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?

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?

For months after my uneventful return from Cebu, I have willingly shackled myself inside our house like a hermit, isolated from the rest of the world, did absolutely nothing- but waited. The cause of this voluntary imprisonment, and pausing my world into a state of suspended animation, is that one decisive letter that would change my fate- my great expectation, the fulfillment of my dreams, my one opportunity for a financially secure future. The letter, of course, supposedly contains a confirmation that my application to take the NCLEX has been approved (or something of that sort, I am unsure since it was rather my first). And so I have put off all possibilities of romantic relationships, ignored the temptation of work, suffered the most undignified position of being penniless- and just waited, and waited some more. Alas, despite all the eager anticipation and the miserable pains that came along with it- the letter, nor anything that resembles it, did not come. Ultimately, my limited patience ran out, worse than the this country's rice shortage, and I am left utterly disillusioned, dejected, and hopelessly lost.

Oh, yes- and outrightly infuriated, as well. I have wasted an entire year without accomplishing anything, not mentioning the effort and money invested into that application, the painful studying- all have counted for nothing! Hah! My cabin fever-laced anger notwithstanding, I have little choice in the matter but to abandon the pursuit, even if just temporarily, and try to consider other options. Badly in need of money, and perhaps to restore some of my crumbling pride and sense of purpose, I have decided to return to my abandoned practice- as a nurse- if there is such a thing nowadays. I have heard some word that we nurses have to actually pay the hospital to be able to work. I have no idea what sort of bullshit is that (there are signs, however, that the government is trying to reverse this, but whether it is true in this part of the country is another question)- remembering the physical and mental torture that I have gone through the last time I was a 'ward nurse', I have not the inclination to pay even a penny to go through it all again. However, if I could retake my previous work, along with its pitiful salary, I would be- well, contented. I am tired of living like a hermit- I must go back to my life.

To hell with the NCLEX!

The clock struck midnight while he laid on his bed, twitching and turning in agitation, his thoughts mirrored the ravaging chaos that a tropical typhoon was stirring outside his very windows. The forceful winds howled menacingly and whistled through cracks in the thin wooden walls as the torrential rain produced an almost deafening clatter as millions of droplets impacted, and flowed forth like many streams to the sides of, the galvanized iron roofing of the boarding house. However, none of this was the cause, not the slightest, of his troubled mind whatsoever and seemed only to him as a sign of nature's approbation of what he was anticipating to occur that very cold, tumultuous morning. Oh, how it had opportunely landed on his lap- he could not begin to believe it! He wondered endlessly at whatever good deed, which were quite few, he had unwittingly committed for providence to have him thought worthy of such a reward. But no, it has nothing to do with that, not a bit of it- his gentleman charm, of course, has always been quite irresistible to the opposite sex- thus he told himself with great assurance, cackling pompously at the shadows that a lightning had thrown across the room.

Presently, he heard faint sound of foot falls, despite all noises previously alluded to, approaching from the hallway towards his present location. In sudden panic, he decided to close his eyes and pretended to have fallen into deep slumber, complete with an appropriate snore. Yet, his senses, especially his hearing, were as keen as that of a bat's. He listened intently as a key was inserted into the lock of his door, turned with a resounding click, and quickly yet carefully opened as the rusting hinges let out a long, gloomy creak. He perceived the same footfalls admitted a person into his unlit chamber as the door closed behind it with a slight snap, as if a lock was engaged. The intruder then slowly glided across the space, towards his bed, with feline-like agility. A sudden flash of lightning revealed the identity of the burglar- a female- clearly the object of the much-anticipated rendezvous- with long dark hair and clad only in, what seem to be, a plain white shirt which was not quite large enough that it left her slender legs rather exposed. This quick ocular opportunity, however, did not escape our sleeper's eye which, stealing a peek at the tantalizing form, caused his heart to rapidly pound within his chest.

