Hindi ko alam kung bakit dinala ako ng mga paa ko ngayon dito.
Akalain mo yun, apat na istasyon din to mula sa bahay ah, muntik pa nga akong malingat, kung nagkaganun, sa Baclaran ang baksak ko.
Pero ano pa bang magagawa ko, heto’t nakaporma na, edi ituloy. Sayang din ang bagong Tshirt na binuhusan pa ata nila Mikel ng pabango’t halos malipat na sa case ng gitara ang amoy ko. Syempre pa, supportive sila. Matagal tagal din kaming nagkasama-sama sa Ateneo, hayskul pa lang tropa na kami.
Nakakatawa nga, sa LRT naisip ko dalwang taon na din pala yun. Mula nang mag USTE ang lokong yun, di na nagparamdam. Ni hindi man lang nagpoPoke sa Facebook. Huli kong kita sa kanya kasama nya si Abet sa Greenbelt. Buti pa silang dalawa, sa aming lima sila lang napahiwalay, at mukhang tumino. Pero sabagay, mula pa naman nung hayskul sila na yung pair, pareho kasing lalambot lambot. Kami naman nila Mikel at Nico ang angels nila, mga tagapagtangol daw. Parang tanga nga lang mga tao nun, pati kami pinagdududahan. Bakla daw kaming lima. Asar na asar ako nun, hindi naman nagbibihis babae si Drei, lalo na si Abet. Malambot, oo, pero hindi naman naging issue yun sa tropa. Mula nung freshman year kami, kami na ang tropa eh, although, kami ni Drei since fourth grade pa; tsaka wala naman akong nakitang mali.
Mas lalo ngayon, alam ko wala namang mali, lahat naman ng tao may karapatang magmahal at mahalin. Bakit ba kasi natakot ako nun…
Senior year nung unang nagparamdam si Drei, dyahe talaga yun. Nahihiya ako lalo’t pag may mga ibang nakakarinig. Sabi nya, pinopormahan nya daw ako, parang tanga.
Akala ko nun, biruan lang yun…
Pero bakit ganun…
Ewan, basta eto na to.
(Kumatok sa Unit nila Drei)
Drei: Sandali, sino yan?
‘Jason ‘to’ sabi ko.
Drei: O, himala, bakit andito ka, anything?
‘Basta makinig ka’
Sabay yapos sa gitara at hinanap ang mga nota…
‘May sikreto akong aaminin sa’yo
Mayroong nangyaring hindi mo alam.
Ito’y isang lihim, itinagong kay tagal…
Muntik na kitang minahal…
Ngayon ay aaminin ko na,
na sana nga ay tayong dalawa,
mga tanong mo’y iniwasan ko,
akala pagibig mo’y di totoo.
Di ko alam kung anong nangyari,
pag-ibig ko sa’yo’y di ko nasabi…’
Matagal tagal na katahimikan ang bumalot sa amin,
hanggang may mga salitang lumabas sa bibig ko ...
'mahal na kita Drei'
***
To be continued…
Showing posts with label deviant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deviant. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
a spy's tale
The spy woke up with bloodshot eyes, a reminder of the night that has already gone. The party went ticking until the break of dawn, it’s ten past one and his day is yet to begin. Half the world has had their lunch and is now moving back to whatever there is that keeps them busy at this time of the day, but he, the spy is yet to take his breakfast, and after doing so, try to figure out how the rest of his day would be spent.
Reminders of the party, err, mission littered at his bedroom’s floor. The nice crisp top and the overly posh bow tie still have the scent of the night that has passed. It was a night that most single person in the world would love to be in, pathetic Americans called it ‘singles’ dance’ but our dear little spy calls it ‘desperates’ dance’. Men and gals of his age dress up, wear the fanciest they have, and by fancy we mean expensive and overtly suggestive, if not seductively designed designers. They call it a night, but what transpires really is hotter than a sun shinny day. Booze, music and bodies all so warmed up and anticipating some rain. Pathetic.
