Apotheosis

Note: 

I have always thought of this blog entry as the month-ender. The first time I made my decision to write the words, was on the eve of my first date with the Gundam Pilot. I wasn't able to pen the draft though, the words only stuck in my head. Besides, the noise of everyday humdrum proved too much of a distraction. Back then, I wasn't even sure if his invitation to watch Captain America: Winter Soldier and Divergent hints of mutual attraction. I was ready to hide my romantic intention and take things at a snail-pace because I was his secret admirer.

When the Gundam Pilot and I had our big misunderstanding, this blog entry was still my choice for a month-ender. The only difference is that this post remembers the good days in passing - before letting go - because I thought my decision to "revise my impressions and expectations of him" will lead to a permanent severance of ties. He reached out, and within a day, we decided to take our relationship to a more binding direction. Had we chosen a divergent path, Apotheosis serves as my good-bye love letter.

Love found us, and the guy, who I used to stalk on Twitter by hitting the "favorite" button every time he posted a Twitter update on the microblog is now my boyfriend. Our journey has just begun and I have faith that ours will be a very memorable and cherishing one.

One day, he will stumble upon this blog post with a stolen shot of him on the night we were to go clubbing. That was the weekend I invited him to our weekly drinking binges at the casa, only to learn that the host had to cancel his presence because of flu. The Gundam Pilot and I had to improvise and make our own night out and we even tagged along a third person because it felt awkward for just the two of us to spend the night as a pair. 

April 11

Dear Myboo,

How do I count the things the two of us share together; fitness and weightlifting, electronic dance music, movies, pasta, anime and clubbing.

And how do I recall your journey full of heartaches and failed dates, as you have narrated them to me?

Of all the men I have laid my eyes on, you were the most distant. I always knew where our strength lies, and yet, I could not bring myself to convey this to you - out of fear that you may brush them aside and leave me hollow.

There is much to learn, and much to glean before I could even scratch the surface to know you better. But it seems time doesn't belong to our side, and any moment now, you may just drift away without me ever telling the contents of my heart.

I may have read your pulse from your invitations. From the Pyrolympics at MOA, to that evening when I showed up at your gym to lift weights beside you. But this, I know, won't suffice. I just fear you for reasons I have no answer. Reading you, has been so far, a difficult pursuit.

It's because of this undeniable attraction.

Kasi naman, ikaw lang ang bukod tanging nangarap para sa ating dalawa. Mula sa naipangako kong igue-guest list kita sa gym hanggang sa ating nakaset na pasyal sa UP, marami tayong hangad gawing together. Nandoon ang pangarap kong makapiling ka habang nanonood ng anime, at makasama ka sa aking pagtulog. Pero sa ngayon, ang mga ito'y nabibilang sa pangarap lang.

Mahaba pa ang panahon, gaya ng iyong sabi. Dalangin ko lang ay sana, sapat ang oras upang ako ay makapaghintay.

I'm tired of being single and I don't know how long I'd last this solitude. Kung hindi man tinadhana na maging tayo, matandaan mo sana ako bilang isang ideal activity partner, at minsan sa ating buhay ay binigyan natin ng pagkakataon ang makilala ang bawat isa.

Sapagkat kung babalikan ko ang ating pinanggalingan, at muli kong babasahin ang iyong diwa sa mga oras ng pag-iisa, you'd be surprised how we sometimes speak as one.

Still, please find me because I've found you. Seldom does kindred souls meet in this lifetime.

Ang iyong tagahanga.

Mga Bagay-Bagay Na Dapat Ipasalamat

I.

Baby Diego had to be confined at the hospital once more last week. It was his second this year after spending the first chilly sunrises of February with an elastic tube inserted down his forearm. It was the day after his second birthday. He suddenly showed symptoms that were unusual for two-year old boys. After his body temperature shot above 40, and when the food, that barely went down his tummy got expelled every time he had to be forced-fed, we brought him to the emergency room only to emerge in top form days later after taking antibiotics, and going through batteries of medical tests.

II.

The cause of his sickness remains a mystery to this very day. His pediatrician said it was a stomach ailment, and yet he had cough and flu. Whatever the malady was, we were relieved that it was all over; that it was one of those infrequent struggles we had to endure as a family. Now two months later, after spending a day submerged in an inflatable tub at the in-laws place in the highlands, baby Diego returned to the city with cough and fever.

The paracetamol didn't work this time, and after waking up with violent chills one weekend, he had to be rushed to the hospital again. 

