PTSD

 

Bella, my sibling's youngest daughter began with a runny nose last week. Unchecked, the sipon progressed into a yellowish mucous blocking her nostrils, which needed to be treated with antibiotics. It would have been a classic case of the seasonal flu, but given our health condition, my panic-stricken sibling believes it is Covid. Our doctor aunt had already reassured her that it wasn't the dreaded virus as I have left the house the day after showing symptoms, and the children had no exposure from me. Besides, my niece started with a runny nose long after I was gone. This didn't convince my sibling, so she sought the opinion of her daughter's pediatrician who prescribed her medicines for a respiratory ailment. 

Like the doctor-aunt, she ruled out Covid.

Two days later, I was told the sipon had progressed into infrequent coughing. This has raised my Covid-obsessed sibling's anxiety beyond the roof, especially since his third son, Castro, exhibits cold-like symptoms as well. Today, even Diego, my sister's second is also said to be having sipon too that she told my mom, "hindi ko na alam ang gagawin ko."

I wouldn't blame my sister for her anxieties, but even the doctor-aunt said that it is not healthy anymore. If it were Covid, the matriarch should have been the first to experience the symptoms (and it is likely to progress swiftly) as she was exposed to me. But all indicators (her body temperature is being checked twice during the first seven days after her exposure) point to a healthy senior. No other person at home (asymptomatic or otherwise) also complains of a malady so it is safe to assume that all is well - except for the sibling who would likely continue to cradle worst-case scenarios inside her head.

Credit

As for me, the lingering effects of Covid would likely persist long after the government considers me a recovered patient. The cold climate of my quarantine house in Cavite and the gloomy weather these past few days somehow aggravate whatever discomfort I feel in my chest. The occasional coughing bouts brought by sticky phlegm and renewed feverish spells worry me, but it is the situation at home that leaves me disconsolate. 

I sometimes wonder when this would all end.

Tomorrow would be my last day of quarantine. If I were in a government isolation facility, the staff would have already asked me to pack my bags so other Covid patients could be accommodated. Technically, I should have already been out of the woods and on my way home. But I have been asked by the doctor-aunt to extend my self-imposed banishment for another week and rather suffer the insanity, indignity, and chilly reception I would likely receive at home - from the sibling - better stay far away for as long as needed. 

I have already caused others enough sleepless nights and disappointments.

The Fallout

Our world came crashing down on the night I found out I was Covid positive.

Those persistent, disruptive coughing bouts were the most glaring sign. Those moments when I had to take in more air and breathe with little discomfort in my chest were already a takeaway. And those mild fever spells, which immediately disappear when I take paracetamol were the biggest red flag of them all. And yet, I played down my symptoms, believing they were something else.

On the day I arrived at the Weatherman's unoccupied house in Cavite, I started losing my sense of smell, and then my tastebuds also started to fail me the next day. Then the uncontrolled bowel movement soon followed. By Saturday, the day after I learned of my real condition, the list of all the common symptoms was at last, present.

At home, they were frantic about the condition of the Matriarch. She was one of the most exposed, being my close contact. Another close contact was asked to quarantine in our old house in Santa Mesa and this setup leaves the house more vulnerable than it has ever been before. The Brother-in-Law, sensing our state of disarray, had decided to stay over and help look after his children. His presence somehow gave us a sense of relief and order was restored to a house that has never seen a crisis of this magnitude.

Closer to the front, I started contemplating about my fate. The guilt and shame that comes with being the afflicted break you into pieces. You begin to feel anxious about your 74-year old mother; the children at home who were unvaccinated; you look at the Weatherman taking care of you, who just assumed his Covid status since he didn't take the test, and see the mess you have unleashed upon the world. In consolation, the Favorite Aunt, who is also the family doctor, said it was nobody's fault; that it was bound to happen sooner than we all think. Despite this being a lie, I try to keep her thoughts in heart while my mind drifts from one doomsday picture to another. By nightfall of Saturday, on my second night in quarantine, the chest pains were more pronounced, like my lungs were being filled with concrete, that thoughts of being rushed to the hospital became a real possibility. But I had no way of measuring my oxygen saturation so I wouldn't know.

Meanwhile, another aunt who was checking up on me confided that her daughter, a first cousin, were also showing symptoms similar to mine. She would take the test that weekend and would later find out she is Covid positive as well.

That's two in the family in a week, and we have not even seen each other in ages.

Statistics

Tuesday. 

It all started with throat discomfort. It was itchy and somewhat painful, but I paid little attention as it was not that bothersome, to say the least. I was bent on renovating a corner of my mother's old room in our ancestral house in Santa Mesa and my one-track mind meant that it should be done without delay.

That same week, I played Tropico 3 until the early hours of the morning, only to wake up a few hours later to work, prop up my garden, or do some errands at home like going to the market to procure our needed foodstuff. I had also been constantly coated with dust all the time, from piles of scrap paper, dried mouse shit, to moldy clothes that I had to throw away. For two days, I went home exhausted, and then I would take a bath without even resting.

Wednesday.

The throat discomfort developed into a cough. I also had a slight fever that I still paid little attention to. Who would have thought those were already the tell-tale signs. It was only when the coughing became more frequent and more forceful that I knew something isn't right. I was afraid, deep down, but my intention to leave home to isolate myself elsewhere was what I had in mind.

The sibling, having seen colleagues getting afflicted with the virus didn't wait any longer. She had me reported to the Favorite Aunt for being a possible suspect. I woke up with a simple message from her, Thursday morning.

"Magpa-RT PCR Test ka na."

I also received permission to evacuate and quarantine elsewhere.

That same day, the results came in and my world came crashing down.

Thus I was added to the Statistics. A number nobody wanted to become.

Safe Space

 

"Whenever I give advice to people about sleepovers, I told them that if they really wanted to avoid trouble or pleasure of having an “incident” with someone who invited them to their place, which they just met personally for the first time, they should decline the invitation.

Also, I told them that if they liked the guy so much - that they are willing to take the pleasure of doing it with them then they should accept the invitation without showing any hints of hesitation.

It used to be my rule, and Bloomberg Boy* would attest to that."

Previously on After Eden: Gerumatori, Last Part

We come from a generation where sexual harassment was seen as normal. Concepts like safe space or even consensual displays of affection were yet to be conceived. The entries, written decades past tell of a time when going to a jump-packed, barely lit dance club would mean holding on to your cock before some random drunk guy grabs it inside your pants without your permission. To decline such a gesture would result in that same guy, gaslighting you - accusing you of being "nagmamaganda." when all you've ever wanted is to be left alone in peace, or at least, cruise around until you find someone whose attraction you find mutual. 

