. On the horizon was the sun, retreating behind the clouds, and into the evening. It allowed time a moment to recall. A small frog leaped behind pots of bleeding Caladiums, while stems of Mayanas swayed after being nudged by the playful breeze.

Soon, I heard my name called. It was time for snacks.

Now many years have passed, and the scenery outside had broken my orbit around the dining table. Without even asking permission, I took out the padlock binding the iron grills to the wall. With all my strength, I forced the door open. I even lifted the glass sliding door, whose wheels were derailed. Remembrance blinds the vision. I have to step foot outside. For in the garden - despite nearly forgotten - sums the blissful days I had spent with the host.

My ex-girlfriend.

Each careful step towards the balcony is like turning a page of our story. From the time I accompanied her when her boyfriend didn't show up, to our late night phone calls that lasted until daybreak. In-between were the movie dates, the showing-up-in-class late, with the wicked grin on our faces, the leadership training in Cavite, the confrontation at the beach, the ultimatum and the intervention of the best friend, to the silver bracelet I gave as a Christmas gift. There was the untold slipping to the rainbow side, the Christmas party where I hugged her tight, the break up by SMS and the revelation that I am...

Now leaning against the common side of the fence, we would talk about boys and heart matters like we were never once, a couple.

But I recall.

Looking around the garden, the pots of bloodied Caladium, whose heart-shaped leaves turn sideways against the sun. The Mayanas, once moist and lushful appeared wilting. Dried leaves were everywhere, the steel chairs unmoved. Beyond the balcony and the perimeter fence, the once rolling hills of West Fairview are now blocked by newly-constructed homes.

There's no more sight of farmlands.

We may never embrace the life we had - the ex and I - but with every hug, laughter and visit I do every Christmas - every time there is time - strengthens the bond we now have. The romantic ties maybe long gone, sometimes, even laughed at, but in its place thrives a deeper companionship that blooms, slowly, with age.

Only the things you no longer have will always be perfect.

The Efficiency and Perfection of the Lost

I Wrote This For You

Traffic Jam Moment

I was doing some gift wrapping in the living room this morning when my nephew appeared in front of me. In his hands were toy vehicles he took out from the toy box. 

My nephew carefully arranged the toys on the coffee table to simulate a rush hour traffic. A truck and a bus, longer than his arm lead the queue while plastic cars smaller than his fist line behind. The other half of the table is occupied by my gift boxes and wrappers so the toddler had little space to move his mini-traffic jam. 

"Laro tayo," I said while putting away my stuff. Baby Lenin looked at my direction to let me know that it's okay to play with him.

December, 2012

We ended up putting the vehicles on the floor, where there was enough space to move around. There, I was making engine and honking sounds as my nephew wordlessly tugged his cars. I could have spent an hour keeping him company. But a child's play - experts say - move at a quicker pace. I wasn't done yet with his toys when he thought of doing something else.

I could have let the moment pass by without any reference to my own childhood. But just when we were about to put the cars on the ground, a flashback turned the child's play into a moment of reminiscing. I remembered a picture my mom kept in one of my photo albums.

Circa 1983

A long time ago, a kid used to play what my nephew does today when thoughts of traffic jam excites his imagination.

Mercedes Benz

W 115

The boss drives a red Mercedes Benz W 123 to work. Hailing from the late 70's, the sedan is honored as the best of its time. The boss also has a large poster adjacent to his table. Framed in old wood, and with words Gut Getroffen below the three-pointed star, there is no mistake that the wall decor refers to Karl Benz' early creation.

I do not know what other Benz stuff my superior collects. But when my feet carried me to Cubao X for some Christmas Shopping, I spotted a Benz car parked on a glass shelf.

I took the toy and felt it with my hand. It was made of tin and could fit inside a shoe box. There is a certain class to its obsolescence. Arcane. Its stories speak like a sage telling the lives it had seen. I thought of my boss as I let the sedan's wheels run over my skin. I remembered the poster at the heart of his quarters.

So I asked the store keeper how much the toy was.

"Two thousand," She said.

Knowing the collectible is beyond my means, I took out my phone camera, and while the storekeeper was looking elsewhere, took a snapshot of the Benz.

"Boss Paye," I wrote, before uploading the picture on Instagram.

Perhaps in the future. When I get promoted and my salary doubles. I will return to Cubao X and swing by the antique shop. Maybe then, when the tin-plated toy still sits on its glass shelf, I'll get it for my boss, 

As a Christmas present; As a worthwhile addition to his Mercedes Benz collection.