III.

The unplanned stay-ins at the pediatrics ward are already part of Baby Diego's growing up pains. After all, long we have accepted that he will have to spend a lifetime with a disability brought by his congenital disorder. We still feel anxious from time to time - especially in the absence of a diagnosis, and without the doctor grand aunt who personally speaks to the medical experts attending to my nephew, life will be hell to both my sister and  my brother-in-law.

Words and deeds are not enough to show how grateful we are to her presence.

Also, there is my mom, whose is always ready to lend a hand to Lenin's parents. In their absence, she becomes Lenin's (Diego's big brother) surrogate mother. She also serves as the House's nerve center when attendants had to be dispatched to the hospital and deliver the family's personal effects. God knows the money she had to give up because of my sister's lack of resources - and the matriarch hardly complained of her dwindling wealth. I don't know what goes inside her head, given that she never visits when her grandson gets confined. What I do know is that she turns to piety. It is during these difficult times, the thoughts of the Creator keep her fears at bay.

IV.

One week. Three delivery runs at the hospital. Two personal pleads of intercession to the Almighty in behalf of the beloved kid, and one enduring daydream that one day, I'd still be the best uncle to our two boys, and things went well. The medical tests revealed that the toddler has Pneumonia and Primary Complex - a type of tuberculosis that affects children. The hospital bill, which was sourced from loans will take time before Diego's parents would be able to pay in full. But we are all relieved that its over. That we can resume our waking days with peace of mind, and respite from unseen troubles luring us into sleeplessness. 

Endless Waltz

Previously: March 29, 2014

The Gundam Pilot confessed that in his sleep, he dreamed of us dancing under a tree.

"Nagpunta daw tayo sa bukid." He was running his fingers across my back, while the two of us lay naked in bed.

"Dala mo raw yung iPod mo, tapos nagpatugtog ka ng EDM." Smiling, I pressed his head closer to my chest.

"Nagsayaw daw tayo buong maghapon."

No wonder, he wrote last Wednesday on Twitter that he wanted to dance all day. I was curious, like his other admirers. But I refused to ask him about it. All day, his timeline was replete with references of that dream. He would even disclose that he was caught by his boss dancing in his cubicle.

That she would even ask him to teach her bust some moves. I feigned disinterest.

His revelation behind those cryptic microblog updates would only be known to me a week later - when we talked again and reconciled our differences. For we had been at war for reasons that no longer mattered.

Except that it gave us resolve to be more open about our affections.

As the story goes, I was at the Casa for our weekly drinking binges. The Gundam Pilot thought of joining, to meet my friends, and to speak of the cause of our misunderstanding. Between small talks and cheesy confessions, I would trail him to the toilet to steal kisses and tell him how he was missed. Before the night ended, he would speak of that three meaningful words to which I responded with heartfelt affirmation. I knew then, that we only had days before our union is sealed. I was certain of its coming, that I even told Garpppy about it.

We were so drunk, that despite claims of him merely being tipsy, I didn't let him off on his own.

"Stay with me," I whispered while wrapping my arms around his shoulders.

He nodded. 

I brought him to my place.

It was almost daybreak when I was stirred from my slumber. It was him on top of me, and wanting to get even. I obliged, knowing the time is ripe to express my feelings. The fondness was deep, the warmth emanated from deep within. There's no denial I was about to make love with the Fourth and made love I did. At the middle of our cuddling, he paused, to ask if we could make our relationship formal.

"Ikaw lang naman iniintay ko eh." I said while looking at him with lustful gaze.

"Nung sinabihan mo ako ng 'I love you,' I was about to tell you that 'I'm yours.'"  

"I love you," he said once more, after pecking my lips.

"Mahal din kita," I replied while holding both his hands, assured that my grip will never let him go.

Pre-School With Lenin

(L-R: Flags of the Powerful Nations - See USSR, Educational Toys, Clay Diorama)

To this day, I still have her name. Miss Lolita Ramos. The plumpy lady with small chinky eyes, and reserved smile used to be my pre-school teacher some twenty-five years ago. 

It is all I have left. For despite my attempts to sift through the most cherished of memories, I was too young to remember, and only the postcard images of kindergarten stays in my head.

Kindergarten, of course, was a different time. A cherished moment when nuns taking up residence in secluded rooms a floor above our classrooms open their pantry and serve us macaroni soup. In those days, playtime occupies the rest of the afternoon. The other kids bring their flashy toys to class, while I was left envious because I had nothing to show.

