It has long since been clear to me, even before my inception into the vocation of construction (no matter how insignificant my role is in that noble trade), that there would unavoidably be little room for professional growth nor any opportunity for expeditious prosperity (except perhaps if I were the very owner of the structure I am taking part in building). I have no hopes whatsoever, nor even an ambition, to rise beyond the office of timekeeper/labourer. I have too much pride, an inclination of one who has spent years of his life devoted to education, of which not even some months of toiling covered in dirt and grime and exposed to the harsh treatment of the elements could completely eliminate from my being. Notwithstanding my gratitude for having an employment with ample compensation—I could say, not without shame, that this trade is undeniably not for me. No, I can achieve more than just watching a damnable clock and hauling sacks of cement upon my back.

It was my objective from the very beginning to accept the offer in order to provide myself with the means of procuring much-needed funds to bring a pre-conceived 'plan' into realization. As previously intimated, I am at present vehemently harbouring a feeling of utter dejection and disgust for anything that has to do with 'nursing'—a feeling brought about by an annoying succession of misfortunes that wrought has havoc upon my dignity and self-respect as a professional)—not mentioning that, in the process, it has thrown me on the very verge (if not well within the dominion) of bankruptcy. I have given up nursing, at least for the moment—it is time for a change. Hence, a plan—primarily conceived to rescue myself from this mire of despair and poverty—by acquiring, as soon as possible, a stable employment that will provide me with a steady income, restore my demolished sense of worth, and grant me with much-yearned independence.

This 'plan' is very simple: go back to the city of Cebu and there find a dignified profession worthy of my—er—skills (if I indeed have anything left). Mind you, however, that it will be, in no way, connected with nursing nor any of the numerous fields of medicine. I have decided that I needed 'something' else. The 'where' was decided quite easily enough—it was the 'what' that has to be given a most careful consideration. I have a handful of choices and numerous preferences, however, I am not particular. I do need a job, after all—whatever it may be as long as it could satisfy my abject need of money. I have considerably narrowed down the fields, however, after a night of deliberation, without much difficulty. I then spent some time browsing the Internet (a place that has proven to be the unemployed's best friend) for open positions that fell within my criteria. After sending an application letter stating my eager interest for the jobs posted therein, and submitting my resume to the respective companies—it was only then an irksome matter of waiting for the employer's corresponding reply.

Ah, I usually loath waiting and I still do (especially when there is no need for it at all), however, I have learned that it is on some occasions unavoidable, at times even necessary, and is part, I guess, of most processes in this wretched world. Thus, I wait—for an email, a telephone call, perhaps a notification for a personal interview or something of the sort. In the meantime, I continue to perform my duties in the construction site, which makes the pain of waiting somewhat bearable, with an enthusiasm expected of someone who is eager and ready to leave. I did not have to wait much long, however, the much-awaited call came, just as I was beginning to become increasingly paranoid about its delay, summoning me for a 'job interview.' It was an instruction that needed no further entreaty nor repetition. I informed my employer of the necessity of my immediate departure and, before she had the chance of objecting, I was on the next available boat to the city of Cebu.

It was not until we have succeeded in completing the second level flooring, which took at least thirty able-bodied men and twenty-four long hours of grueling toil to accomplish, that I began to consider finding an alternative source of income. It was not that I no longer needed a job (for having any employment is better than having none at all) nor that I no longer enjoy it (for physical toil has its advantages)—it is only that I sense my services are no longer—er—necessary. The usual manual labours that has previously kept me occupied have quickly disappeared since most of the work now consist that of which only skilled workers are allowed and are capable of performing. Although I still am entrusted with the timekeeping and supervision of the worker's daily attendance and professional conduct, I am finding it increasingly tedious. For what is there for a timekeeper to do but watch the hands of a clock when the owner herself does most of the clock-watching anyway? And what is there to supervise when that is already conveniently done by the foreman?

Thus, I have determined to find a new employment without delay—for another month of such dullness would be too unbearable. Furthermore, employment in a construction site does not leave much room for professional growth. I hastened therefore to search for available openings in a place where I will most likely to, as it were, hook a fat fish—the Internet. After hours of exhaustive searching and much decision-making (for I have yet to decide then what trade I would like myself to be a part thereof)—I have struck upon a handful of promising leads—and wasted no time in writing a concise letter to their respective companies stating my profound and earnest interest for the job positions which they necessitate. It was then only a matter of waiting for their appropriate replies; which may consist of a request, if any, for a personal interview—an encouraging first step in being considered for employment, if all goes well.