In those days too, we are pretty aware of how we started, that we are either a product of our environment, bullied into submission because of our perceived softness, or worse, victims of sexual abuse inflicted by a cousin, a friend of a friend, or even a stranger. I knew of guys who were taken advantage of as a kid. Some were even rape victims who were forced to accept their lot until it became their way of thinking. To come out remains unthinkable, and most of us had either buried our past while keeping a lifetime of resentment or for others, pass along the trauma by reliving it without the other person's consent.

And so the cycle of abuse continues.

I bring our stories to light after reports of sexual harassment surfaced on Twitter early this month. The accused were well-connected within their organization and held a sizeable clout in their respective social circles. They were known too, for perpetuating the much-derided Cancel Culture whose victims include some of my friends. So imagine how their acts of non-consensual sex created a controversy that is tearing Twitter apart. It didn't help that the people tasked to protect the victim seemed silent on the issue, with one dissenter resigning from her post after the rest refused to issue a stronger stance against the abusers. This all happened on the very month we should have been celebrating Pride. Instead, the festivities were muted, and would forever be marred by these transgressions. 

Weeks have already passed and the accusers were nowhere to be found. Their friends, who used to be the most vocal about these issues paid more attention to those who demanded transparency and accountability. I myself no longer expect a closure. The least that could happen is that the harassers can no longer "preach" and "condone" the rest who don't subscribe to their ideology. It is already a fitting punishment for me.

Unfortunately, the revelations didn't stop with them.

However, as the party goes on and the cruising intensifies, more and more guys start to flirt with the kid. I even tried exchanging stares at some of them in hopes that they get my clear and assertive message to back off.

But some of them are too slow to pick it up that’s why I have to position myself in front of Gerumatori as he stands against the cruising wall, while I looked at his sides in hopes that nobody would ever outflank me.

Early today, a well-known Spoken Word artist and the brainchild behind some of the more celebrated Boy-Love series to air on the local internet was accused of sexual harassment. The accuser is none other than one of the actors who played in his series. The details of the assault remain a closely guarded secret. But knowing how these acts of violence happen, it all began with an innocent and harmless physical contact followed by thoughtful words of admiration dropped here and there. When these acts were permitted, a bolder approach is applied next - some flirty words sent over Facebook Messenger intended for the victim, the physical and non-consensual body contacts become more pronounced and disturbing, the personal space being violated, and the relations of power getting blurred between the predator and the prey. 

We know of these things not just because of personal experience, but because in more ways than one, we have learned to read the mind of a person actively looking for a lay. The lack of safe space allowed us to be creative with our approach and used our knowledge to manipulate our engagements before things got out of hand. 

Seeing things as they are now, I am glad the kids have begun speaking up and the voices condemning these unspeakable acts of people who should have known better are louder than ever. And though the past may not be altered and our broken generation will have to live out with the scars inflicted upon us, there is something to look forward to in the future. 

I just hope that in the dawn of my awakening, I may have done things that have spared some souls a rude and violent introduction to a life they chose to live.

I may not have shown it, but I loved it every time he does baby talk. It constantly reminds me that he is still young… It reminds me that for a time, I was like him - who used to dream of having to hang out with some guy much much older than me.

For at 17, I was in my first year in college, and it was one of the most difficult periods of my life, where I have to constantly wage a war against an emerging presence that would soon become the homosexual me.

At 17, he is perfectly in control of his homosexuality. Something, most of us never got to realize at that age.

Taking The Wheel (First Part)

Previously: Driving Lessons

Sometime around the year 2000, my father's driver slowly inched the Toyota FX into the narrow driveway in our cramped compound. It was past 1 in the morning and as I waited for my dad to go to the master's bedroom to retire, me and Darwin, a college friend, would make hasty preparations to sneak out and test drive the car into the near-empty streets of Sampaloc. The driver bestowed his reluctant approval.

Those days, all I wanted was to drive the car to Kelly Heights in Antipolo to watch the city lights blink on the horizon. It was my ultimate senti trip - a long-forgotten tradition of pouring your heart out to another person and unburden yourself before the eventual hardening of emotions come daybreak. But because I was too lazy to get a driver's license, I was reduced to sneaking the car during early mornings, hoping I won't get into trouble. 

But luck ran out one evening.

I was backing the Isuzu Gemini - a car that was given to me by my dad, which I passively declined because of its obsolescence (I was hoping he would gift me a Toyota Corolla '98 instead) - out of the driveway not knowing I was already backing against a neighbor's car that was parked across the street. I did get a mouthful from my mother that day. Not only was I driving without a license, but also it cost my dad 4K to have the damaged car fixed.

My confidence behind the wheel crumbled after that accident. And when you get reminded of that first driving school experience, which you hated so much, might as well abandon learning to drive at all. So in the years after, aside from the occasional refresher courses I took from time to time, I was never really comfortable stepping on the gas, shifting gears, and finding my way into Metro Manila's snarling traffic.

That was until my mother's driver decided to work abroad in 2013. 

The Things I Tweet Not

With over 3,100 followers, including lawmakers, former government officials, and even social progressives who are standing against the excesses of this administration, prudence dictates that I should exercise restraint when posting musings on Twitter. Gone are the days when my tweets were nothing but random (and sometimes sleazy) thoughts that require no contemplation or live journals that I could not publish (for being too trivial to post) when the blogs were still the preferred medium of expression. While posting chronicles of the moment still happen from time to time (to let everyone know that I still have a social life, a me-time, a family, or an identity), by all accounts, my Twitter has been completely politicized. Not to mention, being in a relationship limits your liberty to speak your mind on things that you have yet to disclose to your partner.

Like tales of past relationships.

Given this restricted space for navel gazing, here are the things that I no longer publish on my microblogging service:

1. Half-naked photos that fed my need for validation when I still have the guns to flaunt.

2. Stories of past exploits and the lessons I've learned from them.

3. References to my ex-boyfriends, flings, and strangers-in-between.

4. Unspoken frustrations that come with being in a relationship (which, I tend to leave undisturbed in my subconscious thoughts) 

5. Money and family matters.

These subjects were seldom written in long-form writing as they are irrelevant to my personal narrative. But given the anonymous nature of this blog, I may be able to exercise the freedom to write what I have in mind. Should I be able to sustain my mojo and remain defiant to the temptations of going public in exchange for more readers, you may count on some entries that put into context the stories from my dark ages. 

But first, I will need to write casually, and drop the formality that has become my voice now that I have grown.