My mom won't let me bring my action figures. She said, the other kids might just break them.

Fridays, I recall, were spent in swings and see-saws at the playground. The playground was at the grounds next to the school house, and to this day, I get to see the play area when I pass along E. Rodriguez Avenue. The street where St. Joseph's College is located. If my guardian wishes to look for me, she would spot me at the slide, or the at the sandbox. Those were the only places where heights (and the fear of falling) never cross my thoughts. Sometimes, I'd pick up the spindle leaves of pine trees thinking they were dead worms. As to what I did after, I have no idea.

All I know is that many, many years later, my thumb can bring dying plants to life.

Four hours into a school day and the time to go home approaches. The teacher would then ask everyone to return the plastic beads and wooden boxes to their rightful cabinets. When these have been done, the imitation fruits and vegetables go into their boxes. The kids - including me - then walk out of the classroom and form a line. With the teacher herding the young tykes at the column, she ushers us back to the school gate, where our attendants are waiting.

There are days when I would leave the queue and sneak into the college building. My mom used to hold Sociology classes there, and to show the big star stamped on my hand, I would barge into her class disrupting her lecture.

Sleepy Boy

These flashbacks trickle in while waiting for Lenin' two-hour summer class to finish. His brother Diego recovers at the hospital, with his parents by his side. And since there's no one to accompany my older nephew at the nursery, I volunteered to look after him as he gets to experience attending school for the first time in his life.

The Alay Lakad (Part One)

It was one of those traditional Catholic rites I looked forward to accomplish at least once in this lifetime. On the eve of Good Friday, curiousers and devotees from all over Manila trek the main passages of Cainta for a yearly pilgrimage to the Antipolo Cathedral. Known to pilgrims as Alay Lakad, the slow procession winding up the hills of Sierra Madre reenacts the journey of the Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage. As to what journey it was (whether it was from Acapulco in Mexico to Intramuros in Manila, or from the plains of Pasig to the hill top sanctuary east of the Loyal and Noble city), I have no idea. 

Alay Lakad for me - is first and foremost, an excuse to gaze upon the metropolis at 3 in the morning from a breathtaking vista.

However, Holy Thursdays have always been reserved for the Visita Iglesia. A time-honored tradition with my mother, which unfortunately, was cancelled this year because we had no car driver. I also had work that night so it was difficult to squeeze the church visits because we had little time. I went straight to the office after sleeping all day, and from Mandaluyong, where my office is located, the pilgrims marched in their backpacks and slippers along the stretch of the boulevard. 

I was envious. 

Knowing our product training for the new project ends at past midnight, it became my intention to make the trip, even if it would mean going solo.

But the Almighty had other plans.

The product training extended for another two hours, and when I left the office and reached Shaw Boulevard, it was deserted. Gone are the soul searchers in large groups and pairs who occupied the pedestrian lane. I was contemplating, that, if I start walking at half past 2 in the morning, I'd reach the cathedral at 6 am. So much for my idea of a night stroll. And if not for a colleague who lives in Rizal, and who prodded me to pursue the Alay Lakad, I would postpone it for next year. He was the one who suggested that I'd ride a jeep to Cainta and disembark at the Junction instead.

Knowing how rare such opportunity comes, I followed my colleague's advise and started my pilgrimage at an intersection, where we both separated ways.

-tobecontinued-

Twilight Of The Fallen

Previously:  Docking Into Orbit

You do not aspire a harmonious union with hang-ups still leaving their footprints in the sand. This, I promised to work on given the countless acts of seduction I did in the past. However, I didn't pursue the planned encounters as a result of those digital coquetries. They were stalled, so I can hold my word and remain untouched for the one I am supposed to wait. 

Yes, you get it right. You, who will one day stumble upon this blog entry: For all the chances to have sex with someone, the resounding answer is, no. This, I have done with such flair, so as not to reveal our budding romance. I was certain of a destination, and as a show of respect, the crafty spinning is the proof that I am into you. No longer the distractions matter.

I don't want to spoil that one chance you will give to me.

Case Number One:

Musta JM?

Ayos lang. Alay lakad. Ikaw?

Heto, nganga. Will you be doing anything after that?

Not sleepy yet? I'm rushing to get home. Takas ako sa bahay.

Hindi pa. Needed to rush some work stuff. But I'll be spending the weekend at a hotel. Stay with me. :D

No can do. I'll be out of the city. :)

Case Number Two:

Wood wood spunky

No reply.

Hard morning spunky. Hugs!!!

