Rush

The room fell into an uneasy silence as I slid into it from the doorway on the right: the strong winds that promised a thunderstorm suddenly became dumb and the distant sounds of a howling dog turned into a memory—as if everything was ushered into silence, awaiting the start of a good scene that was meant for unadulterated viewing only.

No commentaries please! No small talk inside the theater! No smoking, drinking or eating allowed inside the auditorium! You are not allowed to breathe!

I put down the bulky messenger bag that has been burdening my shoulder for the past ten hours into its usual position by the dresser and took off my socks and tucked them into my shoes, which I gracefully toed-off while entering the room, then I proceeded by taking-off my shirt and my favorite denim jeans which left behind my blue and white pinstriped boxers that carefully hugged my scrawny body and kept me a safe distance from being fully nude.

I sat on the edge of my bunk that has become my refuge for the past four year—with the crisp blue sheet that was a sight to behold, topped by an old striped comforter laying across the old black bed in a non-recognizable form, carefully pinned down by the two pillows, dressed in a quirky case that bear prints of archaic shells and fleurs-de-lis, that were within my reach—but I decided to forgo slumber, instead I decided to reach to the table at my front and take what was left of a box of Marlboro lights, taking the stick that preceded the one which I had carefully turned over a day before.

The smoke rose into the air, as I let out the remnants of my first puff of the cursed poison—steadily mixing with the stale air that hangs inside the room and with the salty tears that escaped my eyes, brought about by the smell of burning paper and tobacco that slowly filled the room, impregnating the confines of the four walls with the scent of my chosen vice.

My prized dagger lied in peace on the hard concrete floor—a replica of a sixteenth century Italian weapon which I bargained for in a flea market six years before—glimmering with an invitation that I answered as I carefully snuffed my cigarette in a blue shot glass where I house the honorable dead butts that have serviced my lips with smoke.

The eyes of the non-visible audience grew wider, anticipating the scene that will logically follow..

I unsheathed my dagger and ran my fingers across the iron blade, noting in my head the features that have somewhat fallen into a dull state over the past years yet still sharp enough to inflict pain, and I carefully held the knife—as I did not want any accidents to happen that might save my life.

I could hear the imaginary crowd gasp in their seats and squirm in the sight of horror..

There was a slow rush of red and an even louder silence followed as I felt the heat as the liquid slowly crept down my arms and I wondered why a certain heavy numbness started to creep through by body, preventing me from the pain I sought to feel.

My mind told me it was time for another smoke, so I stood up and reached for the almost empty box of gold and white, unfazed by the blood that dripped into the floor and the table.

They can clean it up later.

Using the shaky fingers attached to the hand in the end of my uncut left arm, I took out my wish-stick—the last stick in box that has become a tradition of every pack and I steadied the flame of my lighter into the end of the cigarette that hanged from my lips.

And as the tip of the white roll of shredded tobacco started to burn, I let out the last wish among countless others:

Give me peace.

Disforget

Warning: This post is unusually long. If you're not into reading long blog posts, do not proceed. If you are, then get yourself a comfortable chair. You'll need one.

I always had an eclectic taste in music. Unlike most other gay dudes out there who prefer high-pitched diva songs and popsy female vocals, I often find myself listening more to alternative rock bands, "emo" OPM acts and music that only straight guys would understand. Maybe this is the effect of spending seven years in an all-boys school where each first Friday celebration is accompanied by rock sounding mass songs... or maybe I was just born with heterosexual ears.

My usual Musikcube playlist is dotted with songs from many of my favorite bands: Spongecola, Yellowcard, Acceptance—to name a few. The emo sound really sticks to my ears, and I often find myself singing songs that would never give a hint of my sexual orientation.

But this post isn't about my auditory preference, but about one song from one of my favorite bands—the song that keeps on playing on my head; the song that I sing every time I board an FX home; the song that has kept me awake many nights, thinking and humming and introspecting.

That song is none other than Join the Club's Dekada (Nakalimutan Ko Na Bang Magmahal?).

***

I remember the first time I had a serious relationship: it was my senior year in high school. I rose from being a nobody to one of the campus figures—the one you see every morning and leading prayers, the one who asked you to rise and sit at every mass, the one who wrote the best documents for the student council, the one who introduced every guest, performer and activity during major campus events.

He was really more of a nobody. While I was standing under the lights of the follow-spots of the gymnasium, he was there among the multitude of students on my front clad in white polos and navy blue pants. We didn't share the same stage.

But to be fair, he did have his own stage. He was one of the best athletes in school, albeit not one of the well-known. Give him any kind of ball and you'll know he'll win. He could even beat me at table tennis if he wanted to.

We didn't really share the same space. His crowd, although not directly in opposition to mine, was not one of those that I hang out with. Unlike most of my batch, he was one of those freshmen transferees who never really fitted into the whole system.

