Is the world going to end? Well, I need not ask. I know that the world will one day end. Everything eventually must, you know, one way or the other. It is inevitable. But will I live long enough to see it? I only dare ask for- I want to see it. It may be an utterly morbid and unbearably tragic a thing to want to witness, but I do, I want to see it. I was never there when the world began and so, at least, I want to be there when it ends. And I believe I will, sooner than everyone anticipated, already I am seeing the portentous manifestations of its beginnings.

The expediency of the world's demise is mainly due to our credit. I do not exactly know, and I do not pretend to assume, how we got here without an inkling where we were going, but here we are- knocking at the bleak gates of Global Warming, scratching our heads and trembling all over. Now, it may have been possible we could not have foreseen this, that we are, in a way, innocent; but surely there has been clear warnings in the past. It has taken such a ridiculously long time, but we are beginning to realize, and accept, that it is indeed possible: that we are, at present, baking our asses in an increasingly-pyretic, greenhouse gas-enriched atmosphere and putting into motion chain of consequences that will ultimately lead to, well- the end of the world!

Our hesitant realization and our meager amends has come, I fear, rather too late. Global Warming is irreversible. Nature itself would take hundreds of thousands of years to repair all the damages we have wrought. We can slow it, perhaps, but it cannot be stopped. We are sooner to exhaust all remaining fuels that we can drill out of the earth's bosom, in our blind drive for economic development and progress, than to make earnest and assertive efforts to avert our fate. Soon, we shall pay the consequences of our ignorance, our indifference, our indolence, our greed. We will reach the temperature 'tipping point'and the world will be engulfed in hellish unabating fever or nature will plunge it into a bitter eternal winter. Eitherway, the world shall end and, with it, so shall human civilization- and I will welcome it.

It is only justice for what we have excessively taken and ignored to give back.

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Humans, behold your final outstanding achievement- you have reset the world!

How wrong was I to think that I could relish some semblance of peace and tranquility, away from the irksome cares of the world! I deem complete and peaceful seclusion necessary for nursing a weary, weary heart; alas! it all came to a precipitous end just recently by Stella who, like a rousing spectre emerging from the dark graves of years ancient, came unannounced to torment me. Her artless message came one uneventful evening, comprising only of a few words, and asking me how I was. Ha! Indeed. This unexpected attempt at establishing contact between us, which has long since been violently rended due to heated exchanges in the past, surprised me to the extent that my eyes nearly detached themselves from their sockets upon seeing her unmistakable words, ended by the familiar 'alias of affection'.

I suppose I could have ignored the aforementioned message, have I known the onslaught that lay within its wake, and it would have been the end of it. However, no matter how intent and resolute I am in forgetting her and putting our past behind me, incredible as it may seem, I simply could not help myself. Like an unfortunate mariner lured in by the seductive songs of sirens, I find myself powerless to resist the temptations of having the pleasure of conversation with her, my 'worthy foe', once more. Thus, eventually, I give in to my weakness and replied to her inquiry with wary congeniality. Technology afforded the means of communication between her, sitting comfortably in Singapore, and I, squatting in the humidity of a backwater country. We chat for long hours (often at the expense of my household chores), until our eyes become inflamed or finally succumbing to the pangs of hunger.

We talk of past and present undertakings, of future plans, of old dreams and aspirations, of trivial things (but leaving out that dark stain that was the antecedent to our previous virulent severance). We talk and laugh as though we have never been apart or imbittered. Familiar emotions flow through me. I wince at all the throes and pains I once felt during my three years-long crusade of purging her from my heart and thoughts; yet, also astoundingly elated, even happy, like a giddy boy holding in secret an infatuation for a pretty, more giddy girl. As I have predicted, long extinguished embers begin to glow anew into life and threaten to wholly devour me into their flaming mouths. Although I could not be faulted for feeling emotions that she has unintentionally stirred (for she is, as she said, 'charming'), it is , I agree, rather misplaced and inappropriate - for her precious heart belongs to someone else.

Do you see now my bourgeoning predicament? That fact, an afflicting disappointment (nothing short of a spear through one's heart) as it was, doesn't appear to affect my feelings at all, strangely enough. I came to realize that her recent efforts in re-establishing friendly interactions may not be for purposes of romance (foolish wretch!) but perhaps rooted upon a realization, as I have, that we were friends before we were lovers, and that friendship in itself, after all is said and done, is too precious to be allowed to die. I might be inclined to believe it, indeed I must, had it not been for an entry in her blog, curiously entitled 'P.S. I'm Still Not Over You', containing a suspicous undertone to the contrary. Or is it? I guess I shall never know her true feelings or intentions, and neither will she of mine, for, ruled by pride and gentility, I am steadfast in that the stupid sentiments, which I may have lately developed, remain unvoiced and undeclared - for the sake of us both.

