the evening sky

“the giggling, blushing lovers, savouring their first innocent kiss under the clear, blue and white summer sky, made me do it,” mahatma gandah’s  love poem called untitled, because it’s nothing. “they made me realize that life as i knew it had been a false one.”

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the sky has turned crimson as the sun descended rapidly behind the mountains, happily giving way to dusk after a twelve-hour shift. it was a lovely sight, the fire in the sky, which has inspired millions of photographs on facebook and instagram posts; and has, in fact, graced countless paintings by both the masters and their disciples.

unlike us humans, the sun would be getting home breezily, won’t be caught in a nerve-racking traffic that could test even the patience of a saint. while we have adapted to the devil spawned by the absence of sensible urban planning and the government’s lack of vision to once and for all solve the traffic mess, sitting idly inside buses, cars, taxis, pedicabs for hours, helplessly trapped like a victim of an earthquake, is still hell on earth. there is simply no comfort on it, facebook, candy crush aside.

an hour ago, the sky was a vast canvass of cotton balls, mingling joyously with the blues, as the summer was about to end. i love the lightness of the day that kept me engrossed on daphne’s joy, albeit ephemeral, as she sneaked in a dark, almost abandoned room in her husband’s family’s stately mansion with her lover, the eccentric painter revel, to steal a few moments of pleasure while her boorish husband, drunk, was sound asleep.

“they kissed and kissed, revel respectfully holding her and stroking her, a faint comedy of self-consciousness creeping into their murmurs and half-smiles between kisses, the little mimicking rhythms of themselves.” 

i stopped as soon as i felt the sea breeze turned a bit chilly, not baguio city cold, mind you, but soothing enough to make me smile and murmur a prayer of gratitude to the gods above. it was a blistering day, as the angry sun, even at four thirty in the afternoon,  still torched the city. but as soon as the sky turned orange, as the seagulls flapped their wings to leave the seaside port where they love to play and mingle with the crowd from a distance, the air turned breezy.

there was a certain calmness in the air as i put the bookmark on page two hundred and twenty-five of allan hollinghurst’s divine of a novel, the stranger’s child. it was my second time to read the book. unlike the first time -- when i was stranded in an airport somewhere far, far away -- i was taking it easy this time, savouring every word exchanged between daphne, revel and others; every comma; every period; every thought; every poetry found in sentence after sentence of mr. hollinghurst’s skillfully woven prose. i could only wish that i could write as well as him. then maybe i could die.

i didn’t want to stop, but it was now impossible to read as the sky was turning dark. the glimmer of light coming from the nearby coffeeshop simply was not enough to dicepher the words on every page. but i was glad i turned the book off because i was entertained by a group of korean tourists, all wearing shorts, shirts, hats and sandals, happily taking pictures with the beautiful manila sunset at the background. they were all happy, some taking pictures of the sky, especially the younger ones probably instagraming a piece of their life at that particular moment, the unfolding darkness to their friends and families all over the globe. such is the wonder of modern technology. distance no longer matters. but the irony is, as the internet and modern gadgets help bridge the gap between people in different parts of the earth, further shrinking the globe into the palm of everyone’s ipads and samsungs, the lonelier the world becomes.

but i said goodbye to these dark thoughts.  chased them away into the far recesses of my mind. i was simply mesmerized by the beauty of the sky, the serene sea. there was no place for sorrow right now. even the proud yachts lined up near the concrete sea wall, with their million price tags, were quiet, rocked slowly by the current like little children sleeping, dreaming in their mothers' arms.

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as darkness descended into the sea, the more enigmatic the water has become. ah, what secrets were buried underneath? what stories could be unearthed at its bosom, at its bottom? how many sad creatures, forlorn lovers, tragic seafarers, were buried underneath, silent witnesses to the sea’s comings and goings, as it flirted with typhoons, earthquakes and other products of nature’s wrath?

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a thought suddenly crossed his mind: this is a perfect day to die. he didn’t know why he thought of it. he had not been suicidal since he turned thirty. in fact, right now, there was nothing to be sad about his life.  in a few days, he was scheduled to fly to another country for another adventure. while he was not ecstatic about his life, he was not sad either. he was simply ok.

but he felt sad. all of a sudden with this realization. how long has he been ok? when he was younger, he recalled, he hated being just ok. what’s the use of living if you won’t feel joy, sad, depressed, gloomy, sunny, ecstatic? anything is alright other than just being ok. ok is for the dead.

