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.

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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?