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Mon amour, je t'attendrai toute ma vie.

I was at my old school sometime last week, with a purpose of procuring some documents, and chanced upon an old friend of mine. I call her Stone, for that's her name (her parents apparently deemed it necessary for her appelation to exude manly strength, thus), much to her annoyance. I alone apparently call her by it, however, to the point that she no longer cared and perhaps even thought it sweet. She was pleasantly surprised to see me, having been apart for more than a year, and swiftly snatched my hands and proceeded forth directly to interrogate me. I felt suddenly like a prosperous traveler returning home from a bountiful jorney, only that - I wasn't. Not at all, for heaven's sake. And so, awkwardly removing my hands from her bony clutches, asked her instead of what she has been up to.

What was I to tell her? That I have been here, detained and baking my nuggets in this infernal house, insultingly charged with acting as its cook and janitor, my life and professional career on hold, keeping company my brother's new wife and a dog suffering from post-partum depression, without a source of income whatsover (except the occasional 'encode and print'), and eternally waiting for fate to mercifully end my misery? No, I shall betray nothing of the sort. My battered dignity has suffered enough beating. I am at present trying to put into motion the tedious process of applying for the NCLEX, something I conveniently did not disclose, and which may I say has the potential to be more complicated than a lobotomy. The waiting, as I have mentioned, is most exasperating. I have never been a patient person all my life, and this, I tell you, has me dangling at the end of my wits! I busy myself now with study and physical exertion, however, no palliative activity can mask the awful feeling of a degrading pride.

I am at present seriously contemplating employment, which obviously would mean the sacrifice of studying. Employment would, nonetheless, solve my financial problems and restore my somewhat diminished sense of worth. But should I forfeit my examination preparation for the benefits of work? I, dislike it as I might, do not think so. The reason is vague to me but I believe it is necessary to continue this hermit life and to return only to my profession with renewed energy and passion when I have finally accomplished the aforementioned undertaking. To get it over with, as it were. Besides, I have only one chance of slaying the NCLEX, like an abhorrent winged daemon, and it would require my utmost concentration and single-minded devotion. For there is nothing more after this but to bury one's head in earning an honest living even if it is barely enough to purchase and replace my moth-eaten underwear. And to await anew my so-called 'great expectations' - which look, as of yet, so far away.

Stone, looking rather like a matchstick more than ever, absentmindedly ignored my question and expressed her delight in our accidental meeting - until a male friend of hers dressed in feminine robes rudely interrupted us, entreating her to fix his dress without even a word of apology. Never missing a cue and remembering my existing appointment, to which I was relatively late, excused myself and hurriedly left. Stone texted me later that night and we continued our conversation. She has recently, as she so boastfully stated (and which I have already suspected), a new boyfriend. It reminded me, so suddenly and without warning, of Stella and how a certain gentleman friend of hers has somehow affected her seemingly harmless smiles. Severing my ties with society has had one significant effect that I have forgotten to mention - my social life, and in effect, my romantic life (no matter how relatively dormant it usually is), is sacrificed as well. I shrugged it off easily enough, however, it made me more eager to part with the balls and chains that has me tied down to my present despicable situation. As I begged farewell, I have a feeling that I will not see my increasingly-gaunty friend nor of the outside world for a long while.

Ah well, have I not always desired a moment of utter privacy?

She had already dressed up, in denim shorts and black tank-top, her hair neatly tied behind her head, when she came tip-toeing down on bare feet from our little hut.

We had called it our 'first house', but it was but a little hut with fresh nipa roof, a single window, bamboo flooring, elevated foundations rising six feet (for some reason) from the sandy ground, and it had the smell of being new. We had rented it, for the duration of the entire afternoon, on the account of it being under the shade of palm trees, a woven hammock suspended between them, and having a little terrace facing the murky beaches of Buenavista. It was not Boracay, of course, far from it; its beaches are of dark sand and its waters stained with a greenish tinge.

I was sitting on a coconut log, smoking a cigarette, and was sullenly watching the lazy waves lapping the shores. Presently, she sat beside me, put her arm around my waist, caressed my wind-tossled hair, and took a drag at my cigarette. We sat silently, for a moment, like two meek crabs, and watched the calm ocean, some small fishing boats skimming the surface, clouds sluggishly drifting above, a family building a castle on the sand not far away. It was hypnotically peaceful.