The Preserver Of Worlds | The Remains Of His Being

Previously: Matters Of National Security

When he was still in his prime, my dad would always tell that he doesn't expect that I will fight for him. That I won't get back at the people who have wronged him in business or had thrown insults as a result of his brash character. Given this perception of ambivalence, he might have thought that I would completely erase his memory. For I was the insolent son who turned his back when he needed my help to run his businesses.

The last time I saw him alive was when he was being hauled out of an ambulance. He was on a stretcher, unconscious but still breathing. EMT's were relentlessly pumping oxygen into his body. Next came out was his sister. Her words cracking, she first said to me, "patawarin mo na ang papa mo." There were no words to say. I was looking at the brown-skinned lady, slender and in her mid-twenties, cradling her son. She was sobbing in the corner while her fingers moved as she felt the beads of the rosary. Ignoring my aunt's plea and refusing to show some compassion to the lady, I went to comfort my own mother. Had my father's sister known the depth of my savagery, I wouldn't show up at the Manila Doctor's emergency room without the blessing of my mother's sister. I was even having second thoughts of telling my mom that her husband had a major stroke.

---

Twelve years into the future and that hospital scene linger as a reminder of the choices I made. The other side of the story - the reason for the fallout - is irrelevant now. The essence lies in the gestures of the present.

I do not know if it's mere social niceties, filial piety, or some subconscious guilt that pushes me to return to his final resting place. Never in my recollection did I miss bringing flowers on the day of his earthly departure. My younger sibling who was closer to him in all those years I was giving him an icy treatment last paid a visit a few days before her elder was born. Her firstborn is now six years old. My mom, in her advanced age (and without someone to bring her all the way to Navotas), has been a no-show since 2013, when our family driver secured work abroad.  While I deliberately avoid the aunt and her dysfunctional family, who by the way, lives a few blocks from the cemetery, the presence of mums and anthuriums on his grave marker - fresh and well-arranged - tells that in spite of my father's personal tragedies, his footprints still leave a mark to at least one person, who had known the triumphs and downfalls of his life.

A double pair of thick-rimmed glasses; a Press ID issued by the publishing company that gave him a break in the newspaper industry; an organizer, with list of contacts and set appointments, some, scheduled days after his passing; certificates recognizing his contributions to the National Press Club, a Nokia 7650 phone, perhaps, the last prized possession he was clutching before his blood vessels ruptured, and brought him squirming in pain. It might be a strange coincidence or a timely providence, but these personal effects were rediscovered on the day of my dad's twelfth passing. Sifting them out of the piles of disused items inside a dusty cabinet that was cast out to rot at the veranda, I wonder what my father's thoughts were when for the first time, he had to borrow money from me when I was working for another company; or when I politely declined his offer to get me a second-hand scooter smuggled into the country? Did he feel dejected when I gave him a cold embrace the last time he showed up at the door to pay us a visit? Did he harbor ill feelings when he had to spend his last Christmas meal in a makeshift eatery, with his sister, because his children had asked him not to show up at my aunt's house where our family reunion would be taking place? 

Perhaps, the reason I keep coming back to his grave is because there were words left unsaid; that deep down, I am terrified of committing the same ruthlessness to the people I tried to scratch out from my life. Putting back these artifacts in a sturdy plastic box, I realize that as long as I walk this earth, I will carry his memory, and put it in a safe place where time could never devour it.

And within me, in that little corner of my chest that is still capable of recalling, celebrating his life, including his sins and redemptions, will be my atonement.

In Her State of Delirium (Second Part)

"Punasan mo lang ng punasan ang extremeties niya," my sister tells me. "Isama mo ang braso, pati na ang kili-kili." 

"Huwag ka lang mag concentrate sa noo." 

You can sense in her voice the grave concern as she gives the order to me. While she is a pro when it comes to taking care of sick toddlers, being away from home and from our mother who is at the moment burning up with a 40-degree fever makes it difficult for her. My lack of experience nursing people back to health doesn't help, and so is the absence of knowledge as to what my mother's cause of infection is.  

The maid returns with a basin full of cold water. Rinsing off the towel before pressing it against my mother's arm made her whimper. It has been almost an hour after she took a paracetamol and barely her condition improved. With her eyes shut tight, and her lips mumbling incoherent words, I asked the maid to get her blood pressure once again while pressing the emergency number on my mobile to ask our family doctor for the next step. 

"Hindi ba yan Dehydrated?" My Favorite Aunt inquired. The matriarch's blood pressure is below 100.

Her temperature dips slightly to 39.

"Pinainom ko po ulit ng tubig. Uminom naman siya ng kaunti" In truth, I was merely waiting for her to make the decision: to rush my mom to the emergency room so that doctors and nurses can actually attend to her needs. Aside from the reminder to have my mom drink her antibiotics, (which the Favorite Aunt prescribed without identifying the cause of the infection) and constant interrogation about the meds she was taking to keep her blood pressure in check, no decision to call Lifeline Rescue for ambulance transportation came.

In many ways, I was relieved.

I returned to applying cold compresses on my mother's sweltering skin until her sleeveless night dress was soaking from her sweat.

---

Throughout the entire ordeal, the feeling of hopelessness and resignation never really sunk in. I was surrounded by people who hardly rested while the matriarch did her best to recuperate. There was the maid who took her temperature and blood pressure and wrote down the figures on a notebook so we can compare notes. She was also the one who changed my mom's dress, (while I lifted her while she was sleeping) replaced the bag of ice cubes which she puts on her head, watched her during the day while I go to bed, and made sure she ate the food on her plate despite the lack of appetite.

Kuya O did much of the legwork - buying her medicines, bringing the urine sample to a laboratory not far from home, procuring everything that was needed because I could not leave home. Even the Weatherman, who for some reasons decided to stay over that Saturday, lent me the strength to carry on. He prayed over my mom when she was delirious before retreating to my room to resume building his town on Cities Skylines.

I have no complaints.

The Favorite Aunt dropped by every day to make sure she sees her sister. The clarity she provided, the blanket assurance that an emergency trip was not needed, and the mere fact she is there made the difference. We are indeed lucky to have a doctor in the family.  I would not speak of my place in the two sleepless nights she had her bouts of chills, fever, and stomach pain. But suffice to say, it scared me a little when she would tell me at 3 in the morning that she had no memory after the cold spells set in.

---

We still have no idea what caused her infection.

Sunday came and I was prepared for the worst. But instead of the recurring chills, a check of her temperature give away a slight fever. With the heaviness of her tummy eased by a pill, the matriarch slept without any discomfort that night.