  

The Green Thumb Challenge

My college buddies and I capped the reunion with a sleep over at the host's place. The next day, I asked one of them to drop me off at the Manila Seedling Bank. The green spot at the corner of Quezon Avenue and Edsa has become one of my guilty pleasures. I can't help but channel the Martha Stewart in me every time I go there. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent putting the Basils and Mints on plastic pots I bought at Uni-Top. However, I ran out of soil, so I asked the next-door neighbor if I could dig the earth on one of her unused pots. She gave her permission. But the pot I dug was not entirely unoccupied. Kept in a shade and watered only by the passing rain, life struggles to assert its presence with an Oregano stem struggling to grow roots despite its failure to make sunshine-catching leaves.

I pulled out the Oregano and emptied the pot of soil. I could have thrown the stem away, but the Oregano came from the same mother plant which I used to grow some years ago. It was among the casualties when a new hobby took my time.

So I ran out of soil and used the earth from the unused pot belonging to a neighbor. When I found the Oregano, I thought of throwing it away. However, since I don't have the herb in my garden; and by stroke of luck, I discovered a plastic bag of clay soil among the sacks of concrete used as flood barrier, I filled the empty pot with dirt. I then poked a hole on its surface and replanted the Oregano stem.

Sitting outside my window, I intend to make the Oregano grow. Who knows, the herb might finally break the spell and let me resurrect nearly-dead plants back to its living form - like I used to - when I obsessed about gardening as a kid.

Happy Little Camper

Eve.

The director approved my two-day vacation leave early this week. It will start in a few hours, but the excuse I gave was just a ruse. Sabi ko sa e-mail, "I will attend to some personal things," which he replied "ok" after I gave my assurance that I will still look after my shift. 

Buti na lang, he didn't pry into the details of my absence. He won't get an honest answer.

-

After four straight years, the helpers won't be baking Graham Cake today. Ang tamis kasi masyado. Nakakaumay na. I recently found out as well that my mom spends more cash in preparing the refrigerated pastry, when buying a cake at Red Ribbon cost less.

When my sister asked what cake I want, I paused. Told them to buy whatever they have in mind. But when my indecisiveness didn't work, I answered,

"Black Forest."

-

I was planning that we just dine out tomorrow. But when my mom brought the idea of including my sister and my brother-in-law, I hastily scrapped the idea. The last time the family went out for my mom's birthday treat, they ordered meals like they were the celebrant.  

They even added a pancake surprise for dessert. Nakakahiya lang, we should be the one throwing a party But since we don't have money, my mom ended up paying the bill.

So I asked this morning if we could have Carbonara and Chicken a-la Kiev for lunch tomorrow. 

Mom said, "Tingnan ko pa. Late ka na nagpahiwatig kasi."

-

When engraldrin kicked off his 30th birthday with a fab house party early this month, I felt a tinge of envy.

-

Gone are the days when someone would invite me at Heat and Conti's for a birthday dinner, or someone calling the shots at the Batcave for a night of drinking and laughter. I should have savored the moments. Who would have thought it won't last.

There will be no parties tomorrow. The next Encanto reunion will be in the honor of a brother returning home for the holidays. It will coincide with the Christmas gathering, if the folks are in the mood for merriment.

As for me, I intend to spend the day like I did in the past years. The return to the Monasterio - after three months of absence - is expected. I might make a detour at Ali Mall or Isetann for some Christmas Shopping. Or maybe, I might pull a surprise and show up at my ex-girlfriend's doorsteps before turning seaward to attend the yearly get-together with my university buddies.

There is no denial that I will be turning a year older more uncertain of the future. The project I was managing at work had pulled out. The Raketship with Bentusi will be no more, and just when I no longer see myself sailing the ocean of stars, I am once again, at the helm of the planetship.

Yet, in spite of the setback and disillusionment, I never see myself getting stuck in my spot. The optimist in me speaks, in toddlers' words, every time I get to play with my nephews, or when I water the plants outside the window, or when I say a little prayer - in the wind - so whoever the words are meant will know that I care,

Still.

Tomorrow is just another day for my boss, my work mates, and to hundreds of friends on my Facebook wall. (I disabled the alert.) But if there is one thing that makes this day special - for me, and for those who would be kind enough to remember - it is my reaffirmation that I will continue moving forward and go on - searching until at long last, I find the purpose and meaning of my existence.

Cheers to the long journey ahead.

The boys really waited until past midnight to blow the cake. Next year, unahan na ito.

In the silence of Mugenspace.

All glory to the hand that shapes the world.

Happy Birthday, Joms.

 

TNB 2

Boys,

Know the subtext. Ignore the context. The next time you have a date, sip a cup of tea at this chic boutique in Ongpin Street, Binondo. 

Who knows, you might end up having an extra serving of "milk" tea, before the night is over. 