"I wish it could always be like this", she whispered suddenly.

I turned to face her, intent on saying something funny, but was surprised to see that she had been crying. Perhaps embarrassed by her show of emotion, she buried her face into my neck, tore at my shirt, and suppressed her sobs. I sat there motionless, at first, unable to decide what to do. I embraced her, hesitantly, feeling that burning sensation rising in my chest. She began to mutter something through her whimpering, but was drowned by the incessant waves, the rustling of coconut leaves above, the eerie songs of the window chimes.

She needed not explain herself though. Apparent to me were the reasons for her tears, then beginning to soak through my crumpled shirt, her hot breath searing my neck. Our love, though undeclared, was... forbidden, a secret we have to keep, for though she wants to be with me—she could never leave her rich boyfriend. Love alone could not finance a college degree and a future. All the countless reasons, vague and clear, that has made it impossible for us to be together. Perhaps she indeed felt something for me—but it does not matter. I know, quite sadly, despite what she felt, we were not going to last. I sighed.

"We'll live just one day at a time", was all I could say, weakly, whatever it meant. She looked up at me, slowly, shyly, and smiled bitterly. She repeated what I said, more to herself than to me, and threw her glance far towards the ocean, her swelling eyes squinting at the blinding glare of the summer skies. I finished my cigarette and flicked it away. She stood up, laughed embarrassingly,  wiped her tears away with her shaking palms, and fixed her hair. She lit up a cigarette and tried being cheerful by childishly playing with her silvery lighter.

I fished up the bottles of beer we had buried in the beach, to keep them cool, and opened each one by one. I cannot remember how many they were but we drank them all, and it was not long until we were laughing once more; half-drunk and being preposterously loud, savoring our little moment of unhindered freedom. We ran into the beach and, pretending we were in a movie, chased each other, played silly games, kissed underwater. We soon got weary and idly stood in chest-deep water, holding each other, giggled at our jokes, watched the sun descend low on the horizon.

I cleared the beer bottles afterwards, which were scattered beneath the hammock, while she casually toweled herself. She was talking about something while I, having completed the task, searched my pants for cigarettes. She had stopped abruptly without my noticing, I was not really listening. I was lighting a stick when I noticed she was staring at me, searchingly, still toweling her hair. I blew her a kiss, along with a bluish wreath of smoke, and smiled. She whispered the three words—words that were until then still left unspoken. I contrived a smile. She went up the flimsy stairs, glancing back at me, and disappeared through the door.

I threw away my unfinished cigarette and, after a moment, followed her into our little house.

Perhaps you will be rather surprised to hear that I, having unintentionally and for no reason at all lingered into the interesting page of your pictures during my lazy frog-hopping on the internet, felt strangely devastated to find that you have found yet another person to give your supposedly numbed heart to. No, not as devastated as the day you felt it necessary to end our failing relationship, four long years ago, yet I still felt a bit... aberrant - facial flushing, some dysrhythmias, and a sudden profound depression. No, you are quite mistaken, my dear. It is not in my position, nor in my nature, to be jealous! I am merely offended.

Why offended, you ask? Well, it is clear that this four-eyed blimp of a person is clearly inferior to me, intellectually or physically. Why you have chosen him is beyond me. At least your high-school ex-boyfriend, whom you outrightly dated after we parted, could have had boasted that he is better-looking than I am, allegedly. Hah, he is well-known for making such silly claims. However, might I mention that he is hilariously funny (we've met through a friend of yours, the one you enviously refer to as 'my princess'). Yes, yes, I am sure your present gentleman friend, whom you endearingly call your 'labs' (not short for lovehandles, I hope), is very nice.

What? Why, that's not true at all. I did not go to any appalling sessions of alcohol indulgement with our common friend, nor have I openly verbalized my feelings in public, sober or drunk. That lying sack of horse manure! I sternly deny all his unfounded babbling (except that part where I shamelessly flirted with a long-haired, pretty lass). I was home and watching television last saturday, dove. Besides, as I have already told you, I gave up drinking. You must not believe everything people tell you, friend or not, specially that alcoholic buffoon.

Anyway, as I was saying, where was I? Oh yes, of course - I am certain that this concocted frivolity, this flirting, will soon end for I can see that you do not love him. Oh yes, it is merely so; and I tell you that, sad as it might, you do not love him. I can see it from the flickering of your eyes that you do not. Horrible? I am horrible? Ah, forgive me. I was simply joking. You smile. But of course I only desire your happiness, my dear, which I very much pray that you have finally found, for if not, remember that I am forever at your service. Cheers.

Oh, don't be ridiculous! I am not jealous.