The antibiotics might have already taken effect.

-tobecontinued-

In Her State of Delirium (First Part)

It all began with the sudden chills. 

There was no time to call my name, and only the maid, who happened to pass by her room and found her in a fetal position at the edge of the bed offered the much-needed blanket. As a precaution, I phoned the Favorite Aunt to report the developing situation. She is the family doctor. The Favorite Aunt assured me there was little to worry. It was already sundown and geriatrics like my mother experience the chills especially during this time of the year.

And so I thought.

Thirty minutes after the phone call, while I was with the Weatherman looking for a printing shop in Recto, my sister told me that my mother's temperature surged to almost 40. Another SMS message: she purged all she had eaten the entire day. I instructed the sibling to have someone check our matriarch's blood pressure before heading home without saying a word. 

When I got into her room, my mother was delirious.

Unable to speak a complete sentence or even recognize her surroundings, I was ready to dial 911 so I could rush her to the nearest hospital. Her blood pressure did shoot way above the average, but it was not as alarming as the last time it hit 200.  She complained of headaches and would have preferred to be left alone to sleep. But with the favorite aunt grilling me about the medicines she was supposed to take and with me unable to provide a concrete response, the mumbling of my lips hint of ignorance. If not for my sister who told me to calm down, I would have made rushed decisions out of fear and panic.  

Eventually, the fever had dissipated after hours of applying cold compresses to her head.  She was back in shape, without any memory of the events that night. So casual things had become that I even allowed my sister to go with her in-laws. Her family was supposed to spend the weekend in Tagaytay.  The next day, we assumed the worst was over and that the chills and the high fever were caused by indigestion. She was seen eating a cup of Taho before her guts expelled them in one nasty purge. 

It was the evening of the next day when my mother had once again complained of the chills. It was almost 10 pm on a Saturday night, and without my sister to tell me what to do, my mother's fever leap past 40. 

By then, we all knew it was an infection.

-tobecontinued-

Much Diminished

I used to write everyday on these pages.

---

The hanging herb garden outside my window used to be a source of pride and a reason to journey around the metropolis for Basil and Lavender saplings. I would then attempt to grow them despite the rampage of city birds.

---

I used to walk from home to my gym in Mabini, often, at dusk, when the sun was about to set. I used to have a time for contemplation as I gaze into the open sea: The days afforded me a moment to forge those unfulfilled dreams and cast away the regrets accumulated in years.

---

I used to brag to inferior men that I worked out three times a week.

But now, everything seems like a distant memory. Even putting into words the life I choose to lead is a struggle, a pain that keeps catching up whenever I am being reminded of the person I used to be.

Times have changed and in so many ways, so am I.

Noble and Ever Loyal City

Previously: Sueños de Manila

Credit: Manila Nostalgia 

I was born and raised in Manila. This is home. I can look the other way and forget that its streets reek of human excrements, and in some unlit corners, await the riding-in-tandems who will take your purse and phone away. I have no problem accepting that our roads disappear when thunderstorms inundate the city, and no matter how the homeless turn the sidewalks into their open-air-bedrooms at night, or the trash piles when the garbage trucks forget to collect them in the morning, I still see a hidden gem that will forever make this place unique.

Authentic.

Timeless.

Forebears say this used to be the Pearl of the Orient. This is the city where seven mother churches crammed within the old walls of Intramuros; the place where expats came to conduct business in Spanish and broken English in Escolta; the port where tradesmen from China sold goods and services to the masses in Binondo and San Nicolas. When one needs to be seen, there is the Avenida, lined with fancy theaters showing silent films, or the waterfront promenade at Bagumbayan with its tropical breeze blowing from the sea. Never without a doubt that the sunsets then are as breathtaking as they are today. And at times when I yearn to romanticize the old days; when the calesas and tranvias still ply the routes now taken over by jeepneys and pedicabs; when the ordinary folks still speak in archaic Tagalog; and when it was still possible to hear mass in Latin at the Manila Cathedral, you can't help but feel a great loss for everything that could have made us prouder urbanites was gone forever when bombs start dropping and obliterated our city.

Retrenchment

Previously on: Ayala Boy

I have difficult news to share with you today. Due to some updates in our SEO strategy, we’ve been forced to lower our writing deliverables by up to 40% immediately. This is not what we had hoped would happen. We’ve unfortunately had to let go of ~50 of your peers today. Although all of your contracts are still active, we have updated a new contract (details below) which you will have to agree to by tomorrow, 3pm, in order to continue writing.

--

The electronic mail was couriered through the private networks, like a bomb dropped at the unsuspecting agents. There was no advanced word: not even hints that something sinister will tear people's lives before the day's end. It was business as usual for these writers, not even in their greatest fears had they ever contemplated having to spend their last day at work before the month's end. With the holidays fast approaching, seldom do companies hire at this time of the year. Why leave when pay is good, performance is in the upswing, and all seems well with the home-based workplace?

But then the unthinkable happened. 

One of the agents suddenly found herself being kicked out of the company portal. She was unable to log in for reasons beyond her understanding. Another agent wasn't even able to start his work anymore, unbeknownst to him, his contract had just expired.

Across different teams, this was the collective tale. Fifty souls had just lost their jobs. This doesn't include the number of new hires from the outsourcing unit the management had just tapped some months ago. There will be no separation pay. Even those who met swift termination were deemed the lucky ones. They are at least free to look for work elsewhere, unlike those who are still in the company, and unsure when their time of reckoning will come. Not only will they never find peace in the coming days, earnings, unlike the ones they enjoyed just weeks ago have been slashed by more than a half. Those who used to bringing home 60 grand will have to make do with less than 20. The management did not just enforce a limit to the number of work units a writer can do in a week, every short article written will have less value from now on. 

Lives have changed in a single day. 

I have heard stories about agents who suddenly found themselves under mountains of debts. Cars that were paid by loans might need to be returned if other sources of income cannot be found. Children who were sent to expensive schools may need to go back to public classrooms. Many, who have left their day jobs will suddenly find themselves unable to support their new lifestyles. Regret will be the by-word for tomorrow. Some of my peers even started looking for short-term projects on Upwork.

While this has little effect on my earnings, the confidence I have with the raketship has been shaken. No longer can I let the days pass certain of my direction. While I have seen countless retrenchments in my life, one, even engineered by me, it is only now that the stakes have been higher. Losing the raketship would mean a slash of my take-home pay. I cannot imagine keeping a lifestyle with merely my day job to keep my finances afloat.