Into The Barakos

"May gagawin ka? Wanna meet later?" A stocky guy with a headless display picture asked. His invitation filtered through a private message.

"Yup. I have work, dude."

The guy and I got acquainted on Twitter the night before. Ayos lang. I was the one who trailed first so I was grateful for the follow-back. However, things got uneasy when he invited me for coffee. I read his direct message just hours after the mutual recognition. 

The meet up didn't push through. I had no time to respond because I had to rush a neighbor at San Lazaro after being bitten by our dog. He asked again the next day. I was at work, so I replied that I will have to see if I can accommodate his invitation. He was persistent, he even offered to pick me up so we can meet. 

"Mas nakakahiya yun. But thank you for the offer." 

Behind the stalling was the slight interest in the meet-up. I had nothing to do after my shift and the Encantos had their binge already. 

But I was aware too that I will be meeting a stranger. Someone, whose Twitter timeline I just got to read, and whose motives for the eyeball remain in doubt.

"Hindi naman ako stalker or bad person..."   

Given that I would be meeting a really nice guy, and his intention was just really to talk. But how can I be assured that I can carry a conversation? That our coffee eyeball won't be punctuated by cricket sounds, blank stares and whistling of the wind?

You see, despite the liberties guaranteed by my restored sovereignty, I haven't met anyone to talk and get to know. The Weatherman is another story, and while Fox will insist that I dated an Encanto apprentice, the hangout was merely a promise kept. 

He belongs to the friend zone.

I maybe denying myself some choices. But my gut tells that there is something wrong about the guy's approach. For one, our private talk centered around his keen interest for a meet-up. He did ask about my work and my face picture and that's all. 

For a moment there, it felt like Planet Romeo.

Twitter guy sent a direct messages from the start of my shift at 2 pm, until around six, when he asked again if our meet up will push through. All I knew from our conversation was his work and that he goes to the gym. The other details, I didn't bother to ask because as the hours passed, I have grown disinterested. I guess I was only thrilled at the idea of being picked by someone at work, and maybe, enjoy a midnight cruise around the city.

A road trip with someone you just met? In your dreams, Mugen.

"I have to decline your invitation. I am needed home. Sorry."

They say that a man who runs away is either a coward, a loner with a broken spirit, or someone who relocates to a new spot to shore up his strength. From departing the sleazy land masses of Planet Romeo; to the one-on-one friendly meet-ups I've been delaying; to becoming a not-so-prudish but uber-protective Ninang instead of hunting down my own prey in the dance clubs - there is a full-scale retreat - and somehow I'm beginning to understand the reason for the apparent cocooning.    

"Kuya Joms, nandito kami sa Googel Bar (malapit sa Eclipse) inom!" Nimmy sent as a direct message just minutes before my shift was over.

In the end, rather finding comfort from guys I don't know, I chose - for the first time - to wander closer to home and get to know the people who really touched my life.

And I didn't go wrong.

It was 5 in the morning. I left O-Bar after playing Ninang to Jap Nishi the entire night. Tired and exhausted, with the smile and laughter of those I met earlier that night becoming my hangover. I went home assured, no longer I will walk alone.

An Angry God

"Hala ka, magagalit si Papa God niyan!" An elder used to say to make us behave when we were kids. The warning always worked, as it reinforces the belief of a higher being, more supreme than the adults who used to take hold of our lives.

It is an instinctive response that never fails to sway blind obedience, as each generation gets to know the Almighty by his wrath. How unfortunate that those more knowledgeable in the life of Christ has omitted the truth: That God so loved the world, he sent his son to redeem us all.

The scare tactic dates back from the time of our beginnings. When our ancestors used to worship a different pantheon forever exiled in the fringes of our collective memory. Bathala, whose name the babaylans invoked in their prayers has now been replaced by another creator. To this day, a nation still gazes on his face for a whisper of redemption. 

Obedience would have worked, if the flock still get swayed by fear. But with the light of reason, the nation gets to question the pronouncements of these men-in-robes, whose human failings find its way into the spotlight all the time:

Priests molesting kids.

Priests cavorting millions of pesos from church donations.

Priests, whose medieval thinking clash with the modern age.

It's no wonder, every pronouncements the bishops make; every instructions they hissed at the pulpit disheartens not only the believers but those, whose faith has been dimmed.

“Ewan ko lang kung yan ay coincidence lang o dahil nga may pinapasabi ang Diyos sa atin na kapag iyan ay pinag-uusapan ng matindi ay parang may mensahe na nangyayari na maraming kahirapan na nagaganap sa atin," Pabillo said in an interview with Radio Veritas.