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it was nearly seven in the evening. some customers of the coffee shop were already rushing home, eager to join their love ones in the kitchen to prepare their dinner, or to call their favourite restaurants to deliver food, too tired from a day’s work to even open the fridge, while their children were seated happily in the living room, watching their favourite shows on teevee. or simply texting away their friends, or posting updates on facebook and instagram: “just got home. mommy ordering pizza. happy tummy in a while. feeling great :)” then attached a selfie.

but that was them.

what was waiting for him at home? his tiny, one bedroom apartment near roxas boulevard, his home for the past few months. nothing. except for a few books, magazines, pirated dvds that he would sometimes watch on his macbook. while he loves the solitary life, the silence of the flat that envelopes his entire being as he turns the key, pushes the wooden door and opens the light in the kitchen (the first thing that would greet you as you enter the apartment), there are times when the emptiness would make him terribly sad. would make him wish he was someone else, living somewhere else, far from the sea, away from the comfort of the familiar.

just like today.

especially today.

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a week ago, his sister and her three young kids were in town. while her sister wanted to stay in a hotel so as not to disturb his quiet, single’s life, he insisted that they stay in his flat. he was just too happy to give up his room, bed, and the airconditioning, and sleep in the sofa in the small living room with the humming electric fan as company, in exchange for the company of his two nephews and one niece aged eleven (a boy), six ( a girl), and three (another boy) for a few precious days.

most of the time, they were at the building’s swimming pool, joining other kids who were all busily swimming the summer away. sometimes, they would be at the nearest mall -- shopping, eating, watching a movie. he  happily played baby sitter to the kids, enjoying their company,  a rare chance to be with them, loving their innocent questions (the youngest: where is the water from the swimming pool coming from? ah, how do you answer such questions?)

they stayed for nearly a week. then they went to his mother’s home town in the north to pay homage to the miraculous our lady of piat.

so tonight, he was at his lonesome. when he opened the door, the room was dark. quiet. too quiet as if the world has forgotten to speak. there were no laughters, conversations, tiny feet rushing to meet him, small arms to embrace him, curious mouths to kiss him, ask him where did he go all day? he missed them. he never thought he would miss someone, anyone at all, because he was used to being alone. he loves being alone. he loves the thought that whatever he does, wears, says, nobody would mind. even if he farts loudly, nobody would be offended.

but their presence in the past few weeks changed all that. suddenly, there was no longer peace.

is there really a point in a person’s life when he longs for the family life? when he just feels too tired of being alone, of moving around and simply longs to settle in one place, stay with the people he loves? what happened to his love for solitude? where did his desire for the unshackled, quiet, contemplative, almost monastic way of life go?

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he thought of his life for the last forty-four years. of the places he had been, bedrooms he had slept, restaurants he had eaten, lovers he had devoured and swam around like a hungry lion before his prey, friends he had made as he moved around like a homeless orphan in search of something that would make him rest, make him stop, give him a semblance of stability. of life.

was it all futile? his search?

why did he suddenly end up here? at the beginning? is there a grand design to all of these? who is responsible for all of these? is it all fate? is someone really fated to be alone all his life?

he opened the fridge. took a can of icy san miguel light, opened it and gulped its content. then another one. then another one. then another. at his fourth can, he felt a bit dizzy. there was some lightness in his head. he wanted to cry. he wanted to hear some voices: warm, welcoming, calming, assuring voices -- everything will be all right. in the end, it always does.

he played ella fitzgerald on youtube. round midnight. summertime.

he drank more beer. when he felt strong enough, emboldened enough, he went to the bathroom. opened the cabinet and took a bottle of pills. he emptied its contents in his mouth. swallowed everything. then he lied in bed and waited excitedly for something to happen. he was not disappointed. a few minutes later, or was it hours later, he heard the rushing waves, the excited voices of tourists as they gasped at the beauty that was before them, then he saw the sunset once more with its familiar purple, crimson, reddish hues. then he felt the cold, cold sea. he was floating, floating. then he could hear his nephews and niece laughing, calling his name.  then they pleaded, don’t go, uncle. please don’t go.

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then after that, everything went dark. he felt nothing. heard nothing. nothing moved. nothing bothered him anymore. not even ella’s soothing voice could make him cry. not even mr. hollinghurt’s tragic lovers could make him weep, make him wake up.

in the end, everything, as promised, is a bliss.