A town hall meeting was held today, and a person can glean from the agents' sarcastic remarks punctured by self-entitled free thought the anguish of having to work under a new arrangement. Tempers flared. Many, vented their anger and resignation by showing insolence towards the management. At first, my sympathies were with fellow writers, and how they have been led to believe of the limitless opportunities offered by the raketship. But realizing how companies - big and small - ditch even their most loyal pawns, and how each worker is as good as his last performance, little by little, I begin to understand the right of the raketship to save itself. It may have been drastic for others, especially to those who have become complacent of tomorrow, but nothing can really be undone. I may have been spared the fate befalling some of my peers; I may even end up as one of the highest income earners given the decision to stick with two jobs rather than invest in one. However, in the end, I may have to accept this as well:

Nothing is permanent, and I may have to look for a third source of income, just to be sure I may never find myself with nothing, when the day of my retrenchment comes. 

Whirlwind

Once, I knew this boy who used to lay his heart next to the man he had slept with. The first he met in Malate. They left the dance floor together at daybreak and ended up in a motel somewhere in Quiapo. The next day, lust had turned into affection. A week later, they elevated their bonds to being partners. 

The boy was 21. 

The second was a random chat mate on Yahoo Messenger. They exchanged scanned photos, liked each other, and then, decided to meet a few days later. On the evening of their hang out, it rained, drenching both kids, which lead them to make a detour in a motel instead of going home. After the make-out and the fucking, they left the grounds promising to keep in touch. A week later, the guy was introduced to friends as our boy's next lover. 

He was barely 6 months out of his first relationship. 

Somewhere between that time and today, the rules of engagement had changed. The heart, which he used to expose on the first night of intimate contact, is now the last he reveals to strangers. Boys, who would grow fond of him after spending a day (or night) in his company never gets his attention. He would wonder how others would speak of endearment when little by little, his gestures hint his desire to keep some distance. 

I sometimes ask, does he feel pain when he disappoints another, a guy he probably had sex with, in real life, or through digital trade-offs? 

"Why should I?" He'd say with ambivalence. 

He would then go on telling me the burden of realizing how someone's tenderness is like a poison to his solitude. The last time he coupled with another, he was dumped for reasons unjustified. That, or he would cling to the faintest of hope that a sharing of minds would eventually lead to the oneness of hearts. 

Chances are, he would give up after finding another worth exploring, and when things don't work out, he would move on and begin another cycle. 

Looking back through all the days he had closed his eyes and allowed his heart to lead the way, he would end up bruised and limping, with nowhere to go but back to his fort. And all the lessons he learned - from sharing lives with other beings - pile up, like thick stone blocks he use to reinforce his walls, making it more difficult for the next soul to reach him, and pull out that boy who once believed in unconditional attachments. 

Still, there are remnants of that childhood, cocooned and waiting to break free for that one chance to soar again; like how he still finds himself under the Weatherman's spell, promising he would look after him even when the kid searches everywhere for that one-of-a-kind attraction; or when he comes across some "bromance" video clip, mistaking it for homemade gay porn on Socialcam, and then spend the rest of the morning lamenting how he once believed in such fairy tales; or when he listens to his Spotify playlists, and shares some of his favorite tunes on social media, hoping someone would actually dig his music. 

I would like to believe the boy still wanders within; past the turbulence of new-found and fleeting trysts, beyond the trappings of lust that open the door to longing; and laid beneath this narrative of always looking back, and using past heartbreaks to make someone's attempt to get close as complicated as his thoughts of having relationships.

Once, I knew this boy who used to lay his heart next to the guy he had slept with. And now that this boy had grown into a man, he sleeps with his heart lay hidden, never for the one whose impatience would not even bother to learn the troubles it had gone through, and understand why it takes longer nowadays for that organ to even sound a beat.

*After A, whose troubles and hang-ups rival mine.

Return To The Zoo

Previously: Manila Zoo

There is this kind of magic when returning to the place that once made your eyes shimmer with excitement. For a moment, the toils of daily living is replaced by this longing, as memories of past visits fill you with fleeting thoughts - echoes of children screaming with delight upon learning their rickety tour bus is heading towards this forgotten corner; of getting an SMS from a brother after your work, asking if you can accompany him for a leisurely photo shoot; of family visits so obscure, you create scenes, unsure they ever happened. For reasons that need no contemplation, I thought of going back at the Manila Zoo, a kind of kindled visit, so as to remind myself that time flies and the things I used to cherish, may not be there anymore.

It was never my first idea to go there, as what I had in mind was a tour of the National Museum. Sleepless and needing some activity to spice up my rest day, the free entrance at the public exposition was something one should never ignore. I went there, at the building across Intramuros only to find the repository of the nation's artifacts was closed on a Monday. 

Bummer.

Instead of going home to catch some sleep, or having a detour at the gym, like I always do, a plan B comes in handy. I may have to endure the blistering heat and the stench of animal excrement, already wafting outside the walls of this verdant space, but better have this trip now, than return to my bed without any story to tell.

The return expedition is like a "Time Space Warp" to the past, except the sights and sounds look so vintage and yet neglected, and whose soul seems to be in a state of despair that no publicity or promotion can bring back the zoo's old glory days. There is Maali, the 41-year old elephant, who was masticating her late afternoon snack when I came across her pen. She made some headlines some years ago after an online petition for her transfer to an animal sanctuary gathered a lot of digital signatures. Aging and isolated, she is not the only wild beast confined to life imprisonment. There is this hippopotamus, whose wrinkled hide show some moss green lines, a lion with thinning mane having a dip at his tub, and peacocks, with balding feathers trying to call the attention of an unimpressed mate who was nesting in a corner.   

One can't help but wonder, are these animals really getting the care they need?

The lament was deepened by the seemingly cavalier attitude of those who run the place, and the kind of people who visit it. From shack owners who wheedle curiousers to have a photo shoot with their exotic birds (and snakes) for 100 pesos, to adults who encourage children to feed the animals of whatever edible stuff they carry around, I was shaking my head in disappointment, and even wishing Manila Zoo to charge more before visitors can get in. I think there is a need, not just to see healthy animals on display, but to actually learn the value of preserving the environment through on the spot education, and realize, that these creatures belong in the wild, and not inside corralled spaces.

I wouldn't forget seeing plastic containers of bottled water and cups of 7-Eleven Slurpee next to a sleeping tiger. For a moment there, I thought we have reduced ourselves to organisms far lesser than the species whose attention we were trying to get.

The beasts who have thrown those garbage should have hurled themselves instead.

