November 29, 2013; around 3pm, UP Diliman. You boarded the jeep from the stoplight in the Tennis Court. You were holding a book on your right hand, your wallet in the other. You squeezed yourself in the space in front of me, to my delight because you smelled like vanilla. You were close enough for me to see what book you were reading, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. You have good taste in books, I thought to myself. You were not the book definition of beautiful but there was something in you, so attractive and interesting that made you stood out in my usually mundane commuting scene. You were wearing a black skirt, a blue blouse, and black flats. It’s hard not to notice your ears are pierced twice when you tucked your hair behind it, because those brown threads got in the way of the words you were reading. I found it so fascinating how your eyes widened when it got to a certain part. I knew what part that was, and you don’t know how badly I wanted to comment and share your enthusiasm. This is borderline stalker creepiness but all throughout the ride, I was just staring at you and your reactions to every word in the book.
You were so immersed in reading that you didn’t notice me stealing glances every time I had the chance. The jeep reached its destination and I let you walk before me so I would know where you’re going (I apologize, I was just really infatuated by you, Miss Kite Runner). And just when you couldn’t get any more interesting, you helped an old lady with the groceries she was carrying, and accompanied her until she got to the ticketing area.
I prayed hard you won’t go to the front section of the platform because I knew I blew my chance to ask your name. But you did, and I wanted so badly to call you from a distance.
I hope I get to see you around campus. I’d ask you out on a movie date in Sunken Garden, and cross my fingers you’ll say ‘yes’.
PS. You’re even more awesome for having The Beatles in your playlist. Yep, your music was that loud. But it didn’t matter. Not to me.
I got a date with them this weekend. #books
La Infinito, café-libros-arte, Madrid. La Infinito is a bookshop café serving ‘long moments and nice chats’, afternoon readings, and wifi sessions, without making its customers worry that the waiter would remove the glasses from the table by the time they finish eating. Open from dawn to midnight, La Infinito serves breakfast with their completely original menu, in which all options are named after artists (e.g. name of juices are poets, musicians are shakes.) La Infinito is also a space open to all kinds of cultural events. There are two shelves loaded with books and essays about poetry and theater, copies of literary works which are available for selling and sharing, and a small stage available to artists who want to present interesting projects like poetry readings. There’s surely not a place for literature like La Infinito. (Photo by James Madden)
tagged as: wanderlust. books. this sounds like a place Adgie and I would spend an eternity in.
It never really happened. And now it’s over.
It never really happened, and yet I feel, a profound sense of sadness to know that it’s over. It never really happened, but somehow, my body shakes with withdrawal. It’s all over now, so where am I to go?
As I catapult from all the things that never really happened, the pauses in between are all blank spaces, wastelands of time where there was no feeling. And in those destinations, the things that never really happened, I was immersed in feeling.
To feel. Something. Something stirring. Isn’t this what we live for?
It never really happened, but I’m wondering where it all went. How did it die? Why did you leave? Though you were never really there, I find myself wanting to grab you by the shoulders and shake you, rattle your bones until you answer my question. Why did you abandon me?
I float in the limbo in between. Lost and purposeless, sad but uselessly. I dwell here after the initial coming-down of the demented high that is giving up. I’m not sure what to do with myself here; how to fold my legs, where to put my hands, where to instruct my mind to wander. Nowhere to go.
It never really happened. But can you blame me for thinking it did? Wouldn’t you like to feel what never happened? Did you not have a time in your life where you were lost in the thing that never existed, where you were intoxicated by the feeling that never was, where you were trapped in the memory that never really happened?
I am locked there all the time.
It never really happened. But now it’s over. I have my feet, my legs, my body, but absolutely nowhere to go.
In a matter of hours on Friday, Typhoon Haiyan completely devastated parts of the central Philippines. It was one of the strongest storms ever recorded. The death toll is estimated up to 10,000 with hundreds of thousands more displaced. The country has declared a “state of calamity.”
To everyone else, please help those desperate for clean water and food by donating to the UN World Food Programme:
- USA: Text
27722to donate $10
- UK: Text
70303to donate £3
- Canada: Text
45678to donate $5
- Donate online