Hence, I waited (something which I gravely despise) and spent my remaining time in the construction site finding how to best pass it so as to avoid boredom. It was then, during my idle rounds, that I noticed the iron nails used for construction are fast becoming scarce—for the carpenters must need it in assembling anew the intricate wooden scaffolding that would support the third level flooring, the construction of which was currently underway. Yet, there are piles of hundreds of wooden planks, each studded with numerous iron nails, from the deconstructed scaffoldings of the second-level flooring, lying uselessly about on the muddy ground. Finding that no one has troubled himself with this task and finding that I have nothing better to do—I willingly threw myself upon it.

This task requires two steps, which I will describe in detail (as to why—ask me not for I only desire to write without considering its purpose). First, one would need to carefully pull each iron nail individually from the wooden plank, which could contain numerous nails embedded along its body, and deposit them in a container. Step two would require one to straighten the bent and twisted nail by lying it upon a hard wood and beating it straight with a hammer. It would sound as if it were boring and repetitive, and indeed it may be for no worker has yet to pursue the task as diligently as I, yet—I find there is something curiously addictive about it. I cannot fully explain it and I myself find it rather peculiar. Still, I will endeavour to clarify.

A bent nail is a hard-headed thing—unrelenting to any supplication other than that of a hammer. And if you beat at it incautiously—it would twist against your fingers with such force as to inflict a painful contusion or an open wound. Indeed, my fingers have suffered numerous injury in this manner. However, if you carefully and skillfully lay it down upon a firm wood, and beat it down—gently at first—and, as you feel its stern resoluteness give way, one can hammer it down easily until it is straightened out. Thus, having conquered an adamant nail—one can move on to the next. It is a delicate and vital task which, if no one dares to occupy, would leave the carpenters with nothing to do but engage themselves in silly business—such as annoying the unfortunate females who happen to pass the site with their vulgar whistlings and howlings—when the stock of iron nails has ran out.

The Alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leafing through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who daily knelt beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the Goddesses of the Forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

"Why do you weep?" the Goddesses asked.

"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.

"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."

"But... was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.

"Who better than you to know that?" the Goddesses said in wonder, "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself."

The lake was silent for some time.

Finally it said, "I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."

"What a lovely story," the alchemist thought.

~From The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho

After suffering an unpleasant episode of mild depression, which included recurrent thoughts of suicide through hanging, due to the pitiable state which lack of money induces, I have decided to quit my position as a nurse volunteer (which proved to be utterly fruitless, three months hence) and accepted an offer to work, of all places, in a construction site. I was only too glad to have received it, for there was absolutely nothing to be had in unnecessarily subjecting myself to the former, pursuing my dreams in futility while exacerbating the state of my diminished sense of pride and the abject inexistence of my personal finance; thus, I thought it fortunate indeed to finally have been graced with a real job with a generous and much-needed salary.

My job, which began almost immediately for the owner was most eager to start the construction right away, merely involved timekeeping (to ascertain that every worker starts and ends their duties in keeping with time) and supervising (to ascertain that everyone is attending their respective work and not involving themselves in other business other than that of which was specified to them which includes, but not limited to, standing idly or chatting excessively). I feel it is also within the scope of my job, though it wasn’t stated, to offer my help, even if unasked for, whenever the need arises. However, in time, manual labor became the principal focus of my employment for I found, during my daily rounds, that to be able to supervise the workers properly—one must join them.

In the course of three months, I have labored and toiled and have saved a humble sum of money (more than what I could have hope to obtain being a nurse) and have also acquired numerous cuts (one which was infected and proved such a nuisance as to require a month to heal) and minor bruises , brought back the vice of smoking, gained a wonderfully deep tan and a great appreciation for how fortunate I still am (which was the farthest thing from my mind the month before).

