I’ve never seen the ocean at night, but when I did, it evoked strange emotions that I’ve never felt before. The vastness of the bleak and dark sea didn’t call forth warmth and happiness that I felt as a child, but it conveyed a dark void, beckoning me towards it with the crashing sound of its ebbs and flows. There were no stars, there was no moon; there were only clouds that stretched on to infinity, and the unsteady waters grasping for the horizon.
I found it strange that this was the same ocean that I loved. This was the same ocean that enveloped me in its cooling crests. This was the same ocean that caressed my back with the warmth of the sun as I sat and played with the sand. That same scent of the ocean breeze now sends fear pervading through my body, standing the hairs on the back of my neck. The crashing sounds no longer remind me of frothing waves, but instead remind me of the snarl of wild beasts who are hell bent on devouring me.
The unknown that brewed inside me fermented with the most violent of fears. I fear the demon that lurks within the darkness of the Earth’s cold blanket. I fear the darkness imbued within it that threatens to swallow me.
6/??/2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
2, 587
I had a roommate who followed the same routine for two years and never broke it.
His alarm would blare at exactly 5:15 AM and he would let it would blare for a while but he would then stop it after two minutes. I know this because I timed it. This may sound annoying, but I eventually grew to sleep over it. Around 6 AM, he would stand up and immediately eat the same breakfast for two years: cold milk and corn flakes. This was the time when my alarm would go off and I would join him for breakfast. He would finish breakfast at precisely 6:15 AM and he would take a shower and dress and leave at 6:45 AM. He would arrive home at 5 PM, eat dinner at 6 PM, and then finally, sleep at 9 PM.
I wasn’t sure how he could handle such routine. At that time, I couldn’t even handle my college schedule. So I had to ask him somehow—perhaps he could share tips in strengthening one’s willpower to overcome such a boring schedule. So one time I did.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He answered.
“What does that supposed to mean?” A magic number, perhaps? Or maybe a philosophy based on symbolism.
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.”
I paused for a bit, not sure if I heard him right. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that again please?”
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.” He repeated verbatim and with a tone that was eerily the same as his first answer.
It turns out that in the gap in between 5:15 AM and 6 AM, he counted the number of dots on his ceiling. Every day. For the past two years. I doubted him at first but he kept a straight face. He explained to me that this was the only way that would force him to keep up with the routine—he would wake up, turn on the lights and stare at the ceiling, counting the number of dots.
“Well, are they like constellations where you see images and stuff?” I queried.
“No. It’s just dots.” His reply was firm. “Why would I think of that?”
I tried it once after he mentioned his odd hobby. It didn’t really work out too well. I woke up to the sound of his alarm and this signaled me to count the dots on my room’s ceiling, hoping to see routine in the way he sees it.
1… 2… 3…
Around 150 or so, I lost count.
Actually, I fell asleep.
There was one day, however, where my peculiar roommate stayed in his room later than 6 AM. This obviously made me worried and curious. He never broke routine. Not even once. So I knocked on his room, only to find out that the door was cracked open. I peered in and saw him lying, staring at ceiling.
“Hey, it’s almost 6:30. You’re going to be late for work.”
No answer.
“Is there something wrong?”
He lifted a finger at me, as if he asking me to wait for a second. His lips moved, whispering and counting at a rapid pace. And then he paused.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-eight.” He muttered.
“What?”
“The number of dots. It’s changed.”
“Well, you probably miscounted or something. Or maybe it’s a dot you haven’t noticed before.” These were my futile attempts at reasoning.
“No. It has always been two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He sat up, but his head was tilted and still faced the ceiling.
After minutes of bantering, I somehow convinced my roommate to get changed and get to work because he was sincerely planning on staying home and counting those dots over and over the entire day. It was hard and it took a lot of yelling but he eventually gave in. Something was wrong with him before he left. He was paler than usual and he twitched slightly. Sometimes his fingers would give out spasms, which I noticed as he waved goodbye. Perhaps it was about the dots on his ceiling, or perhaps it was a bit more.
I never knew the exact reason why he counted the dots on his ceiling and I suppose no one will ever know why.
You see, he died in a car accident on that day where he found it strange and alarming that the dots had one more among them.
It was strange.
He drove the same car that he drove for two years. He took the same route that he rode for two years. He followed the same routine that he followed for two, long, monotonous years. Perhaps, he sensed the difference in today.