The spy is a sly. He has learned to play with fire, it burns and it hurts though, but he has to. His job is to get people bodied, give them what they want in exchange of something he wants. Quite fair, but the trade is, he the spy takes an even more valuable stash. And may I add, without his victim’s knowing, well at least, not until after he’s gone and could never be seen again.
That’s what spies do, play trickery. To hide in the motions of the emotions he has been trained to tickle and cloak over his creeping hands. A spy is, a spy does.
He’s a master of seducing even the most adored and the seemingly untouchable. Perks of the job, as they say; ride nice fancy wheels and drive other wheels, you know. It’s quite fun, or at least it seems.
But hours like this, when he is but the person that he is, no longer the coded agent that the world knows only for his name, he is but like a nude and naked body in the dessert. Vulnerable.
The truth is, the spy woke up triumphantly, or at least, that’s what to others he may seem because of a nice work done. But deep inside, inside that warm body that seems untouchable. That very body that has been entwined with another’s just the night before, and the many other nights that has gone. The very body that went dashing on red carpeted floors of hotels around the world with that damsel who, after the mission, would be knocking at his room for an expression of ‘gratitude’. That very body that owns the caressing hands that have touched many other hands wrapped with the gloves of love, err, at least, a little ploy of seduction. Yes, that very warm body -is empty.
Spies don’t fall in love; or at least, they are not allowed. Angels might have chiseled every inch of their faces and everything below it, but such dishful perfection isn’t made to simply make others fall in love, though in the surface maybe, but not according to the code. Every spy is a god, incapable of loving, despite that smooth brute they have been perfected to become. They just don’t have the right to fall in love. Love is a liability, and loving is a sin.
Thing is, though, love isn’t a spy’s thing, that doesn’t mean he can’t play it.
So pardon me now, I have a game to play, err maybe, a breakfast to catch.
Reminders of the party, err, mission littered at his bedroom’s floor. The nice crisp top and the overly posh bow tie still have the scent of the night that has passed. It was a night that most single person in the world would love to be in, pathetic Americans called it ‘singles’ dance’ but our dear little spy calls it ‘desperates’ dance’. Men and gals of his age dress up, wear the fanciest they have, and by fancy we mean expensive and overtly suggestive, if not seductively designed designers. They call it a night, but what transpires really is hotter than a sun shinny day. Booze, music and bodies all so warmed up and anticipating some rain. Pathetic.
The spy is a sly. He has learned to play with fire, it burns and it hurts though, but he has to. His job is to get people bodied, give them what they want in exchange of something he wants. Quite fair, but the trade is, he the spy takes an even more valuable stash. And may I add, without his victim’s knowing, well at least, not until after he’s gone and could never be seen again.
That’s what spies do, play trickery. To hide in the motions of the emotions he has been trained to tickle and cloak over his creeping hands. A spy is, a spy does.
He’s a master of seducing even the most adored and the seemingly untouchable. Perks of the job, as they say; ride nice fancy wheels and drive other wheels, you know. It’s quite fun, or at least it seems.
But hours like this, when he is but the person that he is, no longer the coded agent that the world knows only for his name, he is but like a nude and naked body in the dessert. Vulnerable.
The truth is, the spy woke up triumphantly, or at least, that’s what to others he may seem because of a nice work done. But deep inside, inside that warm body that seems untouchable. That very body that has been entwined with another’s just the night before, and the many other nights that has gone. The very body that went dashing on red carpeted floors of hotels around the world with that damsel who, after the mission, would be knocking at his room for an expression of ‘gratitude’. That very body that owns the caressing hands that have touched many other hands wrapped with the gloves of love, err, at least, a little ploy of seduction. Yes, that very warm body -is empty.
Spies don’t fall in love; or at least, they are not allowed. Angels might have chiseled every inch of their faces and everything below it, but such dishful perfection isn’t made to simply make others fall in love, though in the surface maybe, but not according to the code. Every spy is a god, incapable of loving, despite that smooth brute they have been perfected to become. They just don’t have the right to fall in love. Love is a liability, and loving is a sin.
