ti's
ti's what it is..
...................where most of it started..
where innocence faded slowly like leaves falling one by one during autumn.
then totally forgotten. what was it like to be young and new?
it was all a fog.
when walking along its narrow, noisy, crowded hallways and walkways, filled with cute college boys in tight-fitting jeans and shirts, smoking, whistling, sharing dirty jokes, was an adventure in itself...yes, only the young can make those mundane concerns seemed life-changing:
what time did you go home last night? who was that girl with you? is she the one from st. theresa's college? or your high school sweetheart from the girls' high? do you think she likes me?
this parking area at the center of the university, its heart, really, these corridors, now empty, desolate and sad, were once home.
were once filled with daydreams, lusts, and illusions that someday, maybe tomorrow night you will kiss the cutest varsity player under the rain, when there was just the two of you, sharing an umbrella, in a tight embrace...
unmindful of the cold rain and the damp earth.
oblivious to the curious stares and ridiculous laughters.
first love was never easy. being young was tough.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
but there will always be those streets (junquera, p. del rosario) and their secrets. where an empty soul could feel loved for a few minutes in exchange for a few pesos. filled with hookers at night.
its dark alleys offering comfort. heaven awaits in anonymity.
who says hell is bathed in darkness?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
across the street from the university gate was once home. a second one. its tiny rooms filled with the boisterous laughters of youth. all boys. at night, the silence was interrupted by the slow, rocking of a double-deck bed. as boys indulged in their fantasies, eyes closed even in the darkness, hands where they were supposed to be. soft moans, slow breathes...mild strokes.
it was a three-storey, old, dilapidated building that reeked of urine, alcohol, cigarettes and dried sperm...most of the time. the stench of a wasted youth.
where every morning, young men, naked except for a towel around their waists, lined up for their turn to use the shower. slippery, smelling of soap, shampoo, toothpaste and discarded lusts -- the tiny bathrooms that could hardly fit a single person.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
this was the view, from the rooftop, that had become familiar, like second skin..
where everybody smoked not just cigarettes. get drunk, stoned, shared or trashed their dreams.
who will it be? maria or mario?
be a lawyer or an accountant? a journalist or a bum (i chose both).
but the sunset was divine. as the night enveloped the city slowly like in a dream, as the air turned a bit cold, as lights in other buildings illuminated the tiny rooftop filled with newly-washed clothes -- shirts, jeans, shoes, socks, briefs -- that were left to dry, the flags of an uncertain future, a feverish excitement would fill the void of a mindless existence.
where to tonight? do you have extra money? can i borrow some? do you still have a joint? shit, we're running out of red horse...can we mix gin with piss?
**********************
further down the road..when leaving the comforts of p. del rosario street and traversing the underbelly of the city...walking along the more dangerous junquera street even on broad daylight was refuge..
where whispers of the agony, the pain of unrequited love were drowned by other prayers of the piety.
where pleadings for a miracle -- please make him love me -- were almost, always unanswered.
even then, at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, life was a series of broken hearts, illusions, shattered dreams, and nameless, mindless sex. it was the gift of the time. or the curse of the age.
after drowning in sorrows, in cases of san miguel beers, burning more joints and inhaling its toxic fumes.. another blissful day. a fog had been lifted. the true miracle. thank you to the saint of shattered hearts -- saint michael. he never fails. the best cure especially when ice cold, taken amid a noisy, smoky bar with other equally drunk, love lorn youth.
moving on isn't easy. but it has to be done.
life is not for the weak and faint-hearted.
it is, what it is.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
(ps: last photo above of appetizing san miguel beer was taken from a website. no copyright infringement intended. please inform me if you want it taken out. thank you.)
...................where most of it started..
where innocence faded slowly like leaves falling one by one during autumn.
then totally forgotten. what was it like to be young and new?
it was all a fog.
when walking along its narrow, noisy, crowded hallways and walkways, filled with cute college boys in tight-fitting jeans and shirts, smoking, whistling, sharing dirty jokes, was an adventure in itself...yes, only the young can make those mundane concerns seemed life-changing:
what time did you go home last night? who was that girl with you? is she the one from st. theresa's college? or your high school sweetheart from the girls' high? do you think she likes me?
this parking area at the center of the university, its heart, really, these corridors, now empty, desolate and sad, were once home.
were once filled with daydreams, lusts, and illusions that someday, maybe tomorrow night you will kiss the cutest varsity player under the rain, when there was just the two of you, sharing an umbrella, in a tight embrace...
unmindful of the cold rain and the damp earth.
oblivious to the curious stares and ridiculous laughters.
first love was never easy. being young was tough.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
but there will always be those streets (junquera, p. del rosario) and their secrets. where an empty soul could feel loved for a few minutes in exchange for a few pesos. filled with hookers at night.
its dark alleys offering comfort. heaven awaits in anonymity.
who says hell is bathed in darkness?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
across the street from the university gate was once home. a second one. its tiny rooms filled with the boisterous laughters of youth. all boys. at night, the silence was interrupted by the slow, rocking of a double-deck bed. as boys indulged in their fantasies, eyes closed even in the darkness, hands where they were supposed to be. soft moans, slow breathes...mild strokes.
it was a three-storey, old, dilapidated building that reeked of urine, alcohol, cigarettes and dried sperm...most of the time. the stench of a wasted youth.
where every morning, young men, naked except for a towel around their waists, lined up for their turn to use the shower. slippery, smelling of soap, shampoo, toothpaste and discarded lusts -- the tiny bathrooms that could hardly fit a single person.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
this was the view, from the rooftop, that had become familiar, like second skin..
where everybody smoked not just cigarettes. get drunk, stoned, shared or trashed their dreams.
who will it be? maria or mario?
be a lawyer or an accountant? a journalist or a bum (i chose both).
but the sunset was divine. as the night enveloped the city slowly like in a dream, as the air turned a bit cold, as lights in other buildings illuminated the tiny rooftop filled with newly-washed clothes -- shirts, jeans, shoes, socks, briefs -- that were left to dry, the flags of an uncertain future, a feverish excitement would fill the void of a mindless existence.
where to tonight? do you have extra money? can i borrow some? do you still have a joint? shit, we're running out of red horse...can we mix gin with piss?
**********************
further down the road..when leaving the comforts of p. del rosario street and traversing the underbelly of the city...walking along the more dangerous junquera street even on broad daylight was refuge..
where whispers of the agony, the pain of unrequited love were drowned by other prayers of the piety.
where pleadings for a miracle -- please make him love me -- were almost, always unanswered.
even then, at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, life was a series of broken hearts, illusions, shattered dreams, and nameless, mindless sex. it was the gift of the time. or the curse of the age.
after drowning in sorrows, in cases of san miguel beers, burning more joints and inhaling its toxic fumes.. another blissful day. a fog had been lifted. the true miracle. thank you to the saint of shattered hearts -- saint michael. he never fails. the best cure especially when ice cold, taken amid a noisy, smoky bar with other equally drunk, love lorn youth.
moving on isn't easy. but it has to be done.
life is not for the weak and faint-hearted.
it is, what it is.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
(ps: last photo above of appetizing san miguel beer was taken from a website. no copyright infringement intended. please inform me if you want it taken out. thank you.)
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