Kahit papaano, ang layo na rin pala.

Gumising ako ngayong umaga. Medyo kakaiba yung pakiramdam. Yung tipong isa sa mga umaga na alam kong may maiisip akong ikatutuwa ko kapag nagtagal pa akong magmuni-muni sa kama. Masarap ang gising ko. (kahit ala-una ako natulog at nakarinig ako ng alitan ng aking mga magulang kanina)

Nag-isip ako. Nagdasal ako. 

Salamat sa umaga na ito. Nagising ulit ako. Gabayan Niyo po sana ako sa araw na ito at ang lahat ng mga kaibigan ko. Sana walang masamang mangyari sa kanila at isinasainyo ko na po ang kapalaran namin. God bless us all. 

Nakahiga't nag-iisip. Napalingon ako sa lahat ng pinagdaanan ko (nanaginip na naman ako tungkol sa mga tao sa aking kahapon).

Napaisip ako: Ang layo na pala nang narating ko. 

Hindi naman sa nagyayabang ako. Kumpara sa ibang tao, tiyak na mas malayo ang narating nila. Pero para sa akin at sa mga sitwasyon ko, kahit papaano, malayo-layo na 'tong narating ko sa buhay. 

Iskolar na nga pala ako ngayon sa Ateneo (isa sa mga pinakatanyag na unibersidad sa bansa). Kahit papaano, maganda pa rin naman ang mga marka ko. Naging valedictorian pala ako nung High school (sa CMSHS, na sinasabing maraming matatalinong bata ng Mandaluyong ang nag-aaral doon). May isang kahon din ako ng mga medalya at certificate mula noong High school. Sumali nga pala ako ng mga kumpetisyon noon. Science, English, ang karamihan, (di ako mahilig sa math).

Kahit papaano, maipagmamalaki ko na ang mga 'yan. Bunga 'yan ng sariling sikap ko at bukal-sa-loob na pagtulong ng mga tao sa paligid ko. 

Alam niyo ba, na ni isang beses, hindi pumunta ang mga magulang ko sa mga kumpetisyong sinalihan ko? (kung nananalo man, laging guro ang nagsasabit ng medalya) Hindi na rin nila ako pinakialaman sa pag-aaral ko pagdating ng ikaapat na baitang ng elementarya. Tagatingin na lang sila ng mga marka (at pati ang report card ko, ako na rin ang kumuha). Sa totoo lang, noong elementarya, hindi sumagi sa isipan ko na "matalino" pala ako. Hindi ko pinangarap na maging valedictorian o maging iskolar. Hindi masyadong maganda ang suporta ng mga magulang ko (kung sa pag-aaral). 

Dumating din ang punto noong nasa ikalimang baitang ako na "nakalimutan" akong sunduin. Private school kasi, bawal lumabas nang basta-basta ang mga bata. Naghintay ako hanggang alas-siete ng gabi sa may gate ng paaralan namin, kasama ang security guard, umiiyak, nagdadasal na sunduin na ako. Umalis na kasi yung ibang mga bata, ako na lang ata hindi nasusundo. Masakit. Dumating ang tatay ko, nagsorry siya, sabi niya dumaan muna raw siya sa bahay tapos naalala niya na hindi niya pa ko nasusundo. (Hanep, di ba?) Pagkatapos ng insidente na iyon, natuto akong magcommute mag-isa. Ayoko ang pakiramdam na naghihintay na lang ako ng tulong at wala na kong kayang gawin. Inasikaso ko yung commuter's pass ko, para palabasin ako ng guard. Pagdating ng grade 6, tuwing may meeting ako sa Student Council na ginagabi, ako na mag-isa ang umuuwi. Para sa isang bata sa isang private school para sa mga babae, malaking bagay na marunong kang magcommute mag-isa (namangha ang mga kaklase ko noong nalaman nila, mayayaman kasi karaniwan ang mga estudyante doon). Hindi naman umalma ang mga magulang ko, alam siguro nila na kaya ko ang sarili ko. 

(pero hanggang ngayon, si Abby na grade six na, hindi pa rin nila pinapayagan. ano kayang ibig sabihin nun?)