No reply.

Case Number Three:

I'm horny as hell. I want to fuck.

No reply.

It may not earn your trust. It may not mean something at all. But just so you know, I have my own personal battles, and I choose to win them for the both of us. I've just shown how I'd go to great lengths to demonstrate my good intentions. And should we find ourselves merely dreaming of the same sunshine, may this be a lasting offering. 

A legacy I hope you would remember:

Seldom do I lend my heart, and the reason I would go this far to deprive myself, is because you deserve such kind gesture.

Even when there's nothing really to speak of about the two of us.

Traffic Helpdesk (First Part)

Warned, the authorities did, of the road re-blocking along Edsa this Holy Week. The works had caused a massive gridlock across the city. And it seems nobody paid attention given the surge of rants I read on my Twitter timeline.

"Penitence," someone wrote, when he had to bear travelling for 4 solid hours when it would only take two to reach his destination.

"Between this bus and a snail," another person I follow posted online, "the snail will win the race."

The latter was posted out of amusement. Many of the snippets I read were more of slight annoyance, because these commuters have gotten used to the traffic. A Twitter post that stands out wrote about the account holder's expression of  joy as his colleagues and bosses arrived late for the night shift.

As I pore over the collective experience of the people who were on the ground, there was this stubborn question I wish to raise, given the early warnings and updates about the traffic situation. If I were one of the commuters going home on a Wednesday rush hour, how would I avoid the paralytic snarl across the busiest thoroughfare in Manila?

This idea might actually work.

First to consider before leaving the workplace are the news updates. Is the traffic worse than usual? 

What do other commuters on the ground say about it? 

The answer lies when you type the right keywords on Twitter's search field. 

Knowledge is power, and in many ways, the live updates from the microblog works best when you need instant information for snap decision making. The result of the keywords, which I used on the search field was astounding. 

  

The data available presented opportunities to escape the snarl. But for many, this information is often ignored. Next I will share the alternate routes, which few commuters take when they are supposed to be heading south.

- tobecontinued -

A Pocketful Of Sunshine In A Sea Of Glum

The product training for the new account has been postponed. Indefinitely.

The result was catastrophic, given that the organization has put its best people to lead the project. Aside from me, my officer-in-charge, which I see as my successor, has been put on a floater status. I, on the other hand drifts between an employee and an overseer, whose responsibilities have been greatly reduced because of the management redesign before the entry of the new account. I would tell the boss that we did the streamline in such a way that operations can stand on its own without my direct hand. 

Now, the hand is idle, and is growing restless.

It didn't help too that production is down. Once more, there are few jobs coming. I already struck my projection for this month and the target leaves me trembling. The boss can hide his worries, but soon, we will have to face these growing pains head on. There's not much really to do, but wait, and be at the mercy of our offshore lords.  

There is only the cold comfort knowing we have been through this slow death exactly a year ago. 

We lived on.

Then came the arrival of a wayfarer. 

Clad in Gundanium alloy, he soars the skies inside his mobile suit. Against the sun, his mechanical figure suspended in mid-air is a breathtaking sight. The long trail of jet exhaust from his afterburners are no match for my Planetship's clunky thrusters. I would radio its pilot that we are awed by his presence. That he intimidates. And despite these clash of personalities, I have found a pair. It took me two friendly encounters, and a drinking binge with friends - with him beside me -  to get used to his presence.

To his affection.

Uncertainty lies ahead, and there is much to learn about the mobile suit's mystery pilot. But as I was contemplating the fate of the workplace, and the very possible union with the wayfarer, (only three words I am dying to speak and our common lives are finally sealed) I thought that if there is a bright spot to this career meltdown, I put my faith in the hands of the mecha pilot. That his presence in this time of need, even without his knowledge, is enough for me to figure how to get out from my own despair.

And reign in my tiny corner of heaven with nothing but thoughts of him.

Docking Into Orbit

Heart whispers that the way to make things right is to make peace with the pasts, and leave, with fewer footprints from now on.

One month. 

There is still time.

Taming The Kitsune

Between a person you constantly go out with, but you find difficulty in confiding your feelings, and a newcomer - someone - you have never met, and yet, he never fails to reach out and make his presence felt, even when you raise your guard and brush off his hollow affections, to whom will you lay down your arms, when it is time to let your heart out?

From the Little Prince
Chapter XXI


"I am looking for friends," said the Little Prince to the fox. "What does 'tame' mean?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties."

"To establish ties?" 

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. 

To me, you will be unique in all the world." 

The Wanderer

Weight lifting activities ended at past midnight. A little less than two hours after I began my routine on a Monday night. With no place to go, and a mind that wanders off course, I thought of making a detour to Cubao and spend the rest of the "night shift" exploring the place on a weekday morning.

I hailed a jeep at V. Mapa still uncertain of pursuing the idea. It was spontaneous, and a little reckless given that everyone at home thought I was at the office. But there are moments like this, when that screw in my head goes a little loose, and so against reason, I indulged in my capriciousness and told myself that I was "soul searching."

But what a soul searching activity that was! My feet lead me to the doors of Starlites. A gay-friendly watering hole where the denizens of Cubao spend the nights belting out on stage. There was a bar stool at the center, a microphone, and two large flat screens flanking the stage. There are KTV rooms around the hall, and a porch that is less lighted next to the bar entrance. The place was not crowded, but it wasn't empty either. A glance at the patrons, and one can fairly assume the bar serves a niche market. The ones who don't mind going to bars wearing rubber slippers and jersey shorts; and the trannies, the boys who dress like women and speak with a falsetto voice.  

It didn't take long for the waiter to notice me sitting alone. When he approached my spot, I promptly asked for the menu. Since I don't drink on weekdays (I try not to), I asked for a can of pineapple juice instead. He returned to my table shortly after with a small bowl of spicy peanuts and an extra can of the juice. 

"Kuya, isang pineapple juice lang order ko." I insisted.

"Ganito po talaga dito, may minumum order." He then charged me 85 pesos for everything. I replaced the extra can of juice with San Miguel Light and my bill leaped ten pesos higher bringing the total to 95 bucks. I didn't complain.

The guests take their places at the middle of the stage, singing their heart out with love songs from past generations. I was talking to Tagay on Twitter about the place - the sullen atmosphere that pervades; the tambays who seem to care less if they have something to eat the next day; that strange feeling of looking like a loser who's out to spy on a lover. My online buddy had only one thing in mind: That I was out on a prowl and I'd most likely end up getting laid.

A lay. Was I pretending not to, and that, it was my motive all along?

I don't think so.

Truth is, I was searching. Searching for Dario, my old friend and ex-colleague who writes about the place. Searching, that I may spot my old self who gamely crashed places like Starlites.

Searching, for direction, for I regard myself as a floater at work, with no clear functions while the project I was asked to lead was put on hold. I was in no mood to get into trouble, and yet, there is no denial that this lack of clear purpose shows the shades I used to wear, when I used to be a chat agent, whose messy episodes at home, and at work afforded a life geared for a tailspin.

Not anymore.

And I guess this is the reason I found myself in Cubao at 1 am on a Tuesday morning: To have a taste of a life - a sordid one that is - should I let myself sink deeper while my career and home life is in suspended animation.

In the end, everything seemed so lucid, that I even deleted some updates on Twitter to keep others from learning where I had been. An hour after I arrived at the bar, and certain that my indulgence has been dealt with, I paid my bill and walked away leaving a half empty beer bottle as a remembrance. 

The Copy and Paste Generation

A book report, the students were asked to write, in order to pass my mother's Philippine Literature class. They were to choose between two novels - Bata, Bata Paano Ka Ginawa, penned by Lualhati Bautista, or Luha ng Buwaya by Amado V. Hernandez.

Both works were written at a time when the country was experiencing a social upheaval. Set before and during Martial Law, one speaks about changing gender roles and Feminist ideals. The other, a Leftist manifesto praising the qualities of a Maoist's utopia.

The students were expected to read the book, and write what they thought of the stories. Their papers will be graded according to how they scratch the surface, and spin their own thoughts. In this exercise, description of characters bear no points, and dicing of the narrative to bite-sized paragraphs count little. The latter is drawn from the student's tendency to copy the summary from other digital sources.

This is how book reports have been written, as far as the untaught rule book goes. And since my mom had asked me to grade the papers for her to beat the deadline of the grades submission, she gave me the liberty to do as I please and apply my own standards. 

However, I am limited by the fact that I have not read the two novels. Both works are divided into tens of chapters, and there is no way I could finish reading even one in two days. There were close to fifty students, whose papers average three pages. My mom assured me that I could figure the plot just by reading a handful of students' works, a claim I refute, since the idea i'd get will be inadequate. Given that I already committed my time, and there are resources on the Internet I could use as guide, the first thing I did was to look for a summary of every chapter of the novels, and from there, condense my own opinion.