I never really fancied him, nor did he fancy me (I think). All I know is that during our freshmen year, one of my close friends had a huge crush on him. But weird things happen. And come the third academic quarter of S.Y. 04-05, I found myself tied to him. We were the new couple... although no one knew except for him and me.

But it never turned out like the fantasies I had since I knew that I had a liking for men. And within three months, we broke up after an incident that is almost exactly like that in Jojo's "Leave":

Cause I know, about her and I wonder
How I bought all your lies
You said that you would treat me right
But it was just a waste of time.

It's funny that most of my friends only knew about our short-lived affair after we broke up. I guess we were good at keeping secrets. We did have casual sex every now and then after that, but we never really got back together, even if I have always wanted to. (In fact, I even wrote this post, which I reposted for the sake of posterity. And yes, it was a nasty post.)

I had flings and short lived affairs after that, but nothing serious nor long lasting. I guess I felt that that was my first, true relationship. And I never had another one since then.

***

Join the Club's Dekada has strong lyrics. Strong in a way that you either don't get it or get it completely as though it was written just for you.

Although the whole song is ripe with lines that strike the rusty chords of a loveless heart, perhaps the best line is from the chorus itself:

Nakalimutan ko na bang magmahal?

Join the Club has a track record for their songs dealing with the lives of broken hearted people—their band, after all, is a homage to the bitter. But this particular line has haunted me for quite a bit, because I have asked myself the same question for quite some time now.

***

Many of my friends who have not seen me for quite some time often begin our accidental conversations with the question:

"O, may jowa kaba ngayon?."

But for most of my close friends, this question almost never pops. I guess they know that I'm the type of guy who thinks boyfriends are like cellular phones—you don't have to get a new one every month. Indeed it has been quite some time since I last had to answer that question. I'm sure they know that if I had one, I'll be proud to tell them all.

Don't think of me as someone who's afraid to get into a relationship, or someone who doesn't have crushes or never fancies anyone; I have had more crushes than the number of contacts in my phone book. And the list grows almost every month. And I'm sure that if someone I like asks me to be his boyfriend, I'd be on the next train out of Singlestown.

But though I can say that I know how to fancy, I cannot say for certain if I still know how to love.

***

Whenever I go and meet my friends, I try to stay with them as much as I can. It's not always because I love wasting my time but because I don't want to go home.

Because location has always been a problem for me. The places I tend to visit the most are the places which tend to be miles away from where I live. When I was still studying at UST, it would take me an hour to get there every morning and another hour to get home at night.

I always get that nasty feeling whenever I wave goodbye to my friends, because I know that in a few minutes time, I will be boarding my ride home, alone and lonely.

Two full hours (sometimes even more) of being alone.

***

They say that you can't forget being human—because that's who you are. I won't be wrong to say that you can't forget hunger or thirst or pain.

But when you've been alone for almost all your life, is it not possible to forget how to love?

***

Do you know that feeling you get when your riding a PUV alone and a bunch of people ride the same vehicle and they talk for hours on end about all things they could think of and when they say something funny, you're left all alone to fend off the laughter in you? It seems that it's rude to laugh at jokes which are not directed towards you.

How about that feeling you have when you suddenly remembered something and you want to share it with someone else but unfortunately, you have no one to talk to, aside from the other people around you who you barely know?

How about when you go to bed at night, feeling so sad, wanting nothing else but to share the bed with another human being, only to find that you are still alone and that the only thing that will touch you is the cold wind from your fan?

And how about you not needing to remember those things, because you never forgot them in the first place since this is how each and every moment of your life feels?

It sucks to be lonely.

***

I love the concept of the word "forget." At it's purest, it is a verb, an action word. But aside from that basic definition, it has semantical implications that are very interesting.

Unlike many other verbs, "forget" can be intentional or unintentional—meaning you can do it on your own free will or do it without your knowledge. There are two sides to this word. Two very different sides.

***

Yes, to answer Dekada's question. Yes, I have forgotten how to love. I have forgotten how it feels like to care for someone so much that you can't sleep or you can't eat or you can't even think properly. I have forgotten how it feels like knowing that you'll have someone who cares for you so much. I have forgotten the feeling of sleeping with someone you love so much at night and waking up to see him still there, still with you, still loving you.

And now I remember how it feels like to be so alone.

***

The English forms of the two concepts of "forgetting" are the same, primarily due to the highly uninflected grammar of the language. But if we switch to the Tagalog forms, it becomes clearer.

The Tagalog root word is "limot." There are two verb forms in the present tense: "kinalimutan" and "nakalimutan." The first signifies forgetting willfully, out of your own free will. You forget because you want to, because you need to.

But the second is an unconscious act: one which you didn't do on purpose, one without consent. It's not your decision to forget. It was due to circumstances, it was accidental, it was unwanted. It was Fate that decided.

I find it interesting that the line that strikes me most from the Dekada doesn't use the first, intentional form but takes the second one:

Nakalimutan ko na bang magmahal?