Despite the heartbreaks, there too, are light moments worth sharing to cap my return: the almost instinctive "meowing" when trying to call the attention of the felines, particularly that civet cat sleeping inside her cage; to that inter-species enclosure where rabbits and guinea pigs share living spaces and appearing in harmony; to talking to a pen maintenance worker who told me that many of the turtles there were donated by pet owners who can no longer take care of the overgrown reptiles.

"Minsan dinadala na lang nila dito," he was sweeping the little pond while the slow-moving Testudines rush towards the other side of the pen, in a manner similar to a stampede. You can hear the clacking sounds as their shells collide.

"So anong pinapakain niyo sa kanila?" I further probed.

"Hayun, dilis, kaya malansa dito."

Despite my hatred for enclosed spaces, and animals that seem to being displayed with wanton abandon, there is a need to return to the zoo, not to glorify this false mastery over lesser creatures, but to see the sights before each of the animals who have known this place as home pass into oblivion. The last time I stepped foot on this ground, there was this orangutan taking up residence in one of the cages. She died of old age last 2010, never to be replaced again as the entire species may become extinct a few generations from now. Many of the larger pens have been left empty, with local funds apparently being funneled towards personal pockets instead of adding stocks of wild animals for people to see. And with trends turning against all forms of animal cruelty, (including putting them in places, like zoos) there would come a time when the Manila Zoo will just be, an ordinary public space.

A park, whose history comes alive in pictures and stories, like the one I am writing today.

Ayala Boy

And when I close my eyes, I see myself working in some small, but high-paying company at the heart of Makati. One breezy afternoon, I would go out of my new office building to smoke and gaze at the sun's rays reflected on the stained windows of a skyscraper across the street. The day was relatively productive, and day by day, I am becoming more of an asset to the company. Ever since I joined them, I make sure that I am in the forefront of every project they have been involved with.

For I have taught myself to become an achiever; someone who is willing to take all necessary steps just to be ahead of his colleagues.

- Taming the Tikbalang, Secret Blog Entry, February, 2006

I opened my droopy eyes after giving a big yawn, timing that there were no managers in front of me. It was a Friday morning, and with just two hours of sleep, there was little love when I had at last, made the decision to go to the Makati Central Business District. It was a last-minute change of heart, an afterthought, after some team leader from the Raketship included my name on her list. I was to attend a workshop she personally organized, a small group that didn't show up when the company had its summer outing in an island south of the country. Without her persistence, and the realization that I was representing my team, I would rather lay in bed and sleep, than go through another night shift with very little shut-eye.

I arrived late at the venue, as expected. Forced to walk under intense heat from the Makati Medical Center to Greenbelt Mall when the shuttle cut its trip short at the fringes of Ayala and Buendia avenues. Memories of past loves, and even the present one make incursions in the head, as I hasten my steps at the overhead walkway towards my destination. But with thoughts of having an ancient aspiration being accomplished, and the newness of having to set up a mobile workstation in a real office, the matters of the heart turn irrelevant when there is an apparent level-up in my profession.

It would be the first time meeting face-to-face the people at the SEO writing job.

Very little can be said about the event, except the resource persons talked about work issues and new QA processes the business will implement soon. Also mentioned were features that would aid writers like me so our production multiplies, and the quarterly goals achieved. This of course, is corporate chat, a preoccupation I am to make some distance given the job arrangements with the company. And with portal issues keeping us from writing snippets, and animated managers who take breaks to smoke every two hours, there was little doubt about the informality of the meeting.  

And it made me feel at home.

What I can write with more than fleeting descriptions are the modern and minimalist style workspaces, divided into small rooms with floor to ceiling glass walls so that one could see what everyone is doing within. There are spacious common areas too where groups can meet and conceptualize ideas, socialize with colleagues, and relax, as there are swinging benches, Foosball tables, and even a stationary bike in one corner. The raketship has a small office there as well, enough to fit 10 people for brainstorming and roundtable teleconferences with counterparts abroad. I was told the office is seldom occupied, and when it does, only the country director and his team go in to stock items to be given away as motivational trinkets.

I can also tell about the people at the workshop, whose names I no longer recall, except those of Lourdes, the manager of my department, and MM, the country director of the Raketship. What I knew from MM's brief talk was his love of scuba diving, as well as his desire to make everyone as productive - even at the cost of doing more automation to speed up our work. Also remarkable was his decision to use the fire exit stairs from the fifth floor to go down to the lobby. He said it was to save electricity. Everyone of course, followed. Lourdes, meanwhile, was instrumental for my stay in the company. When I found that my pay went to some people I have no contact with. She was there to speak on my behalf, even raising her voice when the representative of the staffing agency showed arrogance when she was being polite about my missing earnings. To this day, I still see Lourdes as an elder sister, someone I'd always remember should a time come I'd have second thoughts leaving the side work.

We parted ways that day with a tight and sincere hug.

I went to the workshop believing I could live the Ayala dream: of finally doing some work-related stuff that would put me alongside the thousands of corporate drones and creative slaves who make up the daytime population of the financial district. The last time I went to Makati other than to meet ex lovers or have dinners with friends was to look for work, and aspire to become a slacks-and-sleeves guy myself. Typing on my laptop as MM speaks about the hours we render work, memories of that one afternoon at Sencor re-emerges, when I used to gaze at the skyscrapers while lamenting how near I was and yet stuck at the bowels of Pasay. I also recall musing the job hunting days, when I was very close to accepting posts that pay very little, but at least, I can boast rubbing elbows with the professional elites. I know, such pipe dream will never be mine anymore, and at a time when relative wealth no longer drives me to shop for workplaces beyond home, there is comfort knowing I can put my illusions to rest knowing that for once, life afforded me a day to be an Ayala boy.

Once, A Boat Was Sinking

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.

Previously, The Wanderer

I.

On a random day like this, I would take out my Metrobank ATM card from its hidden purse and insert it at a teller machine. The exercise was meant to count my money, or rather, what remains of it after unforeseen spending had once more, dwindled my savings. When my nephew, Diego got sick and had to be confined at a hospital, I used my savings to beef up my sister's cash reserves. Same thing happened when I could no longer set aside a portion of my salary to pay my credit card bills. I had to slash a thousand pesos from that bank account just to stave off my ballooning debts. 

II.

There had been repeated talks of a new project in the workplace, which would let us handle the email support of a music service provider in the US. The prospects of a business turnaround was promising, at a time when a downturn in our base accounts threaten to slash the remaining jobs for my colleagues. Negotiations between my boss and the client have been going since the beginning of the year, but a quarter had already passed and the nesting hasn't even begun yet. 

