A Fiction Based On Us

He is tall and she is not. The top of her head barely reaches his shoulder when they walk together. She often takes a foot away from his side when she’s with him, and whenever she does, he pulls her closer and without so much care will put her hand to his arm. The proximity of their body had always made her so self-conscious that her hands involuntarily goes to her hair, her face, into her pockets and tugs at her dress. She hated this certain feeling of excitement that causes her to feel awkward and nervous. Often she struggles to free herself from his grip, anything just to be a foot away from his side. But he was strong and won’t let her go. 

He was a friend of a friend. She met him only a few months ago and since then they had unconsciously built their own little space in the lives of each other. Suddenly, it was impossible for her not to think of him and it was impossible for him not to make his presence known to her in every single day. Everyday there was new message in her mail, a new song or article waiting to be reviewed. Occasionally, there would be an invitation asking her aid in search for a new book. He gave her a detective book and wrote down a dedication on the first page. She carried the book inside her bag for a month. And every so often she’d take it out and examine the way he wrote her name, to see if it meant something. To see if there were clues about them.

One day, they were sitting on the hood of an old automobile at the front of his house. The raindrops were beating the ground and the old roof heavily. There was a smell of rustiness in the air but with him strumming at his guitar, the occasional cars and neighbours with their raincoats and umbrellas passing by, she felt complacent. They talked about the bands they like, their favorite superheroes and about everything they thought were important to know but wouldn’t really make an ounce of sense to other people. She felt as if they had built a world that only them were the inhabitants. She felt a sense of certainty with the rain, the automobile, the guitar, he and she. She almost believed in her feelings, in her intuitions.

Suddenly he stopped strumming and talking all at once. An excruciating silence overtook them and she felt off-guard.  Finally he spoke and what he said was a question. It was a question that seemed not asked directly to her, it was something from his head and it just slipped out of his mouth. He said:”I wonder. Next year, same day, same hour, minutes and seconds. Where will you be? Where will I be?”. 

A pang of loneliness hit her hard. It felt like the walls of the world she imagined had all crumbled down to her. The rain, the automobile, the guitar, he and she, there was nothing really there. Certainty was lost. All of a sudden she felt so cold and she didn’t realized that it was not only the rain that was falling. Tears were pouring from her eyes making its way down to her chest. He was surprised and asked her what the matter was. She wanted to tell him that she wish they could be together and outsmart forever. She wanted to tell him that she thought she loved him. She wanted to tell him that she thought he loved her too but now all were uncertain. She wanted to tell him that she thought  what she felt was something of importance and that now she couldn’t trust her feelings at all.

She leaned her head to his shoulder and he put his arms around her. Despite her heavy sobs, it was a wonder how she even managed to tell him: “I’m sorry, I’m just so sorry.”

Blah blah blah. Then, blah blah blah.

It’s a bit assuming for someone to write something about his/her daily life. How did you ever get the idea that some bore flesh will spend a few minutes pondering on how interesting it is that you ride a jeep every day? Or that you cannot pass a day without coffee? It may not be very assuming if it is Katy Perry or Kris Aquino writing. Who wouldn’t want to know what is the brand of Lady Gaga’s toothpaste?

But then it is only me who is writing. Very assuming indeed! Pardon me, but it just seems to me that these past few years, I’ve been being fed up with stories of someone else’s daily activities that I feel like I don’t really want to know but being informed in every tick of the clock anyway, whether in effing phone or online. So I just got bottled up and thought literary revenge will do well.

THE MUNDANE LIFE OF A HEDONIST, ELENIA TUMANDAO

Every day she wakes up groping in the dark for her beeping phone three hours ahead before her first class. She wakes up groggy in between dreaming and waking. Lying coldly for some minutes under covers until she realizes that time is running and she wouldn’t want to be left behind. She goes downstairs and the smell of coffee enveloping the air hypnotizes her senses. She gulps down the first cup of coffee for the day.

Seconds into minutes, she washes off and prepares herself to get inside her uniform which she abhors for the last 4 years. She remembers then the time she had an argument with the University Student Welfare officer who took her I.D. and marked offense to her record for wearing a P.E. uniform to her non-P.E. day. She asked what exactly the reason why it is not allowed to wear P.E. uniform when you don’t have a P.E. class.  The officer went on to a long narrative explaining to her why. But she wasn’t satisfied with the answer and defended herself for wearing the P.E. uniform. In the end, the officer asked her why she’s taking I.T. and not Philosophy. She could have given him an explanation but instead she just gave a laugh knowing she’s already late for her next class.