It is perhaps no secret that jobs which are physical in nature, such as to be found in a construction site, involves grueling, back-breaking work under the most oppressive of weather conditions (be it under the sun or under the rain) for minimal monetary compensation. Laborers, especially, who are engaged in most of the exhausting jobs (digging holes, shoveling sand and gravel, hauling bags of cement) only incur enough wage barely enough to get by a single day. Perhaps they are presented with no other choice, it is either go to work or go hungry—but I cannot help but admire their persistence and their ability to find amusement in their situation. I never found a bunch of people who talk about their tribulations in such a cheery manner (I always find them at it each morning). Gradually, I begin to feel that—all of my whining as to how my dreams have perfectly eluded me and all of my childish grumbling about my diminished sense of pride—now sound rather pathetic and insignificant. For the first time in a long while (I could not even remember when), I found myself with absolutely nothing to complain about.

I will not go into an extensive harangue over the reasons why there are such things as 'rich' and 'poor' and all of its social implications and what not (for I deem it absolutely useless as I do not have the solution). I only wish to impart the lesson that I have learned from those who 'toil under the sun'—which is to be grateful for what you already have and work hard for the things that you do not (whether they are things of necessity or luxury, really does not matter).

It has been raining constantly for a week now and, with the wet season at its fullest swing, shows no indication at all of wanting to cease in the nearest future. I have always loved the gentle rain, and so did Stella, for reasons unknown—the world just seems more wonderful, more interesting somehow, whenever the heavens decide to shed its tears upon the earth. Well, except when I am completely enclothed in the immaculate uniform of a nurse—then the interesting stops and the annoying begins. There is nothing more misplaced than a nurse, all wrapped in conspicuously sanitary whites down to his underwear, tiptoeing precariously like a crane through flooded streets and muddied sidewalks, utterly cautious in preventing even the faintest speck of muck upon his person—which is quite next to impossibility. It is a dreaded season for nurses everywhere. Still, what choice do I have? This week is the beginning of my being a volunteer nurse, once again, for a certain tertiary hospital within the city where uniforms are, I'm afraid, a must. Yes, yes—I have liberated myself from the confines of our house, sick with waiting and shaking from cabin fever, and went skulking back to the nearest hospital to seek work. It is not really 'work' in the strictest sense of the word, mind you, for there is not the slightest hint of monetary compensation in it for me. Not a penny. Oh, there would be quite a bit of work to be certain, but I do not yet consider myself employed. I, along with a handful of others, are mere 'volunteers'—quite obviously. But no matter. It is, after all, in the interest of gaining much-required 'experience', a valuable currency in the nursing world—or so what the hospital administration told us during our orientation—and what they most probably would want us to believe—for their sole benefit, at our expense, I am sure. Was it not just recently when they would have had us pay fees to work for them, the cunning bastards, until the government decided to interfere on our behalf?

Once upon a time, there were children playing in a beautiful playground. There were all sorts of children there: big and small ones, dark-skinned and light-skinned ones, active and silent ones. They spend their time playing games, sharing toys, running about, screaming and laughing all day long. In one corner of the playground, there sat a little boy, playing peacefully and contently by himself. He was building castles and houses out of sand, and then he put people in it, and gave them farms, and gardens to live by. When he was done, he felt pride for his creation that he sat quietly, for a minute, looking and admiring them. He did not complain about of his place in the playground- how little it was, how little shade he got, nor does he care that the houses other children built were bigger than his, or that their toys were better than his- he was content, he was happy, and no one bothered him.

One day, a new boy arrived on the playground. All the other children welcomed him but were not quite sure where to put him. Since he was new, they decided to let him play with the little boy, and the little boy accepted. From then on, he shared his place in the playground with the new boy and, for a time, they both got on quite well. However, as time went on, the new boy started to ignore the little boy and gradually took the little boy's place in the playground. Until one day, the new boy, who was turning out to be a bully, declared the little boy's spot as his own, leaving the little boy with barely a mound of dirt to sit on. Moreover, the new boy completed his takeover by demolishing the little boy's little castles and houses and built his own on top of it. This saddened the little boy, feeling that he was done an injustice, and protested vigorously. But the other children did not hear him, for they were much too busy with their playing to hear or see the little boy's plight.