Before I could leave for my class, a police officer knocked on my door and asked if this was the residence of my roommate. Afterwards, he informed me of his demise in the mesh of steel, on that stretch of concrete. He had no contacts to his family; all the ones that he provided for work were dead ends. No one claimed his body and frankly, it was as if he never existed in the first place. All his belongings were useless and no one really knew who he really was. It was as if he died without leaving a single thing, not even a memory. He did leave one thing: two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.
9/2/2009
His alarm would blare at exactly 5:15 AM and he would let it would blare for a while but he would then stop it after two minutes. I know this because I timed it. This may sound annoying, but I eventually grew to sleep over it. Around 6 AM, he would stand up and immediately eat the same breakfast for two years: cold milk and corn flakes. This was the time when my alarm would go off and I would join him for breakfast. He would finish breakfast at precisely 6:15 AM and he would take a shower and dress and leave at 6:45 AM. He would arrive home at 5 PM, eat dinner at 6 PM, and then finally, sleep at 9 PM.
I wasn’t sure how he could handle such routine. At that time, I couldn’t even handle my college schedule. So I had to ask him somehow—perhaps he could share tips in strengthening one’s willpower to overcome such a boring schedule. So one time I did.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He answered.
“What does that supposed to mean?” A magic number, perhaps? Or maybe a philosophy based on symbolism.
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.”
I paused for a bit, not sure if I heard him right. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that again please?”
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.” He repeated verbatim and with a tone that was eerily the same as his first answer.
It turns out that in the gap in between 5:15 AM and 6 AM, he counted the number of dots on his ceiling. Every day. For the past two years. I doubted him at first but he kept a straight face. He explained to me that this was the only way that would force him to keep up with the routine—he would wake up, turn on the lights and stare at the ceiling, counting the number of dots.
“Well, are they like constellations where you see images and stuff?” I queried.
“No. It’s just dots.” His reply was firm. “Why would I think of that?”
I tried it once after he mentioned his odd hobby. It didn’t really work out too well. I woke up to the sound of his alarm and this signaled me to count the dots on my room’s ceiling, hoping to see routine in the way he sees it.
1… 2… 3…
Around 150 or so, I lost count.
Actually, I fell asleep.
There was one day, however, where my peculiar roommate stayed in his room later than 6 AM. This obviously made me worried and curious. He never broke routine. Not even once. So I knocked on his room, only to find out that the door was cracked open. I peered in and saw him lying, staring at ceiling.
“Hey, it’s almost 6:30. You’re going to be late for work.”
No answer.
“Is there something wrong?”
He lifted a finger at me, as if he asking me to wait for a second. His lips moved, whispering and counting at a rapid pace. And then he paused.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-eight.” He muttered.
“What?”
“The number of dots. It’s changed.”
“Well, you probably miscounted or something. Or maybe it’s a dot you haven’t noticed before.” These were my futile attempts at reasoning.
“No. It has always been two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He sat up, but his head was tilted and still faced the ceiling.
After minutes of bantering, I somehow convinced my roommate to get changed and get to work because he was sincerely planning on staying home and counting those dots over and over the entire day. It was hard and it took a lot of yelling but he eventually gave in. Something was wrong with him before he left. He was paler than usual and he twitched slightly. Sometimes his fingers would give out spasms, which I noticed as he waved goodbye. Perhaps it was about the dots on his ceiling, or perhaps it was a bit more.
I never knew the exact reason why he counted the dots on his ceiling and I suppose no one will ever know why.
You see, he died in a car accident on that day where he found it strange and alarming that the dots had one more among them.
It was strange.
He drove the same car that he drove for two years. He took the same route that he rode for two years. He followed the same routine that he followed for two, long, monotonous years. Perhaps, he sensed the difference in today.
Before I could leave for my class, a police officer knocked on my door and asked if this was the residence of my roommate. Afterwards, he informed me of his demise in the mesh of steel, on that stretch of concrete. He had no contacts to his family; all the ones that he provided for work were dead ends. No one claimed his body and frankly, it was as if he never existed in the first place. All his belongings were useless and no one really knew who he really was. It was as if he died without leaving a single thing, not even a memory. He did leave one thing: two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.
9/2/2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Receiver
The other line was silent as he chocked over the words he was about to say. Ultimately, dull whimpers came out, and then "Nothing." He wanted to say more, but emotion cluttered the thoughts that rushed through his head and he wasn't able to grasp a coherent idea, thus the nonsensical mumbling.
“I’m,” he chocked out. “I’m very happy to hear your voice.” That was stupid, he thought to himself. Perhaps that was the only coherent thought that was flashing in his head at that moment, and it was flashing in big bold letters.