I do not know which side God takes on the issue of the Reproductive Health Bill. I do not bother to ask, for my heart already tells me that we are too many to be nurtured by the planet. But to come from the Bishop's mouth, that the cause of all these sufferings brought by the recent typhoon was the controversial bill, then in the name of the same God, I strongly condemn his position.

To be the voice of dissent, when not a single spiritual figure disapproves the insensitive remark continues to draw me away from the flock. But I'm not giving up yet, like many others who share my principle. For when the sounds of fear are less heeded and the mandate of love becomes the new gospel, there is this belief of redemption for my religion, still.

And in times of great tragedies - like the one that wiped out the towns of New Bataan and Cateel, my humanity tells me that it's not time to invoke a wrathful God. Rather, a compassionate Vicar of Christ must step forward and lead, so that everyone - cynics and believers - would work together to ease the suffering of the fallen. 

In an enlightened age, this will be my church.

News

Liftoff From Planet Romeo

Dear HavokSS,

I may come up with scores of excuses for your revival. I was bored, lonely and this difficulty in accepting what I have been reduced to drove me to crash again on the same planet. I wanted to know how I will measure against other men, and see where this searching will lead me. A good lay, I thought, will turn everything okay. Sex heals, and makes people feel better about themselves.

I could have easily followed the same game play. Upload pictures showing liberal exposures of the flesh. Write kinky teasers to call the attention of resident predators. And seal the deal by picking playmates close to my launch pad. 

The planet never runs out of horny men. Sooner or later, I would know that violent impalement.  

And the invitations did trickle in - without me writing the kinky teasers, or even telling a guy that I am courting the idea of sex. I stalled, made excuses, fapped myself to cloud nine as I find the live exercise an utter waste of energy. 

Strange isn't? 

It's been a month since I put up the account. But often, I ask the reason for logging in. If I didn't go online for hook-ups, does it mean I am exploring the possibilities of dating? Nah. I've hardly spoken to anyone, especially after the Collateral Damage made me realize the pains of abandonment. I tried having sensible conversations with a few, but I ended up logging out without even sharing my digits to an acquaintance.

As for hook-ups, have you ever get that feeling of going into a battle and leaving more defeated, instead of basking in lustful glow? Pardon for bringing up some forgotten anecdotes, but I do know someone who's an expert in hit and run. Remember how he deleted those phone numbers, and vowed never to speak to those guys again? Harsh, but that's how he had coped. But there's a catch to such quickies. It distorts one's measure of people. It makes the player anxious for days - if not weeks as he evaluates the possible fall out from each strike. And its exhausting, no matter how rare you find yourself launching an attack.

I no longer wish to be in that state.

And so, we made a decision.

As we ready to be hurled back to outer space, our stay in Planet Romeo did yield not a single eyeball, or a naughty distraction. Sure there were plans, and had there anyone close enough, persistent enough, and tease enough to keep us hooked, maybe I would have capitulated. And with it, we will have to say bye-bye to all the great legacies the past union had brought us.

I do not know the conclusion of this singlehood. Would I end up remaining detached and broken for years? Or would I put my faith to someone and become his reliable wing man? If there is a sliver of light to this interlude - aside from bringing TechHarry to the manifold - I guess you are not as rebellious as you once were. And despite the not-so-close encounters, the use of "pain relievers" and after having to meet again the demon that you have always been,

Deep down we know, we have given hope another shot.

The Weatherman

3:50 am

It was 2 in the morning when he showed up at the front door. Exhaustion covered his face. His faint smile, soft, crackling voice and sleepy eyes made it look like he had just been pulled from the battlefield. Only hours before Pablo's landfall, he had decided to call it a night. His watch began at twilight the day before, and way past daybreak, he was still sending weather advisories only few ever get to read.

I may not understand his work, or why does he have to stay very late, but I felt his human need. So I let him in; showed him to my room and even helped him change to his sleeping clothes - the ones I wear at home. It doesn't matter that we didn't talk; that we cuddled briefly, or that we didn't make out like we used to once I lock my door. When the blanket was spread and the television turned off, I wrapped my arms around his naked chest, his head snugly rested on my shoulders. 

Kane once said that for all the lives we lived, the struggles we faced and the defeats we overcame - all by our solitary selves, we still yearn for that one person who would make a difference: to hear from his own words that we are not alone, and that no matter the difficulties are, everything will be okay. Words were hardly spoken when he slept over, yet our hands locked and our bodies remained intertwined the whole night. And for two hours of borrowed time - before he returns sending weather bulletins, and I resume constructing my fortress while laying waste to my own fields  - the nocturnal bliss almost felt like, my veins almost pulsed like, 

the weatherman and I are already one.