Tiny as he was in comparison, the little boy's fury swelled in his chest and, in a moment of angry impulse, picked up a pebble and hurled it at the bully. The little missile hit the bully by the head, bounced off, and fell to the ground. The bully did not flinch, but turned around, stared menacingly at the little boy, and bared his arms. Backed into a wall, the little boy could do nothing, except to brace himself, as the bully approached him, and proceeded to rain punches after punches upon the little boy's frail body. The other children looked on at the horrible sight with sympathy for the little boy, but could do nothing. Some, especially the bigger kids, thought the little boy deserved it for throwing stones at the bully; while some thought that the bully's actions were disproportionate and deplorable. Some of the children urged and pleaded with the bully to stop his assault but in vain. All that time, the bully continued to punish the little boy, who laid prostrate on the ground, shielding himself from the unceasing abuse, as no one dared to lift a finger to restrain the bully or step in between them and say 'enough'.

It still remains to be seen whether all the children on that playground would only idly stand by, watch, and let the bully cruelly beat the little boy- until it is too late.

---

Please, stop the war in Gaza.

I believe I have lost something—just recently—something that is so dear, dear to me. It has, after all this time, been my companion in lonely nights—my cold prison, my favorite torture, the vessel of my deepest regrets and bitter anguish. It is a consuming fire that has scorched this pitiable heart beyond recognition yet kept it warm and beating. It is what reminded me that I am alive, which I quite often forget, and capable of emotions, after all. True, I may have been trying to rid myself of it, for years and years, and finding that I am unable to do so—kept it, like a hideous talisman, close to my bosom. But now, oh so suddenly, it is gone! Her face, her voice, her graceful intelligence—qualities that I once adored and obsessively worshiped, have simply lost their charms and now seem so—ordinary. Her presence no longer drove my heart into a deranged drumming, which she always once did, nor does her melodious voice eerily haunt me at night, nor does her soft touch skewer my entire being with something not unlike electrocution. No more do I dream of her, asleep or awake, nor think of her, if at all, with any genuine affection that I was once in excess of. The regrets have all flown away, the memories have faded, and the fires within my heart have suffered severe hypothermia and silently died that not a single ember remain aglow. It is all gone. Now I can say, with near certainty, that my love for her has died. And with that—I am free. I should gleefully laugh and prance about with all the delirious cheerfulness of a captive slave who has found his chains and manacles suddenly undone in a mad celebration for this long-sought and much-awaited freedom. Yet, somehow I feel so hollow, numbed, indifferent—like a drunken bastard would feel over a spilled bowl of peanuts that, in a moment of mirth, he had kicked across the floor. I feel nothing. It is a disappointing and unsatisfactory conclusion to a very long turbulent affair of love, hate, and forgiveness—that ended without so much as a fart of pyrotechnics.

Marque, an old friend of mine from college, had stopped by our new house, after announcing his intentions through text, to join us for lunch some few days before New Year. As I have not seen him since Cebu, which was almost a full year hence, and as I was rather curious as to how he had managed to find himself in the middle of the desert in Dubai- I accosted to his request. He had not changed much, neither in appearance nor manner, when I finally saw him gawking through the driveway. The desert had apparently not improved his tan nor significantly reduced his weight; still, I was very happy to see him (for I have not seen such a friendly face, due to my self-imposed incarceration, in a long while). After our delayed lunch, for we have unfortunately ran out of rice, he invited me to wash it down with our favorite brew (beer, of course). We then had a pleasant half-drunken conversation, just like old times, but it was rather cut short- as he was commited to a previous engagement of which he could not forego. After we made promises of future meetings, exchanged old jokes, and wished each other well- we parted amiably.

I must admit that, afterwards, I felt a bit envious of my good friend's fortune- he found employment with a reasonable income abroad, toured India and Hong Kong, and got back with his old sweetheart- whilst I waste my time here in this wretched old town. Maayo pa siya accurately describes my feelings. I love my friend and I am happy for him, if only I could say the same for myself and what I have been reduced into. My dreams, after all these years, have yet to come, not in the slightest, into fruition. Moreover, I feel it slipping through my grasp and seem to be so far, far away. What has happened? First it was the forced retake of the board examinations, then there was the retrogression, then the delay of my NCLEX application, finally there is now the recession. A delightful string of impediments and interruptions. It is as if fate itself is against me, and has taken every step to foil my dreams from becoming a reality. The New Year has come and gone, without much fanfare nor celebration, for what is really there to celebrate? This year, I have no great hope, only that I could find some employment as a nurse, so as not to become too much of a burden for my dear parents. Only that.

After 2009 has come to pass, when (and if) I meet my friend again, I wonder- would my fate then have changed for the better?