She laughed over the other line anyway. "Me, too!" was her reply and she said so in earnest regard. "I was worried, so I just wanted to call on you to see if you're doing alright."
She always worried about him, he thought. Ever since they were little she was concerned about something, and this always bugged him because he never fully understood how considerate she can be. She was the constant presence that loomed over his shoulder, loomed over his faults; the strings that pulled him up from his abysmal failures (or sunk him further down, albeit unintentionally). She was always present; she was always persistent, even as they grew up.
"What are you doing now, anyway?" her question attempted to pry him open.
He could never stay shut for too long: "Nothing." his voice was a little somber, a little sober. It cracked and it was hoarse. "I--I lost my job."
"Since when?"
"A week ago." a pause. "Just about..." he added.
She always looked up to him. She believed that there was something more in him. He never liked that. He was a delinquent, anyway, and he never fully understood why she could look up to a delinquent. Mother and Father scholded him through his childhood, through his teenage years, through his early adulthood: "Get a job, make yourself useful for this family!" and she would peer in, always present, always looming over his resentment towards his parents. She should be ashamed of him.
"I see...." she replied after a half minute of silence. "If there's something--"
"No, you don't need to." he interrupted her because he knew what she was thinking. "I just need time to find a new job."
He never understood why she kept doing this, that is, she always tried to help him whenever he gets in trouble. He never understood why she always stuck up to him, no matter what. He remembered at his parents' funeral and everyone whispered terrible things about him, "Not a single emotion, what an evil son." but he ignored them. "Such a tragedy for them to die in an accident and to leave their wretched son in this world." he ignored those, too. He pushed through the whispers and the murmurs and the rumors and the words that pierced through his ears and he sat next to her. She was crying, her face covered with her hands.
"Please let me help you," she persisted from the other line. "It's really hard, I know, but I know you can make it."
Those words sounded so familiar. They were said in a whisper once, and those same words passed through his lips on that day he sat next to her. On the day of the funeral.
"You're the only family I have in this world and I don't want to lose you."
Those words, too. She repeated his words, verbatim. He was silent for the longest time and she called his name. Concern was evident in her voice.
"Ever since Mommy and Daddy died, you've taken care of me. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here right now." That "here" being college. "Please, let me help you." She repeated.
He remembered her wiping her tears with her handkerchief, still sobbing. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her weight bore upon him and he leaned on her shoulder, but he was hesitant to embrace her back. He saw it awkward, out of character, embarassing. Perhaps what the relatives were saying was true after all. She sobbed softly, and he could feel her sobs reverberating through his body, and he could feel her sadness weigh him, but he never found the tears to shed. He thought that he was the weight in her world, the load that she had to carry, her older brother that never showed emotion, shunned by relatives, disregarded by society, a wreck and a failure, but she was always there, always over his shoulders.
"Hey," he said to the receiver. "Stop crying."
She paused, but it was hard to hide her sobs. He heard them from the other line and his hands trembled. His lips twitched and his eyes started burning. He felt the familiar warmth, the familiar weight, the familiar embrace through those sobs, and somehow, he felt her close.
"Just... just talk to me once in a while, okay?" he pleaded over her sobs. "Just call me over the weekends or something. Tell me what's happening over there. That's all I need."
He remembered parting with her. She was off to college somewhere far away to become someone successful, and he's left alone in this town, trying to pay rent and living from paycheck to paycheck. He was miserable but she still looked up to him. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he was there to help her get over her burden. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he represented something more in her life, like she said, the only family she has. Maybe. He began to realize this as he remembered her waving goodbye, possibly the last time he saw her face. He tried to remember her expression, but it was so vague.
"Just be here with me. This is fine right now and I don't mind it. You're all I have."
The call ended a few minutes later with promises of keeping in touch for the coming months, and possibly longer than that. The idea made him feel lighter, as if he felt a release from her embrace, although he was still emotionally exhausted. He made his way to the bathroom and washed his face. He eyed through the dirty-tiled bathroom until his eyes caught the attention of the sleeping pills that he recently bought. He remembered the subtle reactions of the pharmacist when he bought them. He looked right at him with a concerned face, especially at his haggard state. But he simply stared back at them with a stare that would rival a certain Emily Greirson. He fumbled through the pills and opened the cap, bloodshot eyes staring down the tube. He raised it, turned it, and let every single pill drop, unceremoniously, down the toilet.
