I am awake when half of the world is asleep, "half" being this side of the planet. I have lost my sense of time; my biological clock has been completely altered. Night has become day and day is when the moon and the stars blanket the velvet sky. Whoever or whatever changed it, I am quite certain I did not miss the memo. I owe it all to the countless nights when I have to sit down in front of a computer monitor for several hours until the sun begins to explode in the eastern end of the horizon lines. I owe it all to this freelance writing job that I have to willingly enslave myself into if only to feed myself for the time being. The future is nowhere near, and my fate depends on whether or not I would be able to crush the entrance exam for law school which I took several months back. Otherwise, it is my future that is going to be mercilessly crushed. Devoured. Incinerated. Decapitated. Debowled. Take your pick.
The radiation coming from the computer screen must have already surged past through the pores of my skin. Flesh is weak; a deluge of gamma rays can easily penetrate our soft human casing. Which reminds me of genetic mutation caused by too much radiation. Bathala forbid, let not a third leg grow on my forehead, or a nose suddenly pop between the crack of my ass. The lines on my face are the most that I have to worry at the moment. Sleep deprivation and excessive exposure to the LCD have their ways of taking people faster trip to senility than one can begin to think. I do not know now if I look like those who are the same age as mine. What I do know is that I am two decades and two years young, or old, whichever you prefer.
I am no longer a rookie when it comes to freelance writing, more so with its online version. Or so I think. It's not that I have already mastered the trade; experiences have their own ways of letting people know that much is yet to be learned. It's that I know now the unspoken rules and the unwritten tactics at the least. For more than two years and still counting, I have been living independently, free from the hands that once fed me back when I was still a child. Oftentimes, I send home a few of the fruits of my labor, which is spare change from the spare change I get from the tormenting hours and sleepless nights of typing my life and brains away for the sake of those from foreign soils who are either lazy enough to do their job or just too filthy rich. Maybe both. But either way, I thank them for their immeasurable indolence, their pregnant wallets that breed cash like rabbits, and their, well, what's the term...Paris Hilton genes? That's French for "Lito Lapid", which is Italian for "the impossible brain".
That has got to be the Brown Man's Burden, a monumental one at that, which is also one Great Depression, in all senses of the phrase.
The battlefield where I spend the nights behind enemy lines is a room that is no bigger than your average sty. Fortunately, no swine is raised here. As for the room, we have these wide windows opposite the door. They provide the open space where the evening land breeze can push its way gently into this meager cavity inside what seems to be a decaying behemoth tooth. Beside the windows, the gray wooden table meet the corner of the white walls of plywood. Atop the desk, assorted things scatter about—an improvised ash tray filled with cigarette butts, a mug of pencils that need sharpening and inkless pens that haven't been touched for quite a while now, a petite mintgreen digital alarm clock, and a pair of speakers which I turn to onslaught levels whenever the Desperate Dormers are sacrificing themselves before the altar of liver cirrhosis and philandering with the opposite gender—or maybe even with their own kind; life's full of surprises, quite apart from shit—during the most unholy hours.
A black plastic shoe rack flanks the brown door. Used clothes and towels hang faithfully on an anorexic metal bar just beside the closet. There are no homosexuals inside it; no reason for one to come out of the closet, not that I have anything against gay people or Barbara Streissand concert attendees. In fact, I have gay friends here and there. I know how they tremble at the sight of a herculean, knees almost jerking off of their sockets. As for some other things that jerk off of their bodies, I leave your imagination to fill.
The radiation coming from the computer screen must have already surged past through the pores of my skin. Flesh is weak; a deluge of gamma rays can easily penetrate our soft human casing. Which reminds me of genetic mutation caused by too much radiation. Bathala forbid, let not a third leg grow on my forehead, or a nose suddenly pop between the crack of my ass. The lines on my face are the most that I have to worry at the moment. Sleep deprivation and excessive exposure to the LCD have their ways of taking people faster trip to senility than one can begin to think. I do not know now if I look like those who are the same age as mine. What I do know is that I am two decades and two years young, or old, whichever you prefer.