Bumalik tayo, hindi masyadong maganda ang suporta ng magulang ko sa paaralan, basta pumasa, ayos lang. Walang pressure, naiintindihan ko, pero kahit paano sana nakita nila na kaya ko (kung hindi siguro ako pumasok sa MandSci, na academic-oriented, hindi ko siguro mararating to). Pagtungtong ng high school, dalawang libro lang ang binili nila para sa akin (nakakainggit sa mga kaklase ko, na kahit second-hand na libro sa biology, zoology, chemistry at physics talagang ibinibigay ng mga magulang nila, kumikirot sa puso pero ayos lang, nag-aral na lang ako sa internet, at sa mga hiram na libro galing sa mga guro ko. Naging Best in Biology, Botany, Chemistry, Earth Science, English naman ako.). Kahit hanggang ngayon naman, ako pa rin bumibili ng mga libro ko sa kolehiyo (maraming magagandang loob na nagbibigay ng scholarship). Halos wala na silang binabayaran para sa pag-aaral ko. 

Hindi ko rin naman siguro masisisi ang magulang ko. Mula naman sa umpisa, hindi masyadong academic-oriented ang mga Moreno at Suarez. Madalang lang na may makatapos ng kolehiyo. Hindi naman kami galing sa mayayaman na pamilya. Kaya naman, kahit makatungtong o matapos mo ang kolehiyo, malaking bagay na. Kaya siguro hindi masyadong napapansin ang pagsuporta sa pag-aaral kasi sa pagpapaaral pa lang mismo, nahihirapan na kami. Pinaghirapan ng mga magulang ko na pag-aralin kami sa mga pribadong paaralan. Mahal ang tuition fee sa St. Paul Pasig at sa Lourdes School of Mandaluyong (sabay kami ng kuya ko). Noong nag-aral na rin si Abby, naisip ko na hindi kakayanin na mag-aral kaming tatlo sa mga pribadong paaralan. Nagpublic-science high school ako. At least doon, walang bayad. (Nanibago ako, sobrang dumi, luma ng gamit, kulang ng staff. Doon ako natuto magfloorwax, magwalis, maglinis ng electric fan. Nakaka-down-to-earth ang experience. Doon ko nalaman na ang telepono, niloloadan, na may mga pamilya talagang nagbubugbugan, na may nakatira talaga sa ganoong bahay. Mas naging tao ako sa MandSci.)

Kung iisipin, malayo na rin ang narating ng nanay ko. Sa siyam na magkakapatid, siya lang ang nakatapos ng kolehiyo. Sabi ng lolo ko sa kanya, hindi na siya kayang pag-aralin. Hindi nawalan ng pag-asa ang nanay ko. Nagworking-student siya sa Maynila (kahit taga-Pampanga talaga sila). Nagtrabaho siya sa National Bookstore kapag may araw pa, babalik siya para mag-aral sa PUP nang gabi. Iginapang niya yung diploma niya. Hindi gaanong mataas ang mga marka niya noon (mahirap mag-aral nang pagod) pero at least, nakapagtapos siya. At nasaan na nga ba siya ngayon? Isang mataas na officer sa HSBC (isang international na bangko) at ka-level niya na ang mga Trust Officer sa bansa (nakapasa siya sa interview ng Standard Charters). 

Hindi nakapagtapos ng kolehiyo ang tatay ko. Sa katunayan, hindi ko talaga alam kung anong nangyari sa kanya kasi alam ng karamihan na matalino siya. Shift ata nang shift ang tatay ko. Alam kong Business Administration siya, na naging Accounting, na naging ECE. Dapat ata ggraduate na siya, kaso pinabugbog ata ng barkada niya yung isang ROTC officer na pinahirapan sila. (O diba? May pinagmanahan 'tong kaangasan ko) Ayun, hindi niya hinintay. Nagtrabaho na lang siya kaagad. 

Hmmm. So ayun. 

Siguro para sa isang batang hindi masyadong nasubaybayan sa paaralan, na nanggaling sa pamilyang hirap sa pagpapaaral, malayo na nga ang narating ko. 