He then felt her carefully sit at the edge of the bed and, without making further progress in her advances, could tell that she was closely watching him. Yet, he remained motionless, astutely resolute in imitating a corpse with brilliant likeness. But then she leaned closer, and closer, so that her warm breath was just a few inches from his face and the sweet scent of her perfume reached, and annoyingly tickled, his nostrils. Still, straining to prevent his sneezing and fighting the desire to probe it with a finger, he remained absolutely as lifeless as a pebble. Largely doubtful of the poor performance in front of her, she boldly initiated a reliable method of resuscitating him immediately back to life. She gently laid her hand upon his chest, seeming to check his vital signs, let it slid down fluidly down his belly, down still it went- and, with a pause, grabbed him viciously by his genitals. He let out a surprised gasp and sat up like a spring- putting an end to his stupid pretending. Victorious in rousing him up into complete consciousness, she giggled gleefully, and, releasing her grip upon his precious gems, proceeded at once to kiss him torridly in the mouth.

Caught initially by utter surprise, as he was in the process of nursing a sore appendage, his eyes could only flicker in amazement, struggling like a fish to keep up with her pace. Urged by manly pride not to be outdone, he decidedly took control in imposing his masculine will- grabbed her by the wrists, wrestled her down to the bed, and gained the superior position. It was then he who administered the art of kissing, gently, lovingly, at first; and slowly rising into an uninhibited frenzy that he looked like, in the pale darkness, a caterpillar devouring a poor leaf; at the same time, both of their respirations seem to increase in rate and in depth, along with their moans and groans, that one could mistake them as trying to snort one another with great difficulty. Perhaps it was this overzealous excitement of the moment, which could not be helped, that the woman in his loving arms was thrown into a state of mad-like ferocity- that she suddenly tugged rather harshly at his hair as her vicious canines took the liberty of sinking themselves into the soft flesh of his lip. Yelping loudly in painful shock, he broke away from her clutches, and, propelled solely by his momentum, fell backwards through a closet with a thunderous crash.

Freeing himself from the wreckage of clothing, books, and clouds of dust (and recovering from the rather embarassing incident)- he stood straight up without so much as a wince (although he was sore all over) and, wiping the blood gushing from his wounded lip, stared at her in bewildered amazement. Seeing that he was perfectly fine (in that he had not knocked himself unconscious), the rabid vixen only smiled at him, an attempt at apology. But her eyes, upon another flash of lightning, betrayed a look of sadistic mischief as if a demon succubus had then peered through them in mockery of his present situation. Upon witnessing this odd apparition, made worse by the dreadful weather, he hesitantly cowered behind a bedpost like a frightened child. Nevertheless, the supposed possessed lady, who sat perplexed by his behavior, will have none of it and warmly beckoned to him by affectionately caressing his hands which were now strangely glued to the bedpost. She, frustrated that her tender entreaties remained unheeded, finally lost her patience and took a more direct approach- seized him by the arm, forcibly wrenching him free with such unbelievable strength that he was thrown hastily back onto the bed, landed to resume his former position- on top of the heaving she-hulk.

Perhaps incensed by this blatant, unexpected show of strength (and perhaps angered that he was so easily man-handled)- he descended upon her with a vendetta and stripped her of her white bodice with relative ease, rendering her completely naked and exposed beneath him. Taken aback by his sudden, fearful outburst, it was her turn to be surprised, instictively covering herself with her arms and gaping at him wide-eyed like a helpless victim. Victorious in asserting his dominance, and seeing her quivering beneath his mercy, his maddened countenance broke into a menacing smile. Unceremoniously, his head dove down to ravage her exposed flesh with his mouth, unconscious of the pain of its wound, and devoured every inch of her as intense as a hungry wolf would devour a carcass. Her body, without offering much resistance, was put under a barrage of sensations and was feebly swept away in a surge of pleasure. Without warning, an earsplitting explosion of thunder emanated from the heavens, shaking the entire house in its foundations that, in sheer terror and alarm, her knee spastically threw itself up into his crotch with such a force that it lifted him wholly into the air- and, upon coming down, assisted by the same thrust, went straight on to collide his head with the wooden bedpost. His face twisted in agony and, encapable of making a sound, limply fell sideways to the floor- writhing and clawing in exquisite pain.

