Passengers

Early mornings, you'd find me in queue at the FX terminal. Another employee on the way to work. Another commuter battling the challenging world of public transportation. Just another sleepy soul, trapped in the routine of daily life. It would be excessive to say that it is almost like a community, that long queue, because it's not. It's just a group of people whose faces are familiar to each other, but they're not there to make friends. A terse nod when asked if this was the end of the line is the most interaction that can go. Each other's presence is incidental, an irrelevant detail in the travel from point A to point B.

Those days when shuttles take long to arrive and my mind is not preoccupied with my other thoughts, I practice characterization for my fiction writing. You take boredom, a need to stay awake, and the long wait for the next FX -- and you get me, the casual observer. It helps if you have your earphones on. It lends a sense of disinterest in the process of observation. You can stare long at someone without making them feel like their personal space is being intruded. The earphones give you the benefit of the doubt that although your eyes are fixed, your mind is actually elsewhere. I lay a disclaimer here. Don't use my tip for stalking. Please. I have enough of my own guilt to worry about.

There are those students from UA&P. With their youthful and perky outfits and air of their parents' money. Two of them are friends who are freshmen (I can tell by their age and their textbooks). One always comes in late while the other saves a spot on the line for her. I sometimes want to tell them that it's unfair for the ones who arrived earlier, but I let them be. It's too small a thing to worry about. Besides, they get enough piercing stares from the more irritable passengers.

The middle-aged lady who always carries a book with her. For a couple of days, it was a copy of the Sherlock Holmes short stories collection. It amused me since Holmes is one of my most favorite book characters of all time. I wondered if she was enjoying it as much as I did when I first read the stories in high school.

There's that good-looking pair of mid-twenties corporate professionals. Who look like they stepped straight out of a yuppie magazine. Guy's tall dark, and handsome - . Girl looks like a doll with porcelain skin, with hair always made up and clothes that reek of Cosmo. When I see them, I sometimes wonder if I dress too casually for my age and profession. Oh, well.

And there's the old couple. They're probably around sixty years old. The old man is frail looking with hunched shoulders; the woman has a kind face. He carries a leather briefcase and his wife just keeps him company in the queue, she doesn't get on the shuttle. They talk quietly while waiting and sometimes she asks the manongs at the terminal if she could borrow one of the monobloc chairs for her husband to sit on. She just waits with him, stands beside him. And when the shuttle arrives, she straightens his polo, kisses him on the cheek, helps him inside the front seat, and waves him goodbye.

Once, in another seemingly normal morning, I find the old couple in their usual place. But after a few minutes, I discerned some agitation in the crowd. I took off one of my earphone pieces and realized that the old lady was asking for help from those standing nearby. Her husband was apparently feeling ill and they had to call a trike and help him inside and rush him to the hospital.

I honestly did not know how to react, what to think. I was somewhat a long way off from the commotion, but I felt the tension. I feel like I'm having a crash-course of self realization. Here was a real life couple. Apparently, with deep love for one another. How do you find someone you'd be willing to do anything for? How do you never get tired of loving each other? How do you ever get to that time when you're willing to just stand beside someone patiently, talking quietly, until it was time to say goodbye. Until it was time.

I find myself actually trying to listen to the music from my earphones. Consciously. Drown in music these thoughts and questions I have no answers for.

Nameless

Have you ever been to that place? Where your soul is bottom-feeding? Afraid of light, incapable of happiness, even of words. It's soul catatonia. There's no sense in trying to feel because all sensation is blunt. Nothing makes sense.

It strikes in unexpected moments. While you're having dinner. Walking down the street. Even while you're washing your face. You find yourself washing away tears with handful after handful of water. Not knowing where all this grief is coming from, seemingly the result of a dam breaking somewhere. In your mind, in your heart. Somewhere.

But it remains nameless. And without cause – this sadness that's devolving the person whom you knew to be yourself. It nags at you. Something betrays the surface of normality and control. It's a monster – a quiet monster – emerging from the depths, agitating the tranquility. The false tranquility. How do you deal with something without a face, without a source. All you know is that it's after you.

Music and laughter become offensive sounds to hear, you recognize that you have finally stepped into something dark – almost tangibly so. Any joy is a personal offense. It becomes an alien feeling and you don't even remember how it felt like and how long ago it was since you did.

Surely someone can understand. There has to be someone who has been there. Family, friends, co-workers, former schoolmates. Someone. Surely someone knows the right things to say. I'll call them up, I'll talk to them. Try to remember what it's like to have a human connection. You pick up your phone and begin scrolling in the contact list. Next, next, next. They have their own lives. Their own problems to deal with. And you, you have your pride. Besides, you are ill-equipped to explain without sounding crazy. Maybe that's what you are.

How do you pull yourself back into the comforts of reality? And you wonder for a second if that's what you really want. The routine, the acceptance of a monotonous life. Of mediocrity, inanities. Yes. Damn it, yes. Anything but this numbing emptiness. And this undiluted and magnified realization of self-insignificance.

You can't seem to derive pleasure from the things you love. But you try, anyway. And end up staring blankly into a screen, with a clean sheet of page while the blinking cursor stare right back at you. Blink, blink, blink. It is defying you. Daring you to type anything. A line, a word, even just a single keystroke. Anything.

But this is one thing you can't let it you beat in. This is your sanity. Your last hold. It can't take this away from you. No, not today. And by heavens, not ever. So you take a deep breath and write the immediate questions in your mind.

Have you ever been to that place? Where your soul is bottom-feeding?

Klutzy

I have a scar on my left cheek. It's slightly less noticeable now, but when Luz pointed it out to me over lunch two days ago, it was very visible, nothing short of what you'd expect from someone who just came from a fistfight. In fact, Gary - with his usual far-out analogies - said I looked like I came from a prison riot. I knew it was exaggeration, but how many times have you been told you looked like you came from a prison riot? Not too many, I would bet. :)

Funny thing is, I honestly don't know where I got it from. And even funnier, this is not an isolated case. I guess I need to rethink my usage of the adjective “funny”. Cutting, scratching, wounding, bruising are not very humorous, unless you're the type who go for slapstick. And you're not the recipient of those unfortunate mishaps.

There are times when I'd find that I have scratches, wounds, and bruises unaware of where I acquired them. I'd be washing my hands, and – where did that scratch come from? I'd be waking up from bed and – hello, new bruise. Maybe it's because I have a high threshold for pain. Once while inside a mall, I noticed a bloody trail on the floor. I was surprised to find that it came from my own hand which had a small but deep cut. It is for this reason I always keep a couple of band aids with me.

Pathetic. People have Mastercards in their wallets. I have Mediplasts.

But, oh, yes. There are also plenty of times when I exactly know it happened. Painful times – both painful to the body and to the self-esteem. But I tell you, if it's too painful physically, you wouldn't think too much of your ego. Trust me, I know. I have had the firsthand experience of ungracefully alighting from not one - but two! - jeepneys. I sprained my ankle on both occasions. I even needed an x-ray and consultation with an orthopedic surgeon. The impact was so sudden that when I landed on my knee, the asphalt scratched right through the denim and ripped it, leaving me with a bleeding knee and a back-to-grunge fashion statement. Ripped jeans at the knees, yeah! With bloody stains, even more yeah!

Sometimes, it can be attributed to plain absentmindedness. I have been known to stand up from my workstation with a sudden movement, only to be seated back again because I have not removed my neckband headphones. As a result, my keyboard and phone toppled over from the table. And I had to replace my headphones because the other ear wouldn't play already from too much yanking, I presume. My keyboard has also been replaced but it was because I spilt iced tea on it. The systems administrators had to send a reminder to all employees to be careful of spilling any liquid on our computer hardware. Yikes.

My klutziness is notorious among my friends. It is a source of puzzlement and entertainment for them. The most recent instance of which is an bruise on my right arm a few weeks ago. It initially elicited a lot of concern and worry as it looked very ugly and forbidding. But when they found out where I got it from, they become incredulous and eventually bawled over with laughter. I tell them the truth. I got the bruise from hitting a tricycle sidecar.

It was parked.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! You've been a great audience! I'll be here the rest of the week!

Wide Open Spaces

There are a lot of purportedly benefits of physical exercise such as jogging or brisk walking. Stronger physical constitution, healthier heart, weight loss - among others. But, me? I jog to be somewhere else.

Sure, it'd be great if I gain all those positive effects. But mostly, I do it just to see wide open spaces. Just to see the sky above. There's a horizon of high rise buildings nearby (including our own office building), but you can overlook that. You look way up and you see the infinite sky. You don't hear passing vehicles with their blaring horns and roaring engines. There are no shoving commuters. Just a handful of fellow joggers who mind their own business and just go round and round the oval. Like clockwork with different paces.

Today was the first time in the last few months since I went to the oval. I used to go weekly with Luz and Macha. One of the most memorable times was when we went there and it rained unbelievably hard. We got stranded in the covered platform. The soccer teams who were playing in the field continued with their game and we just stood there to watch and took turns to take shots of them from my camera phone. The stadium lights as they hit the rain made a pretty sight.

When it's not raining, it's a nice place where you can write, too. Just sit down on floor, on the outermost track with a pen and notebook and just take in the openness. It's a literal breath of fresh air and a change from the sometimes claustrophobic environment. A different perspective is a good perspective for someone like me who needs to be more imaginative and write better.

I alternately jog and walk every couple of meters or so. I don't have the endurance to keep a fast pace all throughout and there's the issue of my nagging right knee, which I hurt from stupidly tripping a couple of months back (don't ask how). I listened to my play list as I went around the oval today. Maybe I should've customized the order of my songs to match the rhythm of the steps I take. All I remember is that the last track playing after I decided to finally stop and slump down on the floor was “My Favorite Mistake”. And I thought it was an appropriate closing credit soundtrack to the day as I sweated profusely and the ache of not-so-well-conditioned muscles started to settle in.

But as I hung my head to rest, I get a glimpse of the dark sky above. And took a deep breath. Even just the smell of fresh grass made it worth all the trouble.