I have waited and the verdict was passed--to be exiled at le Château du Désespoir! Heavens help me, save me.

It is the last day of our week-long time-off, as it were, after having finished our previous—er—engagement. I have since feared that we may have to pay a price for our little vacation, because I suspect no one really wants to see the new guys happy, and I was right. It was just recently announced, by a representative of those above us, that we were to take all our belongings with us to le Chateau d'If—for we will not be expecting to be home again anytime soon. One cannot be certain if it was just a cruel ruse on their part, I certainly hope it was, but I have packed my things all the same. It is with a bit of shame though that I must admit that I am a little apprehensive, of what I cannot tell, about my imminent departure to that damnable fortress, and be imprisoned therein for an untold time, doing the devil knows what. It has been bothering me for the past few days, giving me nightmares, and disturbing my peaceful repose. Uncertainty, perhaps, is likely the culprit. No one knows what we will have to go through inside, how we will be treated, what will they feed us, or where upon this earth they will decide to throw me next!

And most importantly, I want to know, when can I come home?

I have just returned from months of absence and it is utterly depressing (not to mention infuriating) to find that I have not returned for good, that I cannot go home everyday, or every weekend at least, to enjoy the warm company of my family whom I have missed very much. As the last hours of my freedom tick by, I grow more and more anxious, disquieted, almost alarmed—so much so that I desperately claw onto anything, like a drowning cat struggling for air, that would alleviate this most unpleasant feeling. I converse with my parents (about anything even the most nonsense things), annoy my sister endlessly (our own strange way of showing affection),  play with the puppies (they have grown so big now), listen to music, watch movies, and play games on my computer as if there is no tomorrow. Perhaps... there will no longer be any tomorrows. No more days of freedom, of easy mornings and lazy afternoons, of silly hobbies and juvenile gaming, of simply having horrible amounts of free time in your hands. No, no more of that. The situation that I am in requires that I must leave it all behind—a high price to pay for someone who value these things dearly—and for what?

Adieu la liberté!

It was with tremendous relief, more than anything else, that our practical instructions, having gone on for some lonely months (all the while imprisoned in The Hole), came to a satisfactory conclusion. My other companions rejoiced and celebrated with many smiles and much picture-taking whilst I stood there silently, as I remembered, in the middle of the ground with a confounding mixture of emotions. I half-heartedly partook with some of the picture-taking (it was obligatory), finding it hard to smile with sincerity, and as the others mingled with their relatives with displays of vulgar happiness (which I was finding increasingly annoying), I morosely went back to where I kept my things and got ready to go home. The clouds were gathering upon the gloomy skies that afternoon, the hills beyond the fence looked more forlorn than ever, and as the rain began to come down (which went on incessantly throughout the night)—I gradually slid into depression.

It was to be expected, I reckon, that after graduation—my life, along with one hundred and sixteen others, would inevitably change. It was made clear to us, during the daunting speeches, devoid of any words of encouragement and useless garnishings, what our absolute purpose, our task would be. I have given it a fair amount of thought, during the time we have spent inside The Hole, what our lives is going to be like afterwards, but never was I confronted with the brutality of the truth—until then. And I feel utterly sad, and fearful, perhaps. Sadness for I feel that I will soon be leaving the person who I once was; and fear for I might not like what I will become. Would I someday stand on top of some deserted hill, in the middle of nowhere, wearily staring at the sunset, as if suddenly lost in thought, and ask myself if I still remember? Who was that person who loved coffee in the afternoon, and reading books, and listening to the rain as it patters on the roof? Who was it? And shrug, even sigh, and perhaps say that "it was a lifetime ago"—then continue trudging on into the darkness, following a line of similarly clothed beings of the same lost faces, their burdens heavy on their backs, the black metal of their rifles glinting between them.

I once thought that I could do it, convinced myself that I would not mind going through it all, even just for a few years. I once believed, like many others, that it would be an adventure—but I have grown old, it seems (my painful knees are telling me),  and too weary of adventures. Besides, have I not had enough already? More than twelve months of training have worn me down; still, I must admit, those have been the best (and worst) of times—and it has ultimately led me here. Sigh. My destination is still uncertain perhaps, but it is coming, as it undoubtedly will, just a few days more and my fate will be decided. And when it comes, I am hoping that this feeling would be gone (as I earnestly pray it would) and, perhaps finding myself more open to possibilities, accept it not with a heavy heart but with an enthusiastic disposition. For what else can I do? This is the path that I have chosen to take, and I shall walk through it, counting upon the good Lord not to let my heart stray too far nor lead me to my destruction. Besides, it cannot be at all that bad (as many others have gone through it, and walked away unscathed) and, like all things—this too shall pass.

Yes, this too shall pass.