Without giving him respite (realizing that the old rickey boarding house somehow remained intact) to recover from the dual blow, she crawled down the bed with the uncanny nimbleness, and was instantly on top of him. Ostensibly insensitive, even flustered at the interruption, she ignored his whimpering and proceeded directly to disrobe him in a most deliberate manner that he was a bit hurt for her lack of concern for his welfare. Still rather dazed by his encounter with the bedpost, he idly laid on his back and let her have her way, cautiously eyeing her fearsome vigour. It took not a second for the interrupted ritual to recommence as passions were, despite bodily injury, once again ignited. The carnal act carried on, wild and feverish, with much more ferocity than before, as they both drunk from the cup of lust and desire to slake their insatiable thirst for one another exceedingly beyond intoxication. Their glistening forms intertwined, their breathings quickened, their moans heightened above that of the cyclone, as their motions gradually became beast-like in its intensity. Together, they both reached the pinnacle of ecstasy, screaming and groaning all the way, and, as their bodily frames were wracked by convulsions of pure sexual pleasure- she sadistically, and without apparent reason, dug her sharpened talons deep into his moist back and dragged them down mercilessly along his spine. His exhalations of delightful bliss quickly turned into an excruciating shriek and ebbing, by degrees, into a prolonged howl- an unearthly sound which could solely be compared to those that stem from the dark, clammy dungeons of medieval torture.

Outside his windows, the tropical storm unceasingly continued its reign of destruction and devastation, the effects of which would become evident in, and would be felt beyond, the coming light of morning.

Uuwi na ako. Pagod na ako, ayaw ko na dito- nakakahilo, paulit-ulit na lang araw-araw. Nakakabagot din pala ang mag-review na mag-isa, ngayon ko lang na-realize. Hindi kasi natuloy si Stella. Tsk! Sabagay, hindi ko rin naman talagang inaasahang matutuloy siya- masarap lang pagpantasyahan na makakasama ko siya sa review sa loob ng tatlong buwan. Totoong buhay nga pala ito, hindi nobela. Paano nga kaya kung natuloy siya? Malamang wala akong napag-aralan ni isa. Malamang ubos parati baon ko. Malamang nahulog loob niya sa akin. Hah! Nananaginip na naman ako. Anyway, uuwi na ako. Nakabili na ako ng tiket. Gusto ko nga sana bukas na kaagad kaya lang walang biyahe- sa biyernes pa. Lintik. Sa Butuan ko na lang ipagpapatuloy ang naumpisahan ko. May ilang chapters pa akong dapat tapusin at kailangan ko pa din pataasin score ko sa mga exams- ambababa kasi. Di bale, wala pa naman akong natatanggap na sulat o anuman mula sa CTS. May panahon pa. Medyo kinakabahan lang ako, medyo matagal-tagal na rin ang lumipas- di kaya nawala na nila ang application ko? Ah, hindi! Patience lang, mon ami. Hindi pa naman ako ready- gagamitin ko na lang ang paghihintay sa paghahanda ko sa exam. Huwag lang sanang abutin ng isang taon, Diyos ko! Gusto ko nang bumalik sa trabaho, wala na akong pera! Maipasa ko lang ang lintik na NCLEX na yan, wala na akong iisipin pa at makakahinga na ako ng maluwag. Pero sa ngayon, babalik na muna ako sa amin. Kaya, sa muli, paalam na Cebu!

I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath little of earth in it-
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:-
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passerby.

~Edgar Allan Poe (1829)

I have abandoned blogging, for a time, since nothing of importance ever transpires when one is engaged in reviewing. Indeed, so repetitive my days have increasingly become that I decided to go home and take a time off from the doldrums of incessant studying, at least, for a week. This decision was reinforced by an incident of drinking, which threw me into a horrible hangover the next morning, that I realized the state of my emotional well-being, for I do miss home terribly, so as to throw myself into such an act that I have a long time ago renounced. And so, I went home to Butuan the very next day.

The weather was bad during the entire night of the voyage. It was bad enough that some of the passengers were wide awake, looking contemplatively at the cabinets containing the life-jackets and anxiously across the hull of the ship as if it were in danger of disintegrating altogether at their seams (the memory of the doomed 'Princess of the Stars' fresh upon their minds). However, we arrived safely and unscathed, although it was raining slightly. I welcomed the rain, and the cool morning breeze that accompanied it, for it threw a peaceful aspect upon the grim port of Nasipit- so far from the hurried clamour of Cebu.

I was surprised how my dogs have grown, when I first entered the gates of our home, and did not seem to recognize me- that I hurriedly went inside the house for they threatened to give my leg a most welcoming nibble. I annoyed my dear little sister endlessly, who was beginning her classes in college and refused to be treated like a baby anymore- which made me more resolved in treating like one (and irritating her all more). My parents were lavish on giving me all the food that I have crave, especially my father who was an excellent cook, thinking that I appeared a little emaciated. For a week, I did nothing. I watched television the entire day of the week, which is something I have been deprived of in Cebu, and found the change of activity strangely refreshing upon the exhausted mind.