Napapaisip ako: paano kung hindi ako nakapag-entrance-test ng MandSci? Paano kung sinubaybayan nga nang mabuti yung pag-aaral ko? Paano kung nagloko na lang ako? Paano kung nagdrugs/nanigarilyo/nag-inom/nanglalaki na lang ako (kapag nasa isang pampublikong paaralan ka, hindi malayong mangyari sa iyo ang ilan dyan)? 

It's wonderful to think how our lives are held together by such intricate details--the small choices we make, the people around us, the waking-ups and all the other elements of our day-to-day lives. There are so many ifs and maybes to be thought about. 

Aaminin ko sa inyo, hindi naging madali para marating ko 'to. Apat ang nunal ko sa balikat (tag dalawa sa bawat balikat), sabi nila, ibigsabihin daw noon, lahat daw ng pasanin sa mundo bubuhatin ko. Marami akong pinagdaanan, mga pre. Pero para sa mga umaga na ganito, ang sarap isipin na buhay ako ngayon at napagdaanan ko sila. 

Ang galing ni Lord! (Wooooooooooooooooooo! Idol! Maraming salamat! Hindi ko alam kung anong gagawin ko kung wala po Kayo. Sa mga oras na pagod na ako at gusto ko na talagang mamatay, sa Inyo lang po ako kumuha ng lakas para gumising ulit. Salamat na hindi ako naging addict sa kanto o kaya tambay o kaya salamat na nakatungtong ako sa kolehiyo.)

Hindi sa malayo na ang narating ko, pero malayo na kung saan Niyo po ako dinala. Salamat. Sana po dalhin Niyo lang ako, tingnan po natin kung hanggang saan ko po kayang sumunod sa Inyo. Ayoko pong bumitaw. 

Maraming salamat. Ang sarap ng gising ko sa umaga na ito. :)

Sentiments of a Patched-Up Rag Doll

Sentiments of a Patched-Up Rag Doll

My name is Anna and I live in the Toy Orphanage. I live here with all the other toys, there are a lot of us here. Here, we, toys, have a home. The children visit everyday and the faces always change, so almost all of us get to be played with. And when a child likes you that much, you can get adopted and return home with them. It’s pretty magical, the leaving toys say. They always narrate that there’s a special connection, sort of spark that happens and then, you just know.

The pretty and neat toys are lucky. They always get to leave the orphanage first. Patched-up toys like me aren’t so lucky.

The brown yarn hair on my soft head has thinned out already. My limbs have been torn a few times and the dark-colored stitches have become too loose. I’ve lost a lot of fluff from those accidents too. The mismatched buttons I have as eyes have gotten loose. I’ve been washed so many times that my dress has gone a tad bit lighter. I look like a stitch short of a mess. I don’t mind, I’m still smiling, aren’t I?

The children don’t see much of my smile though, even though I put a lot of effort into it. No one wants to play with broken toys. Broken toys don’t last long. Children are afraid of breaking them. If they do, they’d feel bad about themselves and be obligated to fix them. No one likes that. Broken toys only catch attention and pique curiosity (and maybe a little sympathy): I wonder where she got that stitch from? What happened to you? I wonder why her leg is so loose… They all wonder why and how I got so broken. Sometimes they try to consider whether or not they can fix me. Most leave. And again, I am left alone—held together by a few stitches.

Most of the toys I arrived with here already left—they were adopted. I don’t think any of the children coming here would care to adopt me. I’m far too broken to be played with. I need too much fixing.

Sometimes I wish someone would just throw me into the fire. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It will all end eventually. Or maybe the Toymaker could take me back, take me apart and make something new out of me. Maybe a glove, a bag—anything that wouldn’t require stitching a smile on a face.  

 

At Mornings Like These.

It’s a new morning, yes. I love mornings. I love the smell of breakfasts. I love how sunlight slowly creeps through the trees and branches near our house. It’s a constant feeling of renewal—that I could do something good today, live far from yesterday and to look forward to tomorrow.

Yes, I do love mornings.

But I do hate waking up alone in an empty house.

(It breaks my heart to know that no one even bothers to tell me that they’re leaving. They just leave; lock the front door and let me find out for myself. But they do leave breakfast out for me, that’s nice.)

It’s just when I’m home alone like this, I can’t help but to think that no one’s gonna come back. How miserable it would be, to stay in a house and wait for someone to go home to you, but never will.

*Sigh, family issues.

The silence is deafening. I plan to watch anime after writing this, just to drown it out. I’m scared. 

What I'm Waiting/Looking For

People often have ideas on what kind of Love they’re waiting/looking for. Other people say that they want someone who would stand by them through thick and thin, someone who would be their partner in life, facing challenges together. Some people say someone they could watch the stars with. Others still, would say someone who can see right through them. I could go on forever about what people say about Love, but, hey, what’s Hollywood for then? :))

We all have our different ideas on love, different expectations, different people we’re waiting or looking for.

 As for me, what am I looking for?

I’m not the type to want being tied down to something. Okay, maybe I have commitment issues. (I can see myself in a relationship, yes, but just not now.) Right now, the idea on the matter is: I want someone who would allow me to have my own adventures. I want to see the world through my eyes and taste it as it is. And, that person, I will allow him to do the same. I don’t want to be with him all the hours of the day.

 We’ll have our own adventures.

But, every night, when it is time for rest, I want to go home to a person. And I want that person to go home to me too. I want us to talk to each other and tell each other stories of what happened during the day. I can see myself going: Amazing! or like: Too bad. And he can say the same to my stories. I’ll laugh over dinner and a joke he thought of earlier today. I’d cry and he’d hug me tight (I can do the same). He’d get upset at me but can’t stay mad too long. A home.

And before going to bed, he’d hold my hand, just to let me know that he’d be there in the morning (I hate waking up to an empty house). And when I do wake up (I presume I’d wake up earlier than him), I’ll stroke his hair and admire his face, the man I love. I’ll get up, get ready for another day, with new adventures and new challenges, knowing that I can come home to this person.

And no matter how badly the world treats me, whatever the insignificant people think of me, I wouldn’t care, because I know I have a home I can go home to. 

In Memory of Pedro by Abba Moreno

In Memory of Pedro

By: Abba Marie Moreno

 

Pedro was a valiant knight;

he fought his last battle well.

 

I can still smell the sweet summer

evening I entrusted him to you,

a gift for our first anniversary

(with a bouquet of lipstick-red roses).

Your eyes spelled out burning infatuation

and poured out cold droplets of joy.

I kissed you amidst the candlelit glow

of the planned perfection for the evening.

We were so in love.

You asked me why I gave you a teddy bear:

to keep the monsters away while you sleep.

(You thought it sweet, I was jesting.)

You blushed a little and smiled radiantly.

(Ah, I never forgot that candlelight smile of yours.)

You made an eager promise to keep

the stuffed bear by your bed each night.

                                    You were so in love.

Let’s name him: Pedro.

 

A man once told me

that the hardest things to let go of

were the things you never really had.

We weren’t as in too deep as we thought, Mary.

I was in love with the perfection that was us.

You were in love with an image in the mirror

that you thought that was me.

We had to end it.

 

But I never understood why

you had to involve Pedro with ‘us’.

I raced towards your apartment

after the phone call from your sobbing mother.

It was a dreary day drenched in October showers.

Her trembling finger pointed towards your bedroom

(I retraced my steps from the nights I spent over).

I saw your lifeless form bent crookedly on the floor

and sprawled on a pool of your once-precious blood.

You put a bag over your head and cut your throat.

The mirror read: I don’t want you to see me like this.

(All you are now is a candlelight smile.)

 

The room was a magnificent mess:

embellished with the torn sheets and ripped curtains

adorned with walls that bled curses in lipstick

and sprinkled with shards of colored glass and porcelain.

(I’ve always disliked your unkemptness.)

My eyes examined the room and

I saw Pedro decapitated,

bleeding of polyester

from scissors-stab-wounds

you inflicted. I guess,

he couldn’t protect himself

from the creatures underneath your bed

or save you from the monsters inside your head.

 

Rest in peace.