I am no longer a rookie when it comes to freelance writing, more so with its online version. Or so I think. It's not that I have already mastered the trade; experiences have their own ways of letting people know that much is yet to be learned. It's that I know now the unspoken rules and the unwritten tactics at the least. For more than two years and still counting, I have been living independently, free from the hands that once fed me back when I was still a child. Oftentimes, I send home a few of the fruits of my labor, which is spare change from the spare change I get from the tormenting hours and sleepless nights of typing my life and brains away for the sake of those from foreign soils who are either lazy enough to do their job or just too filthy rich. Maybe both. But either way, I thank them for their immeasurable indolence, their pregnant wallets that breed cash like rabbits, and their, well, what's the term...Paris Hilton genes? That's French for "Lito Lapid", which is Italian for "the impossible brain".
That has got to be the Brown Man's Burden, a monumental one at that, which is also one Great Depression, in all senses of the phrase.
The battlefield where I spend the nights behind enemy lines is a room that is no bigger than your average sty. Fortunately, no swine is raised here. As for the room, we have these wide windows opposite the door. They provide the open space where the evening land breeze can push its way gently into this meager cavity inside what seems to be a decaying behemoth tooth. Beside the windows, the gray wooden table meet the corner of the white walls of plywood. Atop the desk, assorted things scatter about—an improvised ash tray filled with cigarette butts, a mug of pencils that need sharpening and inkless pens that haven't been touched for quite a while now, a petite mintgreen digital alarm clock, and a pair of speakers which I turn to onslaught levels whenever the Desperate Dormers are sacrificing themselves before the altar of liver cirrhosis and philandering with the opposite gender—or maybe even with their own kind; life's full of surprises, quite apart from shit—during the most unholy hours.
A black plastic shoe rack flanks the brown door. Used clothes and towels hang faithfully on an anorexic metal bar just beside the closet. There are no homosexuals inside it; no reason for one to come out of the closet, not that I have anything against gay people or Barbara Streissand concert attendees. In fact, I have gay friends here and there. I know how they tremble at the sight of a herculean, knees almost jerking off of their sockets. As for some other things that jerk off of their bodies, I leave your imagination to fill.
I've digressed again, a mannerism which I find disturbing. But that aside, the TV is settled at the corner opposite the gray table, or desk. It's turned on, as we speak, and nobody's watching History Channel. Two wooden chests, which also happen to be chairs, stand side-by-side on the floor where tiles of mats cover more than half of its concrete space. Adjacent to the door is another door which leads shortly to the confession room, which is how I call the john. And still, adjacent to it is the lone bed, yet another one of the wooden fixtures that practically litter this room three floors above the ground.
This is the room where I have spent the last six months or so of my agnostic life. It's a Lilliputian chamber where great things have happened. It isn't a majestic palace, but the view from the ledge is priceless, especially so during the break of dawn when the inhabitants of this small town are beginning to awake while my eyes start to drowse themselves to sleep. The windows offer a panoramic view of the eastern horizon where mountains hid the sun before it rises. Trees abound as far as the eyes can see, save for the great lake at the northeastern end from where I am looking. The roofs below and further ahead are barely visible as light from the sun's orange explosion is yet to stream across town.
The cocks are crowing—no pun intended—at this time of the morning. I can hear several passersby below traipsing the narrow path that leads to the main artery that connects the home of the Maroons with the rest of Los Baños. I can hear their footsteps and the distant voices of some who, I reckon, are on their way to do their ritual jogging. I have to sleep now, but goodluck with that.
I can feel something wanting to stick out of my forehead.
This is the room where I have spent the last six months or so of my agnostic life. It's a Lilliputian chamber where great things have happened. It isn't a majestic palace, but the view from the ledge is priceless, especially so during the break of dawn when the inhabitants of this small town are beginning to awake while my eyes start to drowse themselves to sleep. The windows offer a panoramic view of the eastern horizon where mountains hid the sun before it rises. Trees abound as far as the eyes can see, save for the great lake at the northeastern end from where I am looking. The roofs below and further ahead are barely visible as light from the sun's orange explosion is yet to stream across town.
The cocks are crowing—no pun intended—at this time of the morning. I can hear several passersby below traipsing the narrow path that leads to the main artery that connects the home of the Maroons with the rest of Los Baños. I can hear their footsteps and the distant voices of some who, I reckon, are on their way to do their ritual jogging. I have to sleep now, but goodluck with that.
I can feel something wanting to stick out of my forehead.
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