I do feel that the dark days of scarcity and despair are soon coming to an end (and damn me, if they do not). This sprouting feeling, unlike the ones that I had last year (or the year before that), is not a mere product of my worsening case of delusion (among others). It is, as a matter of fact, the effect of the long-awaited arrival, after so much frustrating delay, of a most fortunate event—one which promises to rescue me, even just slightly, from the wretched state of poverty where I have found myself dismally pickled in longer than I could care to admit. This fortunate occurrence has somewhat raised my spirits these past few days and restored some measure of hope within my poor decrepit heart, where once cynicism had comfortably called home, enough that I have gladly postponed my sad meeting with a truck in the middle of a busy highway. I still do tend to suspiciously eye it with the cautious optimism of someone who has borne so much disappointments, but only a fool would gaily wave his hands as such opportunity pass him by. I may very well be a fool, nevertheless, I shall not let it pass me by! No sir, by God, I shall not! I shall grab hold of its scrawny figurative neck (if it has one, and if it does not, grab hold of a nearest figurative appendage) and never shall I relinquish my grasp if there is still strength left in me. I shall hang on with the persistence and determination of a madman—or until I am dead. There! For, although it is truly an answer to my earnest prayers, which I am ever so grateful for, I fear it would be the last. If, heavens forbid, I fail here—ah! I dare not imagine it. I truly could not.

At any rate, before any of that (success or failure) should come to pass, I should perhaps resume where I had stopped last solely for the sake of my history's continuity, and perhaps to satisfy your curiosity. I will try to be brief, old boy, I promise.

Well, well—there I was, back in Cebu (I forget the exact date), sitting in a line towards a job interview in a very posh office, and feeling distinctly misplaced among the fair-skinned and smartly-dressed 'yuppies' of that city. I still have then, after all, the deep tan of a 'kargador'; and the time spent in a construction site did not help at all to uplift my somewhat diminished self-confidence (that or the fact that I was wearing an old shirt). Despite these misgivings, I must have done something right during the interview for I was hired by a call center company upon my very first try. My job, as you would have guessed, entailed addressing with artificial calm reserve the concerns of whining, sometimes verbally abusive, customers. I was ecstatic to have found employment with a handsome compensation, however, my happiness only lasted shortly. My nose disagreed strongly with the facility's unbearably nippy airconditioner, which seemed to run at full blast the entire day (forcing the unhappy occupants to wear winter clothes indoors during summer), giving me the worst case of colds ever in my entire life and a fever. I was forced to resign prematurely and that was the end of it. I came skulking back to Butuan (with a few pennies in my pocket) to help my parents, who seemed overly happy with my resignation, with their starting a new business. In the course of next few months, I was the cashier, the waiter, the janitor, and the goat-herder altogether—for a meager allowance. I felt like kicking myself, repeatedly and very hard indeed, for leaving my job in Cebu—and whatever reason I had for so doing suddenly seemed—insignificant.

Brief, as promised.

There is, however, a moment in Cebu that was worth mentioning about: my 'date' with Stella—who, for some reason, has found her way to where I was then staying. It was to be a night to remember, and perhaps a point where beautiful things could have begun. It was so until she decided to have me wait (the one thing I know she knew I hated most) an entire hour, transforming the feelings I had of excitement and romance... to pure loathing. After an endless tapping of fingers and a couple bottles of beer, she arrived finally. I was understandably upset for, if I had not (through text messaging) threatened to abscond and postpone our meeting, I believe she would have had me wait there until she hears the crowing of the roosters. She apologized and pleaded for my forgiveness, until the inclination to storm out with a sour face has been sufficiently allayed. We talked for a short while and, after expeditiously declining her invitation to further the evening, I bid her goodnight. I was simply not in the mood (or whatever it was she had so carelessly ruined), besides I had to wake up early in the morning. She would tease me afterwards, about why I rejected her request, saying that I was afraid of the Cebu night life. Ha!

Ah, my dear friend, my sole confidant! How have you been, eh? Dear me, you look neglected. Forgive me for having suddenly abandoned you—I was in desperate need of fresh air, lots of it. I should have been more mindful and said my goodbyes, despite how terrible I am at it, for I know blogs have feelings somehow. Yes, yes, I am aware that I have lost my head, for quite some time now, as a matter of fact. You should not point it out, you know—it is unbecoming of an inanimate object, especially you, to point out anything. You would be driven mad as well, no doubt, if you had the misfortune to endure what I was compelled to endure—for what end still eludes me. Perhaps it was to educate me regarding humility which, since no professor taught it when I was in school, fate decided to intervene for my benefit by fancying itself my tutor. Glad to learn it, however, I rather thought the lesson was a tad excessive. Anyway, I had managed to wade through it and I stand before you now a humbler man with much garbage to tell you. Pray, do sit down and, mind, not to litter the floor with your crumbs. There, that's a good fellow. Would you care for some tea before we start? No? Of course not, you can't have tea, how silly of me. Well, well—where should I begin?