Why is it interesting? Because the song is given a whole new depth. The lyrics resonate a new message: with this unconscious act of forgetting, there is that possibility of reversing the action.

With every instance of "nakalimutan" comes the hope of redemption:

Maalala

***

If I fall, will someone catch me? If I cry, will someone dry my tears? If I'm sad, will someone cheer me up? If I'm cold, will someone be there to warm me with in arms? If I wake up, will someone be there by my side?

If I finally decide that it's time, will someone be there to help me remember how to love?

***

This is one of my longest posts and certainly one of the most "emo." I won't be apologetic about the length—I have so many things to say and I need many words to express them.

You can infer that from the subject, the tone and the length of this post, I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, and you're right. I guess that's all I can do while I'm all alone.

In the end, I'd like to post another question to myself, now that the former question that Dekada has posited upon me has been answered:

Maalala ko pa kayang magmahal?

Armed

I boarded a bus at Robinson's Galleria. It was a Saturday, and I running out of money faster than you can say "peso." I sat down on an empty seat halfway to the end of the air-conditioned bus and I sighed heavily. The money I was expecting didn't come and all I wanted to do is sleep.

I was stirred a few minutes later and I felt the bus going towards the halt. The window to my right sported the view of the Star Mall. Shaw, I thought to myself. The bus doors opened and several people boarded the bus. And then, almost like a vision, I saw him.

He was 5'11, short messed-up hair, moreno and as hot as the burning sun outside. He was all dressed-up in a blue shirt that displayed the work of an unknown graphic designer and stone-washed jeans, perfectly showcasing the well defined legs underneath.

And after that vision of hotness that might have burned my eyes a little bit, I again fell back to sleep.

The bus stopped again. I turned to the large glass window on my right and saw the industrial design of the old car-park near the Ayala Station. Makati, I said silently in my brain. Still a few minutes before I hit home. I decided to snooze some more. But before I did, I turned to my left, which was now occupied by an unknown person.

There he was, to my surprise, seated right next to me. Amazement suddenly knocked me off my sleepy state, and I could now clearly see how hot this guy was. For a moment I wanted to borrow the sunglasses dangling from his shirt—the sight was just too much to behold. I'm was afraid that I may permanently be blinded. But I endured the sight of this almost surreal being of the heavens.

And after a few minutes of ogling, I again regained the ability to close my eyes. I slept once more.

But my dreams of buying the latest book on programming the universal serial bus was cut short. My mind suddenly became half awake, with my eyes still shut.

I felt something in my lower back, down the hip area—a firm yet gentle touch with a slight tingle of heat. In a split second, my mind processed the whole moment and I suddenly came to the conclusion that this hotness who sat beside me has just place his hand on my hips.

Oh fucking heavens! What in the world is happening? Is this guy trying to rob me? Hmm, it could be.. But then again, I'm dead broke, and his hands are too far away from that thin piece of leather that once upon a time held my cash. Maybe he's trying to mess with me. But why? My mind had numerous questions.

But in that fleeting moment, I felt as though someone cared for me. Someone liked me. Someone wanted me so badly that he'll risk being mistaken for a pick-pocket just so he could lay his warm, muscular arm around my waist. Honestly, I was in heaven.. for about 30 seconds.

He suddenly stirred, and I stirred too. He woke up, and I woke up. He realized where his hand was lying and quickly pulled it. I could swear I heard the angels suddenly gasp and cry. He looked at me with a gaze of shock, and I now realized that we were both fully awake.

"Oh my god!" he said, in a voice that reverberated through the whole bus. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!"

"Uhm," I responded, not knowing what to say. "It's okay?.."

"I'm so sorry! I was dreaming!" he explained, his face now flushed red and reconfigured into a look of apology. "I really don't mean it! I really didn't know!"

"It's okay," I said, repeating myself like I always do--but with a tender tone and a seducing smile.

"I was dreaming that I was still at home. Akala ko you were my girlfriend."

There it was, the answer that I was searching for a minute back. It hit me on the face like a triple-coated, industrial-grade, teflon pan. I was dumbfounded, flabbergasted, and that other weirdly spelled adjective that could mean "shocked, confused, weirded-out and disappointed" at the same time.

He stood up, still apologizing and looked for a seat in the front of the bus. I sat there, still trying to figure out what just happened. From afar I can hear his voice, now directed to his girlfriend who was on the other side of his cellular phone. He was relating what happened.

I just sat there silently. I had no one to call, no one to text. I couldn't share the moment, the shock, the confusion and the all-too-sudden depression I felt.. and I found it impossible to just close my eyes.

Within a minute, I found myself standing up, walking towards the exit of the bus. He rushed off before me, trying not to bump into me again, and could no longer find him among the multitude of people outside the bus.

I smiled. I could only imagine what could have happened if I was right: if he was really trying to touch me, if he really wanted me. But alas. I left the bus, alone once again, with no one to touch my back.

And as I walked home, I remembered that depressing fact that I still didn't have any money in my pocket.