I’d like to say again that I don’t have a life right now. What kind of person would have a life if he wakes up at 3 in the afternoon, then spend the rest of the day creeping around his room, not much of a room in size and excitement if you’d wonder, until 6 in morning the following day? I have been that kind of a person for three weeks now, and in my little pad I have learned to make perfect circles of smoke using my lungs and lips. This temporary confinement, if I may call it as such, is my way of taking part in the silent sufferings of a dream. But I don’t mind this no-life phase, not at all, even if the silence of 2 AM has become a buzzing noise inside my head, because I know time will come that I’d stop caring about the world, or the silence, just because I am getting all the sex and the booze that a New York City can offer.
There’s always this one magic that only you, and perhaps a little of Leah, can spell. This is the type of magic that can make the jeepneys that I ride grow its own steel wings and fly above the burgeoning traffic that haunts my everyday, and alight on another big magical place somewhere in time.
You had it, but I don’t like to predispose any of it, because I think everyone has some special way of affecting their own type of magic.
But yours is different. Yours is Gabriel Garcia Marquez kind of spellbinding, surreal, almost real and hard to forget, moving in time but never changing along with it.
That is what I don’t understand. There are times when I’m almost posed to believe that the magic brought us to grow up in some small, quintessential town in South America where at such young ages we only know the bitter taste of rebellion, where we are characterized as some mercurial mysterious writers about to set ablaze the hearts of others through the things we write and don’t write, where we ride the motorcycle of our dreams strapped on the back of the then-hot-now-dead Señor Guevarra.
(more…)
This afternoon, I went to the university to see Diana for two reasons: first, because the imminence of becoming human for awhile is too strong under the 5-inches thick books I’m currently wallowing and second, because it has been sort of our ritual to cap-off the ending of a semester by singing our hearts out everytime, though it has only been the second time since before I graduated and hopefully not for so many times in the future because Diana is graduating soon, too.
So we went off to the soccer field, sang songs, I* smoked, and notice that the field was sporting its usual beautiful arrogance under a familiar October skies. I bet all colors you could think of were there. I remember somebody saying one time that I should take a break and go outside every 4 PM because everything is beautiful every 4 PM.
I did, and it’s too beautiful in fact that this afternoon is the kind of afternoon that would make me feel sore, let’s say ten years from now. If you are walking in some cold sidewalk, downtown New York in your early 30’s, and its 4 PM then I think you would long for this kind of afternoon. I would long for it, would wish to go back to it just to see once again the motes of sunshine in Brownian motion, smell the effervescent smell of newly-mowed grasses, listen to the songs of the time, and to actually talk about the future of missing it. I would remember it in sweet amount of sore, teary-eyed kind of missing, even if a hot Chilean ass under the bed sheet is lying next to me.
To Diana, thank you for the wonders of this afternoon. I have dreamt of Haruki Murakami earlier when I fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. In that dream, I was reading the novel you gave me, and Haruki was standing behind me all the while. After I’m done reading a paragraph, he would lean forward and erase it, paragraph after paragraph, in utter silence.
I’m now beginning to read his novel in eerie silence and I’m getting paranoid that somebody would lean over me and erase the paragraphs. Funny, Haruki is giving me an early Halloween feel. Tomorrow, when I wake up and find the novel erased, I would call you and we’ll both scream that yes, Haruki came to my room.
*Stress on this one 
20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
