Emptiness is a deviant world where color has no meaning and love is but a memory. Its sky is forever a shade below pale, w/ a paste-up moon hanging on wasted dreams. Its streets are lined with the dried shells of lost hopes, echoing the mournful cries of twisted souls who once dared but lost, tried but failed. Souls of dreamers who took a chance and are thus left chained to nothing but the promise of a whisper.
How do we deal with people? Better still, how do we deal with people we don't want to deal with in the first place? How much can we take and how much snakes can we keep from bursting out of our mouths so that, like heat-seeking missiles, they find their way into the hearts of these vermin we so passionately hate?
Relax. Pray. Torture your Barbie. Etcetera. No matter, the moment is not without its resbak, the day ends and a new day begins... the circle completed, you have no choice (slave!) but to meet people once again. They are part of life!
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I worked at an office and one day, a group of visiting kulturati, really, old veterans who have made their mark in the field of arts... comes waltzing in. Immediately, they scoop up some of our displays, our posters and command one of us to prepare the artifacts they've chosen for transport (not request mind you, command as in, do this peon!). The resident O.C. that I am immediately swings into action. "Hey! You can't just barge in here and do that..."
And I am immediately put in my place... like the poor little fish stung by the invisible poisonous strings of the Port’ Man O War. "How dare you rebuke us? Is that the way to talk with someone senior? Aren’t you Tagalog, you don't know how to say PO? ... To think I KNOW your parents!" (Great, now not only am I going to lose my job, I’m getting a spanking as well...)
I just stood there absorbing all these sh_t from these older citizens of art Olympus and several thoughts boil in my head... yes, how do we deal with people? Particularly “these” people. The Don Corleone resident evil in my head says "with respect". But doesn't the word respect go together with the word "mutual"? The incredible hulk lurking neath my inner temple shouts “kill! Smash! Destroy!” But the cowardly Peewee Herman that I am says peace bro; she can kill you with those lethal stilettos! Then, the mother-like dweller of my left hemisphere coaxes, diplomacy.
Diplomacy? But isn't that a political word? Isn’t it that it means "compromise" in the real world? I’ve seen it among neighbors, more formidable than the fences that surround them. It is the unspoken “I don't care what you do, so why should you care what I do?”, otherwise called the “dedma” syndrome. I’ve seen it quite often among squabbling siblings, let's do this for mother, she's sick you know...
Ah diplomacy, the glue that keeps the world together. But wait, whatever happened to mutual and respect? Alas, I took the road less traveled.
I try to reach you but your mind is far away
I try to hold your hand but still your eyes stray
I try to make you songs
but you didn't seem to mind
it seems to me
you're engrossed in your own time
I'm leaning on hopes
I'm leaning on dreams
I'm leaning on practically everything
that is you.
And there were times
when it seemed I was breaking through your walls
just to find another that's
just as tall
at nights I'm always hoping
but baby it ain't all
I love you.
The knowing smiles from the worn out faces make me smile myself, especially when the owners are old friends, talking about the "know-it-all" posturing of their teen children. "How can i study without that Ipod?, i need music!" or " I need soccer in my activities or else how can I cope with first year?" huh?
Tired faces who’ve seen better days. There was a time I saw them like fresh daisies, all glistening with the sweat of youth, running around campus, leaflets in hand, passing out schedules and rally points, debating on puns and dialectics, even sharing the latest playboy in the safety of the science lab. Or dead drunk, with saliva slowly making that shiny journey from mouth to the floor.
Now, who’d ever imagine that after all those glorious days that never seem to end, we’d all come down to this: pudgy blobs of french fry fat, sitting drinking coffee and pathetically reduced to following the dictum of that age-old-tradition where one is imposed upon to attend reunions and relive the "good-old-days" ?
"I hate my children", my friend says. "They’re too much like me! All day till dinner, i sit with a bunch of clones who hug my tv and rob me of my favorite channels. I go out and play golf and my " prodigies" pile up in the car and try to put on their best dad joke. my neighbors think I’m cool but really, cool to the touch is more like it… almost dead cool."
As for me, I’m with my son everyday. Almost every second of the day to be exact. He’s eight, calls me tree trunk, likes to reads Greek Mythology and invents monsters and legends as if he had a copyright to them. Clutters of drawings, rough sketches and cardboard posters litter our house so much that I’ve numbers of times swore to the high heavens that I’ll never clean up again, ever.
He thinks the ATM counter is the place where grownups get money given by the government. Free. So why can’t I buy him the latest K-Zone, when he knows I have money right? He likes to call me "My King" and sometimes fixes the bed to look like a throne, compleat with a tray of juice and biscuits, but he bosses me around the house and reminds me to stop being stressed whenever i shout "you're killing me!". At least i don’t hate him. love that little guy so much, i still hug him tight when he sleeps. oh well, what do you know, the old tree trunk’s a softie.
The day is almost over and the color of the day turns into an earthy shade. The neighbor’s kids along with the neighbor’s dogs intrude upon the serenity of memories. Time to fade once again. Let’s crawl back to where we came from. Till next reunion.