The team is getting restless, and I, anxious. Should this venture not push through, I was ready to give up and throw my career away, to look for employment elsewhere and start over with a clean slate.

When the training started after so much delay, it had to be postponed a few times because the trainer had to attend to some pressing business matters. Weeks went by and the team assembled for this account went home with nothing but empty promises. In one of these nights, I found myself getting acquainted with my past. A bottle of beer in Cubao before midnight, on a Tuesday, and in a place where people who have lost direction find themselves inebriated and belting, the narratives of their failed lives. 

III.

Battered and yet, refusing to accept being broken, very little was said about this life phase exactly a year ago. I had seen worse, when I was younger, and my constant presence at Elance meant that salvation was just a raketship away. A budding romance on the side softened the brooding thoughts. But love was no guarantee of a life getting fixed. The precariousness of being in suspended animation, without fortune, or accomplishment to speak of is a cause to go on a free-fall. But I didn't, and within a week, I would bear witness to a transformation that will change everything, and lift the siege that has been my life for as long as I can remember. 

Joppi

Previously: Ice Block

I fondly remember how you came into my life. 

It was last summer, and one of the dick pictures you posted on Twitter caught my fancy. There was nothing peculiar about it, except that it was bundled with other photos that reveal your true passion: coffee making. The exact words have escaped me now, but I recall telling you that I see beyond the perversion. That I find your photos artistic, and I think you're a nice guy who seldom gets into trouble. 

That you are worth learning.

The words might have sunk deep, for I saw the beginning of your transformation. Less you flaunted your dirty mind, and instead posted crafted words that resonate with your delicate side. It is unfortunate that I am beginning to see the Gundam Pilot as a steady date, hence, our ties were limited to occasional sexts tempered by pillow talks. In spite of the caution, I was paying close attention to our conversations. I was hoping to find a common thread in your stories that may draw me closer to you. 

This didn't happen for the announcement came too sudden. I already renounced my freedom on Twitter when our embryonic friendship was about to take shape. I knew you felt abandoned, but nothing could be undone. You came too late, and in our day-to-day banters, I failed to find a spot to anchor my feelings.

Time had robbed us. 

We walked away from each other knowing there's no chance of getting back. But there you are still, ready to provide cover when the ex and I separated ways - twice.

--

Ours should have been the classic rebound story, with you taking the place of the ex after he left for the flimsiest of excuses. Your patience is noble, and so is your perseverance. If I had any complaint before the pre-Christmas eyeball, it was your hesitation to make a move. Only after the second breakup did we set the date for the meet-up. By then, I was merely keeping a promise: a show of gratitude for holding me together when I was about to spiral out of control. And it was a memorable late-afternoon lunch: the stroll around Binondo, the feast at the Chinatown Mall, the revelations of a romance I would forever regard as a sham. If there was lacking in that first encounter, it was your stories. Either I was preoccupied with my own, or I didn't pay attention to your narratives.

At a hindsight, the Binondo hangout encapsulates my unsteady state of mind, and your place had I let you pursue what you truly felt for me. It will be a one-sided partnership, a union replete with heartbreaks, a relationship I might not take seriously given the infidelities of the past. But you carried on, with your everyday greetings on DMs, instant messaging apps, and sometimes, even on SMS. You would always have a comment about my rants, and even put stars on most of my trivial Twitter updates. I let you have your way believing infatuations fade without strong encouragement. This is why I decline your invitations to watch movies, or even see you during my free time. The ambivalence would have gone on if it never reached the point where the guilt becomes too unbearable. I had to step in and ask you to cease encroaching. Brutal as it sounds but this is how I care. There is injustice knowing I can never reciprocate the attention you give, and if it means driving you away to realize the futility, then so be it.

The hurt ends with me.

---

"I just want to be left alone. :)"

"Haha. Wala naman bago dun paps. Hehehe. :)"

"Unless you don't want to get upset and frustrated, I suggest you keep your distance."

"Stop sending DMs and Viber message to me. Let me be the one to reach out, in my own accord."

"May nagawa ba ko Mugs? Pero sige." In truth, this question hurts the most. You deserve fair treatment given the kindness you show.

"Wala, nalulungkot lang ako kasi todo effort ka mag-care sa akin pero hindi naman ako ganun ka-focused sayo."

"I find it unfair because if I were in your shoes, I won't exert much effort."

"I am not expecting anything in return naman. You are a friend of mine. And I know where my place is. Pero kung gusto mo na tumigil ako, cge."

"That's the difficult part. Not expecting. You think if I respond very warmly, you think you won't get encouraged to exert more effort?"

"Oks na. I'm stopping. :)"

"Thank you."

I know this is not the end. That I am not breaking ties, but instead, saving the friendship you recognize. In time, when you learn to be less intense. When you realize there's no point of missing someone you only saw once. And when you start telling stories, instead of trying to find where my soft spot is, I would reach out, and probably, hang out with you like I've always thought we would.

Until then. Let this entry be a token of my remembrance. 

I will always remember.

Enemy Of The State

Our story tells of a tribe more ancient than all the peoples who call these islands home. They have set their holdings in the south, creating a Thalassocracy extending down to the shores of Java. These locals were bound by one creed, and in the ages to come, no conqueror from the West could bring them down to their knees. Towns get burned and lives, slaughtered. But they return with resolve to stand their ground and protect their God-forsaken homelands.   

The American Imperialists know this, and have left them largely untouched. The Spaniards won, but a strip of land we now call Zamboanga. In the three centuries they evangelized the Indios, never were they able to bring the cross to the Moros. And so Uncle Joe used the art of persuasion, and money to pacify the Maranaos, Badjaos, and eventually the Tausugs, who have paid the price during the butchery at Bud Dajo.

When the Americans left, very little would be heard of this tribe, except that they are to be feared. Restive and weary of outsiders, only one leader had the madness to recruit their warriors to be trained, and used against Sabah. They were to occupy the state in behalf of the Sultanate, and when this didn't go well with the trainees, they too were slaughtered in what is now known as the Jabidah Massacre. 

The First insurrection took place soon after, with the torching of Jolo setting the fires of a larger armed struggle. Entire generations caught in the crossfire would hardly know of peace. To this day, the Moro Homelands remain a patchwork of local feifdoms propped by the Malacanan, and towns under control of the rebels.

The idea of a sovereign republic exists only in parchment.

