Cleanliness in person, cleanliness in mind

I went to a university where students don't wear uniform, which can be pretty rare in the Philippines; I loved it! It gave me a wonderful notion of being independent for once -- no more neatly pressed blouses or skirts as flat as a floorboard, and black shoes and white socks. School year usually starts in May and I could still go to school wearing summer clothes: shorts and a t-shirt; when the rainy season came, I'd avoid jeans for they can be quite heavy when they get soaked in the rain and cold on your legs; when the December chill came, I would cover myself in cardigans and the ever constant jeans (air-conditioning in the classrooms could be intolerable); when the summer heat begins to seep through your pores, then you'll thank for the air-conditioners, and bring out the shorts. I've never seen anyone wore anything weird in campus, only those wearing skimpy shorts -- way even before hotpants came around, as popularized by big-bummed JLo.

On my trip to the office this morning, I boarded the train alongside a college student whose outfit caught my attention: neon-orange peplumed shorts, black shirt, black socks covering the rest of her legs (was it a tights? I'm not sure), and sneakers with bright, green laces. I got another peeved with students here: they go to school untidy. Primary and secondary students don't wear black leather shoes, but white, unbranded sneakers, which are prone to dirt and rarely washed. Aside from the white blouses that don't look white enough, kids look like they just got out off bed -- unwashed hair and all; I guess they don't teach good grooming and decorum in school, for this fairly reflect even to some of my colleagues. Take my cubicle neighbour as a very good example: he reeks of body odour, had some patches of reddish thingies on his neck (I dare not to look for they are tell-tale evidences of poor hygiene), and he scratches himself all the time: whenever he is not typing anything on his keyboard, whichever part of his body: hair, neck, tummy, arms, legs -- even his butt (God forbid!); this scratching doesn't halt even while he is talking to his boss discussing some system issues and it will go on even after the boss is long gone; and don't let me go on about his farting. Locals have a penchant of doing gross things, which Filipinos find shouldn't be done in public view: farting (okay, if you really can't help it), picking noses.

Filipinos have this gesture whenever we have to go through the midst of people talking in the hallway or whenever we want to do an overtake: we stoop a little and place our hands (or it can be just one hand) in front and say, Excuse me. They don't do it here; they'll simply say, Ello! Ello! (Hello! Hello!) I'm sometimes tempted to say, Who do you want to speak to?

Love: too pliable, too yielding

You found love; but why are there times that you can't freely breathe? You felt your love fading; he took your belief in love and handed them back to you, saying that he can't hold onto it forever. How does one say sorry, when you know that sorry can never be enough? It is damn near impossible to bring things back to the way they used to be; yet there are those who wish for them anyway.

Some goodbyes are final; this is one of them. Then you hear that sound: the sound of your heart breaking – the resonance is deafening, ringing to your ears, pounding on your chest. You left. You walk out of the door, for the dam is about to break. Your pace quickens. There it is… that other sound; the pieces… the pieces are beginning to crumble.

Quick! Be Quick! Hot tears… one step, two steps, three steps. You are running; running like you have never done before. You don't care where you are going. You just keep on running; you just need to get out of that place. You didn't bother to look what's around you. You can't be bothered to look.

It is raining; but you can't be sure if it is from the sky or simply on your head. You don't care. You run and run, like the devil was on your back catching up on you. You're at the edge of a forest and you stop. Now you can feel the hard rain falling on you face; and you cry. You are crying and unaware that you are. You are crying out all the sadness trapped inside of you. You are crying because the rain drowns your tears; you are howling for the wind blows them away. You can't feel the coldness in the air for you are much colder inside.

Nothing matters right now; there is only the anger, the sadness and the confusion clouding your heart. Soaking in the pouring rain, a hand touched your shoulder, making you twist your head and see who it is. "What's wrong?" your dearest friend says. He is soaking to the bones as you are. You wonder if he is always just a few steps behind; you don't know, for you never looked back. You did not care if he could see your tears; whether he heard your cries, it doesn't matter anymore. Nevertheless, he hugs you with all the warmth you'd ever need. "What's wrong?" he asks once more.

"Just hold me. Hold me," you say.

Then you realize out there in the pouring rain, clinging desperately to a friend, that love can be lost, but then it can be found again. All the ambiguities, all the complexities, all the pain of not knowing what went wrong are finally over. Despite of everything: home is here at last. You can have a life again.

Telling one's age is silly: you are as old as you feel

Two hundred, eighty thousand, three hundred and twenty hours. How would one quantify his stay on earth?

With the number of cakes he sliced on his birth anniversaries,
the number of wrinkles on his forehead,
the thousand haircuts he had to go through,
the tons of food he consumed and wasted,
the number of times he disappointed his family and God,
the hundred celebrations he attended with his victories,
the number of times he faltered and stumbled,
the gallons of alcohol he drank,
the hundred thousands kisses he had given away,
the million miles he travelled,
the phone calls he made and received,
the number of fights he started and gotten into;
the hearts he had broken,
or how about the buckets of tears he shed,
the cackles of laughter that emanated from his throat,
the hundred confessions he said to a listening priest,
the mornings he rose to watch the sunrise,
the sunsets he shared with a friend,
the rose buds he plucked and smelled,
the number of people he helped,
the friends he made,
the lives he mended and enriched.

Had I lived my life? I don't know, if you'd ask me; maybe yes, maybe no – maybe for a few moments or a hundred days. Am I at a crossroad? Maybe I had already walked passed it or I haven't reached it yet, but I am planning of making one now, for there's no time to wait as the old adage of time is but fleeting rings in your head.

It's time to start living my life; I'll start writing my stories today.

You only live once...but if you live it right, once is enough

To the special man in our life: Happy Birthday, Daddy!!!

Josh's second term at school had already started; however, there are still more pictures taken during his first term you might not have seen.