...that was given to us to write our notes in while inside the academy. Posts written after the exit door swallowed me whole.
From Nov 12, 2006
i watched them plant the Christmas trees in all corners of their little world, watched how they made the trees bear gold balls, plastic fruites and technicolor stars, watched how Santa and his reindeer sped around the garden. Watched through the only window i had into their little world. Watched and saw how beautiful it had been, to not care about the world outside, to even forget the existence of the world outside, to think that earth was a house and school in one, that heaven was a second floor we have not seen, hell is failing and not standing up, to have demi-gods as teachers, and to have a god for a director, who descends every once in a while with a surpirse, a blessing in disguise, or a thunderbolt. To know how large my own universe it. To see that my stars, after all, are beautiful.
Nov 19
Snapshots: woke up 20 to 8am to a text message from Pa saying they'll arrive in 30. Quick shower, packed stuff in a jiffy, and the next thing i knew i was getting dizzy in a not-so-heavy traffic of a smog filled morning in Manila. This was breakfast; good morning sunshine. Peck on the cheek, g'bye Sister Pig and off i went swallowed by dust, street-clouds as grey and uncertain as the future i try to chase now. and then all this summed up perfectly by Russ: 7 rounds, knock em out with your own game and you have nothing to return to when you go back to yourself. (Options, Message details, time: 1:40)
This, while the whole day splattered on me screams of "Pacquiao!" sticking to me like Play-do hurled against white wall. Here is Rizal reincarnated, ladies and gents, newest symbol of Pinoy pride and hope. While our people stink of the excrement of mediocrity and poverty, here is a boxer who comes by the name of an outdated game, who will punch and box his way into the good life, stardom and fame in the name of unrealized dreams, of Alaxan and McChicken Wings, of twenty-five thousand peso front row seats, of million-dollar earnings while the rest of the nation watches at the edge of their seats, inspired, awed, punching in the air with the Pacman as if each uppercut and left hook they deliver with him will send debts and problems up, up and away...