2/24/2009
“I’m,” he chocked out. “I’m very happy to hear your voice.” That was stupid, he thought to himself. Perhaps that was the only coherent thought that was flashing in his head at that moment, and it was flashing in big bold letters.
She laughed over the other line anyway. "Me, too!" was her reply and she said so in earnest regard. "I was worried, so I just wanted to call on you to see if you're doing alright."
She always worried about him, he thought. Ever since they were little she was concerned about something, and this always bugged him because he never fully understood how considerate she can be. She was the constant presence that loomed over his shoulder, loomed over his faults; the strings that pulled him up from his abysmal failures (or sunk him further down, albeit unintentionally). She was always present; she was always persistent, even as they grew up.
"What are you doing now, anyway?" her question attempted to pry him open.
He could never stay shut for too long: "Nothing." his voice was a little somber, a little sober. It cracked and it was hoarse. "I--I lost my job."
"Since when?"
"A week ago." a pause. "Just about..." he added.
She always looked up to him. She believed that there was something more in him. He never liked that. He was a delinquent, anyway, and he never fully understood why she could look up to a delinquent. Mother and Father scholded him through his childhood, through his teenage years, through his early adulthood: "Get a job, make yourself useful for this family!" and she would peer in, always present, always looming over his resentment towards his parents. She should be ashamed of him.
"I see...." she replied after a half minute of silence. "If there's something--"
"No, you don't need to." he interrupted her because he knew what she was thinking. "I just need time to find a new job."
He never understood why she kept doing this, that is, she always tried to help him whenever he gets in trouble. He never understood why she always stuck up to him, no matter what. He remembered at his parents' funeral and everyone whispered terrible things about him, "Not a single emotion, what an evil son." but he ignored them. "Such a tragedy for them to die in an accident and to leave their wretched son in this world." he ignored those, too. He pushed through the whispers and the murmurs and the rumors and the words that pierced through his ears and he sat next to her. She was crying, her face covered with her hands.
"Please let me help you," she persisted from the other line. "It's really hard, I know, but I know you can make it."
Those words sounded so familiar. They were said in a whisper once, and those same words passed through his lips on that day he sat next to her. On the day of the funeral.
"You're the only family I have in this world and I don't want to lose you."
Those words, too. She repeated his words, verbatim. He was silent for the longest time and she called his name. Concern was evident in her voice.
"Ever since Mommy and Daddy died, you've taken care of me. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here right now." That "here" being college. "Please, let me help you." She repeated.
He remembered her wiping her tears with her handkerchief, still sobbing. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her weight bore upon him and he leaned on her shoulder, but he was hesitant to embrace her back. He saw it awkward, out of character, embarassing. Perhaps what the relatives were saying was true after all. She sobbed softly, and he could feel her sobs reverberating through his body, and he could feel her sadness weigh him, but he never found the tears to shed. He thought that he was the weight in her world, the load that she had to carry, her older brother that never showed emotion, shunned by relatives, disregarded by society, a wreck and a failure, but she was always there, always over his shoulders.
"Hey," he said to the receiver. "Stop crying."
She paused, but it was hard to hide her sobs. He heard them from the other line and his hands trembled. His lips twitched and his eyes started burning. He felt the familiar warmth, the familiar weight, the familiar embrace through those sobs, and somehow, he felt her close.
"Just... just talk to me once in a while, okay?" he pleaded over her sobs. "Just call me over the weekends or something. Tell me what's happening over there. That's all I need."
He remembered parting with her. She was off to college somewhere far away to become someone successful, and he's left alone in this town, trying to pay rent and living from paycheck to paycheck. He was miserable but she still looked up to him. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he was there to help her get over her burden. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he represented something more in her life, like she said, the only family she has. Maybe. He began to realize this as he remembered her waving goodbye, possibly the last time he saw her face. He tried to remember her expression, but it was so vague.
"Just be here with me. This is fine right now and I don't mind it. You're all I have."
The call ended a few minutes later with promises of keeping in touch for the coming months, and possibly longer than that. The idea made him feel lighter, as if he felt a release from her embrace, although he was still emotionally exhausted. He made his way to the bathroom and washed his face. He eyed through the dirty-tiled bathroom until his eyes caught the attention of the sleeping pills that he recently bought. He remembered the subtle reactions of the pharmacist when he bought them. He looked right at him with a concerned face, especially at his haggard state. But he simply stared back at them with a stare that would rival a certain Emily Greirson. He fumbled through the pills and opened the cap, bloodshot eyes staring down the tube. He raised it, turned it, and let every single pill drop, unceremoniously, down the toilet.
2/24/2009
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