Ghost

There is a ghost that has been hunting me persistently. The ghost has no form. It comes as a feeling, a foreboding that weighs me down each time. Like a bad dream that wouldn't go away, it eats up my mind, starting at the corners, and slowly gnawing its way to the core of my existence. I had tried to ignore it, hoping it will fade from my consciousness in its own accord. But last night, I woke up and did not recognize myself. The ghost has succeeded in drilling ugly holes in the image I keep of my self. Now it's cutting the ties that bind me to my Laughter. It is taking its sweet time, munching on the threads and twines, one at a time.

I let out a scream of alarm. I looked around for help, but found none.

Three Weddings and a Beach Vacation

I never really believed what they said about December being the "weddingest" month--and not June, until this December, when three people I know are tying the proverbial knot one week apart from each other.

First Wedding
The couple is boyfriend's buddies. But things aren't everything that they seem to be. Boyfriend came to wish the two goodluck to their new married life, and watch the past flit away like a forgotten butterfly. Me? Like a zombie, I sleepwalked through the day.

Second Wedding
What is worse than being invited by a friend to her wedding on a day like today, when it's too far from the last payday and too far from the next? Easy! When the wedding is as lavish as to have half the Congress and half the country's population of business tycoons attending. Certainly smells like a wardrobe emergency.

Since I didn't have the moolah to spend, I hit the nearest SM to see if they've really got it all for me. I was fighting the urge to splurge on a new gown so I went into the store, resolved to wear an old wardrobe item and to shop for accessories that would jazz the dress up. I was able to buy:

1. A white pashmina shawl with intricate pink embroidered patterns on the hems;
2. Two-tone pashmina shawl whose color changes from wine to lavender (in case the white one doesn't work);
3. A lace purse;
4. A pait of silver shoes;

I got them all for less than P1,500.

Third Wedding
Two climb buddies who met up and fell in love in between climbs are exchanging "I do's" next week or the week after next. I'm sure I've been told the date, but having the memory of a senile elephant, I cannot, for the life of me, remember. I am too ashamed to ask, so I'll just wait for the invitation as my cue to shop.

That's three weddings in my schedule already. (Incidentally, I learned that two friends are also attending two different weddings today.) The fun part happens when all this is over. We'll hie off to the beach for a weekend vacation that we haven't had the time for, not with the weddings coming one after the other.

To you, whom I do not know

To you, whom I don't know, and who do not know me. The day will break tomorrow to welcome a new life for you. Tomorrow, you will walk to your destiny while my man--who was your man for a fleeting moment--stands at the sidelines watching you.

You will probably seek him out among the crowd, and wonder where he has been all this time, and what has he been up to. Maybe your mind will wander off to those guilt-laden escapades when you and he thought nothing else mattered. Maybe, just maybe, you will wish him the best and pray that he move on to his own destiny, while you revel in the bliss and beauty of your newfound home and hearth.

It pains me that I cannot be there to tell you myself where he has been. While all this is happening, I am probably restlessly going through the motions of Saturday life, imagining your glances and the words that they convey.

Tonight I Can Start...

My apologies to the great Pablo Neruda for the similar-sounding title. I meant to say, tonight I can start writing again.

I have been on a creative sabbatical, or should I say, a sabbatical from creativity for at least three years now. I still have traces of memories left of the time when I thought I would grow old to become a writer of note. Now I have grown old with nothing to show for it except a blog that has not been written on for more than one and a half years. And my blog hasn't even managed to become a Blogger blog of note

So tonight I am taking up the pen again in another attempt to call the Muse back from the depts of piled-up press releases and corporate brochure drafts. I am evoking the enchantment that I used to get from stringing words to convey beautiful thoughts. I am clearing myself of hard jargons that have clouded my thoughts like decades worth of cobwebs. I am looking forward to seeing life again in colors and words and thoughts, and feeling the fluttering of little butterflies in my belly at the sight.

Tonight I can start living again.

Conspiracy Vignette (After May 7)

I am listening to Comet’s Tail as I write this—an attempt to clear the haze that has clouded my mind since our most recent tryst. I guess the mist in my mind will remain there for a long time. But I am fine, surprisingly, save for the fact that I can’t keep my mind from wandering off to that night at Conspiracy. The scenes and the sounds continue to play back in my memory.

Like now. I am sitting there again, with you beside me. You are fervently holding my hand, like you’re afraid I would drift away the moment you let go. Cynthia is propped up on her humble throne in front of us, singing and strumming our secret story, while leading the rest of the audience to believe that this is their night, too. Once in a while, she flashes a sly smile—the only clue to the three-way conspiracy.

We are oblivious to the crowd. To us, they are non-entities, faceless people who just happened to be there. Unlike you and me and Cynthia, who are all there with a purpose. This is the night that we begin to write our symphony. Right here, in this dark, intimate room, with another kindred spirit to keep us company.

Figaro Vignette

Two people facing each other on the coffee table for two. They are not talking, but they seem to be fine just looking each other in the eye. His hands, though, are gently touching each of her elbows. Funny, but these fools look as though this is all that matters.

A crazy couple consumed by the madness of each other—this must be what the sane world sees when it looks at us. But does it matter? I guess not. They will never understand. They will think it’s preposterous of us to assume that fate went out of its way to lay out a series of chance happenings to bring us together. Why, are we that important? They will think us fools for believing that the truest of loves can spring from fortuity. They will laugh at us, and warn us that we’re not being wise for our age and experience.

But we know better, babe. We will laugh back at them, and we will look at them with pity because they do not know what they are missing. They will never know how the slightest touch can feel almost like a lightning bolt. They do not have the slightest idea of how it feels like to find your half—or to be found by your half—and just know it’s a perfect match because you can almost hear the click of the pieces falling into place.

Too bad, babe. They will never know that.

If You Forget Me

If you forget me
I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda