The Angel

We die everyday. The moment we step out of our houses, we become sensitive to how the world will see us. We mute our colors and hide the mannerisms that could betray us. We try as hard as possible to be inconspicuous in our words and actions. We look for nuances of what makes a man straight and so we stifle our tendencies and inclinations in order to be like them. We call the men bro or dude  or whatever sounds manly in the offices that we work in.

Took the last flight on a Friday night caught between the last days of summer and the beginning of fall. Made a brief stop at Minneapolis and, while waiting, I got a text message from an unfamiliar number telling me it was you. You were there at the airport as I made my exit and we found our way at the parking lot looking for the rental. We drove for miles beneath the midnight sky, across the vast Bay Area, against the settling fog and the twinkling lights of distant buildings, until we passed the shadows of the mountains and the distance between houses became as wide as the longing in our hearts.

It is Thanksgiving in the US today. The day when many turkeys are killed and basted. Although I don't celebrate it even when I lived there, this is a good time to be grateful for where I am in life. Many times in the past couple of months, I remind myself that I am in a comfortable place now, far from the struggles I've had in the last two years. It had been a dizzying, sometimes unconscious, trip to rock bottom. And just when I thought I was finally rising from my grave, I hit a few rough patches again and I spent months without any source of income.

I didn't like him. He was an officemate that I had worked with a couple of times on late-night projects. The years passed and he moved to another country for work. I saw him in the newsfeed of my Facebook. That's how I was updated about him, because he posted regularly. But he was an acquaintance, much like all the former officemates of ours who have either remained in the old company or moved on to different ones. It was a chance encounter on a street where I was standing, a little lost and looking for a coffee shop nearby, when a car stopped by--and he stepped out. It was like I had seen a ghost. I didn't know he was back.

I picked up the scattered toys that my niece left on the floor. There were Lego blocks built on top of each other with no concept of a design. A toy train and a truck that she had crashed against each other just earlier in the day. There was a wind-up toy with its whirring sound that amused her until it stopped; three dolls with two of their heads popped off their bodies. The doorbell buzzed and I didn't have to check who it was. I knew it was you.

I think I'm overdue for a good cry. I'm a little bit exhausted, tired of life itself. Still out of tune, out of sync from what I want. Dreams are still expensive and seemingly impossible. Out of a thousand miles to that goal, I'm just fifty miles in, with so many stops, restarts, and detours.

The world is in chaos down below.  Too many buildings rising, too many cars passing by, too many people walking.  The humidity almost makes me want to add a bimpo  as a fashion accessory.  I had conditioned myself before to expect that it would be crowded, but it's more crowded than I imagined it would be.  A couple of days ago, I met up with a high school friend and she asked me, "For good na ba ang uwi mo?"  And I said, "For better or worse."  Till death do you part?  Well, that's the goal.