I tell of this tragedy, for its connection to the recent carnage in Mamasapano, Maguindanao. Forty four police officers died in the hands of the MILF after the failed arrest of a foreign terrorist left them at the mercy of bandits and rebels. Three days have already passed and only scant reports trickle down the media. Whispers tell of mutilations: of the dead being paraded in the streets like skinned trophies, of the outsiders being mounted on spikes to serve as warning to those who would cross the line. There was even a video clip going rounds on social media showing the fallen with their heads cracked open, bodies peppered with bullets, and missing body parts scattered on the ground.

Such is the handiwork of the beasts.

Much as I would like to lend my voice for the end of the Bangsamoro peace process, and blame the MILF for the mass slaughter, history is a painful memory of how time and again, we refuse to listen to their story. I recall some years past, I came across a sari-sari store at the edge of the Pasig River. Its storekeeper telling not to venture into neighborhoods where Muslims dwell. I heeded the warning without asking the consequence of my transgression and I returned home unharmed. The MILF said they were never given advisory that a police operation will take place near their camp; that over 300 men armed with rifles will hunt down a fugitive wanted by the same masters who were responsible for the genocide at Bud Dajo.

And so before pointing the blame to people and demanding their blood, try to imagine spending a lifetime with a gun as companion. Put yourself in the shoes of someone, whose mind is constantly fucked up by the everlasting prospects of war.

Then realize that some armed band showed up one night, violating the very land your ancestors fought so you can lay claim to it.

How would you respond - even punish the trespassers who had the gall to shoot bullets when you thought peace was at hand?

Ask, should this happen to your tattered home.

Would you show no mercy?

Ice Block

Previously on L'Heure Bleue:  Missing

A Twitter Direct Message:

"Into the Woods."

Insert a smiley emoticon after the invitation.

"I-calendar mo na." 

His message received no reply.

"Papa Muggggsss!!! Miss you." The guy made his presence felt again, two hours after his first barrage. Irked, I carried on watching the first episode of Black Mirror and forgot the whole thing.

I thought it was the end of it - for that night. After all, I have already conveyed my muted disinterest. 

But no. 

Leaving the office after the short teleconference with our Jewish clients, the guy sent another direct message. I didn't let it go unnoticed this time. Thoughts can no longer be suppressed. And in a very gentle but frank response, I told him to fuck off.

"Mugggie, January 31 pala, Saturday. Into the Woods pag puwede ka." 

"Toy," I tapped on my touchscreen. "Medyo nakukulitan na ako. I can't say yes to an invitation I cannot commit on."

No longer did I hear from him after he apologized.

--

I knew this would happen.

Our lunch date at the Lucky China Mall a month ago went so well that it might have spawn an idea that I would be looking forward to more hangouts. While I don't discount the possibility of seeing him in the near future, there are two things one should understand about me: That I don't like being forced into situations I have no control. And that, the "missing you" part is something I reserve only to people who matter.

It's like saying "I love you." to someone who can never be yours.

Lately, I find it extremely difficult to understand some guys' idea of attachment. Another fellow on Twitter, who I accommodated by sensibly talking to him on the phone for 2 hours, misses our conversation. From the tone of his last direct message, he wanted to talk badly. Another chap, I engaged in edging last week started calling me daddy. Remembering that stranger who used to call me "dad" in some lucid dream, the kid never heard from me again. He too, apparently got attached when I told him I'd ram his tight ass and breed him real good.

Of course, that was sext. Latest government estimates say there are 500 new HIV cases last November. And for obvious reasons, the news didn't surprise me.

--

Albert Einstein is often quoted saying that insanity is doing something over and over expecting different results. Feel free to label me insane after this revelation, but this cycle has been going on repeatedly.

There is no escape. Only atonement.

I wish to convey my apologies to these men and tell them that the idea of a more intimate association is not forthcoming. And that the sweet overtures I show are mere courtesies. It takes more than words - and deeds, to make romantic possibilities happen. In the past, the response came too late and I would suffer more from the "what-ifs." and "why-I-didn'ts."

To this day, I am still beset by some regrets.

Also, much as I would like to stay away and remain detached for the rest of the year, the narratives of heartaches and repeated trysts come with sovereignty. Singlehood guarantees one's liberty to explore and get tangled with people in more ways than I could write in the blog. Hence, expect some juicy confessions from time to time.

And finally, despite claims of missing no one, in a twist that is utter madness, I learned last New Year that I still reserve a special place for that one soul I'd wish to go back in time when he used to say "I love you" in awkward whispers and tell him,

 I was his for all time.

A Year Summed In One Prayer

New Year's Eve. 

I was slouched in the sofa after coming from the annual long walk along C6 in Taguig, when the Favorite Aunt asked me to lead the Media Noche prayers. I have been asked to welcome the occasion with an invocation. But given the very advanced notice this time, I was able to put my thoughts into words, and come up with a rehearsed petition that is befitting for a blog entry.

"Our Father, we gather here tonight to celebrate the coming year as one family. We are here to thank you for the bountiful providence, as well as for looking after our loved ones and keeping them safe. We are deeply grateful that despite the highs and lows of our days, you never fail to lift us from our sullenness. And for all the times we have hurt another, we ask for forgiveness, and ways to make amends.

We offer our prayers for those who are not with us tonight, namely [insert the name of the sister here, who spent the New Year with the in-laws] and her family. May you keep them safe and away from harm, our prayers also go..."

For some strange reasons, the phone I was holding went sleep mode, and the text I was reading disappeared. I tried scrolling down the app where I put the draft, but the touch screen refused to follow. There was the awkward pause, while everyone around the table was waiting for me to conclude. Even the Favorite Aunt tried to continue the invocation, yet being unused to spontaneous thoughts, I was forced to follow through by scrolling down the text until I come across the part I was supposed to supplicate.

"... to those who look after us. May you also bless their loved ones. Lastly, we offer our prayers for the uncertainties that lie ahead, that you may guide us and give us strength when hope seems to falter. Please bless us, our father, as you have been, in Jesus name, we serve your will. Amen."

No side comments came after the prayer, as everyone was eager to begin the post-midnight feast. All I heard the next day was a commendation from my mother, who actually liked the prayer. I told her that I panicked when my train of thought was disrupted.

In hindsight, though it was embarrassing to lose your poise during a solemn moment, the delivery actually sums up how my life has been in the past year: On another note app on my phone was an outline of the things I sought to accomplish. There were pleasant surprises that were not part of the draft, and disappointments too, when notions of order suddenly crumbled just when you thought things were going according to plan. In the end, I had to live through the setback; of that mistake of relying in the strength of another, and carry on with the task I had to finish with little fanfare, or praise from those who were my life's quiet observers.

To this day, sticking to what I was set to do, despite the circumstances, remain my biggest accomplishment. 

Happy New Year.