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
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