My going home reinvigorated me sufficiently that I was again willing, not without hesitation, to come back to Cebu and compelled to resume my review. However, I hasten to end my time here, for I have recently determined to drag all of my things back to Butuan to continue my studies there- I have become weary of Cebu. It is my hope that, having gained an impetuous start in studying, that homely distractions would prove ineffective in halting or slowing its steady course. Moreoever, I have purchased a new review book, which I am eager to peruse the contents thereof and test my readiness with an included software. All the more reason to study at home. The thought of extending my time here for a month has occured to me, however, I believe I could not endure a moment more of this wretched seclusion.

Thus, I will leave Cebu- perhaps for the final time.

A place that I have considered, since upon my arrival, my sort of odd sanctuary from the heat and noise of the city- a study center- adorned with nothing except a few excerpts from the Bible and famous qoutes (to entice one's diligence towards one's goals) set in plain white-painted walls, and dimmed lights, while spanning across its width are rows of table enclosures which are everyday occupied by some slouching figure, bent over a manuscript or an ill-treated book, most likely, or have gradually fallen asleep upright. Here I burn my midnight oil, amidst other nameless, caffeine-addicted faces, with their occasional grunts and sniffs, the impatient sighs, the annoying whispers, the sounds of dropped and rolling pens, the creaking of chairs, the crisp turning of pages, the smell of instant coffee, the constant whirring of the airconditioning, the snoring. It is here that I imprison myself, willfully or unwillfully, for a month and a half more, to try and make the best of the time left to relearn what I have learned in college of which I have, in time, once again forgotten.

Alas! In truth, I go through it all with a robot-like enthusiasm, and I can already feel my passion slowly fading before me, despite my attempts to prevent the dreaded 'burn-out'. I am like an unfeeling zombie! Morose and weary, that with each passing day, I am more and more eager to finally part with it and return home to Butuan- to no longer eat my meals alone, to taste my father's excellent Ilocano dishes (instead of the Cebuano recipe which they mistake for food), wrestle with my beloved sister (and annoy her in her peaceful repose), play with my mischievous dogs (oh, how they must have grown now), and possibly spark romance with one of Stone's close friend. My only comfort, my solace, amidst feelings of longing and degrading morale- is that one day I might see the fruits of all these labors and sacrifices, when I will have battled the abbhored winged-demon of an examination, one glorious day, and stand victorious over its slain corpse. This thought gives me enough fervor to return to my reading and my incessant scribbling, which is beginning to wear out my fingers, with renewed vigour.

Oh, but how the days are long!

Yes! Yes, you are right, my dear, as you always seem to consider yourself to be. But you are right, I am angry with you. Why, you ask? Well, I shant tell you. Forgive me, but never will I give you the satisfaction. I will tell you this, however–Hold my glass for me, will you? Thank you–I will tell you that I regret every passionate word that I have ever uttered and I take back every foolish promises that I have ever made on that one particular drunken episode of which, may I add, you were ever the reason of (as you are the reason for my being one now). Mind you, my dear–No, stop sloshing it about. Give it here!–Mind! however, that they are not concocted lies; do not think that they are–for they may have been felt as truth, notwithstanding the state of my then intoxicated frame of mind. But how it makes me laugh now! Je t'attendrai toute ma vie, indeed. Ha! I oftentimes wonder what pathetic imp, with such perverted sense of humour, whispered those words into my ears and made me believe they were my own. I am afraid that I have allowed myself to be freely disposed to your ill-usage and selfish whims, of which can only be faulted upon my weakness (and which you have ever taken advantage of), for far too long. And, as sorry as I am, I must take your leave, my dear, once more. Curses! Pardon me, did I spill anything on you? No? No harm done then, now–You were saying my dear? Er–No, I will not hear it, I will not have your reasons–for I will believe them, without a doubt. Return to your silence and I shall return to mine, it is better that way. At least, we part on relatively better terms than the last time, do we not? Yes. Nod away, nod away. I only hope that, if fate ever had any kindness in its bosom, I shall never see you again. To you, my dear, my eternal love, as always–Cheers!