To my astonishment, very few resources exist on the web, and if I was able to find one - in the case of Bata, Bata, Paano ka Ginawa, the summary was written on a long dead website, cached to be accessed only by those who sift through the un-crawled links on Wikipedia. With Luha ng Buhaya, I wasn't able to find any. In the end, I resigned to reading a superior study, from someone who made the novel her dissertation. To supplement my knowledge, I read a chapter lifted from the book itself. 

To expose myself and get familiarized with Amado Hernandez' writing style should there be any, among my mom's students whose well-thought work touch on the subject.

But this is not how the checking of the book reports turned out to be.

I was set to read the pages, word for word, in hopes of finding a grain of wisdom from the students' body of work. These are freshmen kids from the College of Engineering, the cream of the crop of a state university I used to belong. But my enthusiasm turned to dismay as I soon discovered that the kids plagiarized not only the summary part of the book review, but every word they put on paper. 

And it was easy to spot the idiocy.

I put on Google search field a sentence sampled from a students' submitted paper. From there, the deception is revealed. The process is repeated again and again, and the copy-pasted habit reared its ugly head. The contents were copied from the blogs. Other portions, from Scribd and Wattpad. The cause of my alarm - no - what drove me to muted rage was the fact that even the supposed to be insightful parts of the work was lifted from someone's web portal. It's like stealing the mind of the blog author, when a student can easily form his own thoughts on the subject. 

I was tempted to give a failing grade that had I not nudged myself that it was my mom's students and not mine, half of the class might have to repeat the subject. I also tried to make light of their action since these are Engineering students. Not men and women of letters:

"Maybe they were not instructed on how to write a book review in high school," I thought.

"Maybe because they paid more attention to the really difficult subjects like Advanced Calculus. And that, Philippine Literature is just a mere sideshow for them."

"Perhaps my mother disclosed that she doesn't know how to use the computer, and that the students thought they could get away by grazing what they could find on the Internet."

"Antatanga talaga amputa." I thought, while writing in big and readable numerals the grades of the students.

"3.0"

To be fair, I used to lift entire passages from books at the library during my days in the academe. But the time spent looking for several sources and reading them merit a respectable grade for the effort. Besides, it was difficult to prove then, that a work has been plagiarized. I also cite my sources. Unlike today, when safeguards exist to dissuade kids from performing such acts, some continue to steal ideas believing they could get away with it.

Apparently, they paid little attention when my mom warned she would find out if her students copied from the internet.

But then, how would she know if I didn't step forward to serve as her dedicated eyes?

She would have been duped.

Of the 43 students who submitted their book report, I was only able to give a flat one (95%) to only one. A girl, I had to search the web to make sure her prolific work fits her character. Less then 10 got a grade of 85% and the rest, the "Iskolar ng Bayan" their parents lauded; the very reason lawmakers like Tito Sotto get away when they copy and paste from sources other than their own got a mere passing grade.

A token of appreciation for complying with the requirement.

A Fool's Joke

Fresh idea, it isn't. But I took the cliche, and applied it to my Facebook page. It is time to shake the guarded image, if only to share in the spirit of the April Fool's day.

A few hours before my night shift ends, the big announcement was made. That on the first day of April, I became in a relationship. The response from friends was swift, the joy they felt, intense. A guy, who I was supposed to meet for sex last year, even sent a heartfelt message on Twitter. I was shaking my head while responding with appreciation. It took a few more comments on my wall for everyone to realize that it was a joke. That it was a trick I pulled off, hoping so many people will believe.

And they did.

Thirty seven "likes" and counting; against the posted day of union, and successful attempts of killjoys to blow my cover; it seems, human nature will go against the obvious for some grain of truth of a romance budding.

The truth, however, is much easier to glean: in the pervading silence between two men who had just dated, to the apparent distance both showed on social media, and in the growing uncertainty that maybe, one submits to another too soon. These, the heart wouldn't disclose in public.

Better to save face than to admit defeat.

In the meantime, the trickery on Facebook has revealed a poignant afterthought; a musing that cannot be put into words to keep the emotions from spilling. After all the sighs and chuckles, and upon knowing the relationship is nothing but a creation of the imagination, the questions of singlehood returns to haunt, now with more probing questions than clear answers.

   

And yes, the fact remains.

I am unbound and will be for a time, and when I am found - if ever such time comes - in no way I will announce to the public the romantic milestone. For after all these years, I remain, terrified to walk completely out of the closet.