Thing is, though, love isn’t a spy’s thing, that doesn’t mean he can’t play it.
So pardon me now, I have a game to play, err maybe, a breakfast to catch.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
deviant
Once there lived a little boy named Zoku. 
Zoku was born of a prestigious family, prosperous and upright.
His mother, the city’s most sophisticated and religious woman taught him the odes and rituals to please the spirits.
His father, the most industrious and honest of all the landlords taught him the value of working and working with others.
His family is well respected and almost envied; a comfortable home, loving parents, educated and upright siblings, Zoku could not ask for more.
Everything seemed right, and pleasing…
Not until his ninth birth year, when a tragedy befell.
Undeserving, Zoku’s mother contracted a disease that even the city’s most powerful acolytes, priestesses and even sorcerers cannot cure. And so his mom peacefully bore the pain until the fortnight before the dawn of Zoku’s tenth birth year. On his tenth birth fête, Zoku was burying his beloved mother.
And so the tragedy fell.
Grieving at his loss, Zoku’s father started drinking and gambling. In a length of a quarter of a year, the entirety of Zoku’s family wealth faded off the hands of his grieving father who found refuge in wines and playing cards.
And everything that Zoku had, vanished before his very eyes.
And the tragedy just started.
Angered by the loss, not just of his mother but even his father and their highly coveted life, Zoku found a friend in rebellion. He did everything that his father forbade him to do, and lived a life that he pleased.
For years he lived a life of anguish, of secret pain and longing for a family, for a mother and a father.
Zoku was alone, Zoku was looking for love and affection…
…but he never found it.
Who would know that the boy in the story has grown into a young man now, studying in one of the most prestigious universities of the country, serving passionately his fellow students and performing well in his academic persuasions? Even surprisingly, he is considered everybody’s friend.
At the moment, he seems soft and innocent.
… but deep inside, Zoku is so alive.
So be careful, the young man might seem typical, but he’s not…
as for you know, Zoku is a DEVIANT - he was always been, and will be.
Zoku was born of a prestigious family, prosperous and upright.
His mother, the city’s most sophisticated and religious woman taught him the odes and rituals to please the spirits.
His father, the most industrious and honest of all the landlords taught him the value of working and working with others.
His family is well respected and almost envied; a comfortable home, loving parents, educated and upright siblings, Zoku could not ask for more.
Everything seemed right, and pleasing…
Not until his ninth birth year, when a tragedy befell.
Undeserving, Zoku’s mother contracted a disease that even the city’s most powerful acolytes, priestesses and even sorcerers cannot cure. And so his mom peacefully bore the pain until the fortnight before the dawn of Zoku’s tenth birth year. On his tenth birth fête, Zoku was burying his beloved mother.
And so the tragedy fell.
Grieving at his loss, Zoku’s father started drinking and gambling. In a length of a quarter of a year, the entirety of Zoku’s family wealth faded off the hands of his grieving father who found refuge in wines and playing cards.
And everything that Zoku had, vanished before his very eyes.
And the tragedy just started.
Angered by the loss, not just of his mother but even his father and their highly coveted life, Zoku found a friend in rebellion. He did everything that his father forbade him to do, and lived a life that he pleased.
For years he lived a life of anguish, of secret pain and longing for a family, for a mother and a father.
Zoku was alone, Zoku was looking for love and affection…
…but he never found it.
Who would know that the boy in the story has grown into a young man now, studying in one of the most prestigious universities of the country, serving passionately his fellow students and performing well in his academic persuasions? Even surprisingly, he is considered everybody’s friend.
At the moment, he seems soft and innocent.
… but deep inside, Zoku is so alive.
So be careful, the young man might seem typical, but he’s not…
as for you know, Zoku is a DEVIANT - he was always been, and will be.
7/28/10
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