She leaves home supposedly an hour before her first class. But that’s not always the case and she doesn’t understand why. Even though she wakes up early, she still manages to get inside the classroom 30 minutes late panting because she had walked too fast. 

Elenia doesn’t have much to boast to as a student. She’s an average student whose everyday problem involves a ¼ sheet of paper and pen. She’s the typical who draws doodles on her notebook instead of writing notes and gets reprimanded for talking or laughing too loud. She cheats and lets other copy her answers but with an equivalent payment in return.

But let’s give her credit for the sweet victories to her mundane student lifestyle too.  Like the time she got the highest exam score though it was not very impressing considering that she’s an irregular 4^th year student to a block of 2^nd year BCS students.

In between her classes are the long hours of waiting spent in hanging out at rotunda with her friend Ella. Sometimes, they talk about man’s cruelty towards animals and their desire to form an organization which will uphold animal’s welfare. But that is only sometimes, most of the time, the hours were spent doing weird stuffs like eating ice cream and mais con yelo while the world around them is freezing, walking with one umbrella under a storm while fighting and shouting unfair to each other. Two aliens laughing, lost inside their own world.

After her class which ends when it’s already dark, in chance, she might go out with a friend for a bite or spend some time alone to visit Book Sale before going home. She gets home, eats and then goes online. She never watches TV at night. Once a friend called her abnormal for not and it made her smile, for the thought of being such a non-conformist person appeals to her.

She usually stays up late especially during vacations. She likes the idea of being awake on the time where everyone is usually asleep. It is in this time she tries to write mushy poems or cram for the projects and assignments due in the morning. Eventually she’ll realize drowsiness is creeping inside her, she’ll then be under covers when already the world is starting to wake up. 

This is her every day. It happened today and will happen for the next days to come. She gets tedious now and then though she’ll always find an escape to this world of endless replays through the enchanting cheap paperback books she reads, sharing dreams to dear friends, making acquaintances and small talk to interesting people and then saying goodbye, discovering the music of unknown musicians, walking alone between the stalls of second-hand books sold for almost nothing and dreaming for the day she’ll open her own public library, creating things she doesn’t know what to call, and day dreaming. A lot of day dreaming.   

This is her life, a story still in progress. She doesn’t intend to keep on telling the same story again and again. She will tell new tales and will write and un-write if it’ll be possible and she will never get tired of writing in third persona no matter how weird she feels about it.

 

BE FREE. *Wisdom From Yan Yuzon

Last Saturday to my utter amazement I saw Pupil perform their songs in flesh. Now I must admit that I am not a big fan of the band. But who would resist the opportunity of seeing Ely Buendia and Yanny Yuzon?

Then here's the catch. I brought my Fruitcake book with me in hopes that Ely would sign it. But after seeing an Eheads fan insisting Ely to sign the same book and Ely cursing "Putang Ina" as he does, I resolved not to offend Ely anymore. Instead I brought out my other book, and of all a tragedy, Wuthering Heights.

Of course I seem weird to the Pupil members. Yanny upon seeing the book asked, "Ano to?" and Wendell , "Kaylangan ba to?" I answered each with "Para ka kasing si Heathcliff." I even made them pose holding the book instead of the CD as I took pictures of us.

Book signing: Yan Yuzon, guitarist of Pupil, poses with the blogger holding
the infamous Wuthering Heights.

After two days of such a bliss I took out the book to examine their autographs. There's "Dok", "Be Free", "Ely" and "Live Well... Wendell". The four are alright. Then it was my turn to curse, "Puteng Iney sinulat ni Yanny 'Be Free'?".

Then it hit me.

Be.  Free. Two words. It's like when sometimes two or even one word when directly addressed to you especially from a rockstar seems so much more to you than what they actually convey. They suddenly become powerful tools for motivating yourself. "Be Free" hit me because I am myself a slave of my own follies.

Be Free but then in what sense?

To live with no boundaries.
To be free of effin' conventions.
To be free of anguish.
To laugh at silly things without apologies.
To believe in God based from your own perception of religion.
To be free in spite of anyone.
To be free in spite of everything.
To be free just because.

These things or thoughts,  are for me what Yan Yuzon's "Be Free" message conveys. He couldn't have written anything as beautiful as that and now my uncared weather beaten copy of Wuthering Heights is priceless because of that. Not to mention the autographs of the other three.

Be Free. This is my mantra.

Be Free.

Dominion is over now.