Some Records of the Recent Events which I Hope to Turn Into a Fiction Story

Last night I came home and noticed the blast in city lights. All excitement and anticipation of the upcoming holiday.

Well, you see, it’s different on my end. My Decembers have been difficult for the last eleven years. In my mind, each time I recall the last eleven Decembers, I see a montage of interminable longing and grief and forced geniality. And the struggle of staying alive in a world without you in it.

I don’t remember much about December 2009. It was about the death of your bestest best friend. I learned she asked if I would be there, in her final hours, and I did not make it.

It is a baggage I have been and will be carrying in my entire lifetime. Before that I remember the years of hate and contempt my clan threw towards her. Their excellent efforts to hide me, control me, never to be seen by her. The magnitude of pain they never knew. The last seven years helped me accumulate a burning ball of hatred that last Saturday I wielded into a weapon and used to fundamentally cast them out of my life.

This made me an instant orphan and island. No regrets so far.

December 2010 was spent cooking a corn beef in a rice cooker in an apartment in Sta. Mesa. I moved out of our place. I can no longer bear the toxicity and the entitlement that our kins possess: that they own you and come hell or high water, they are always right and you are always wrong.

I can’t remember what happened in Decembers 2011, 2012, & 2013. There is nothing in the drawers of my recollection of these days but a dark, empty foyer.

December 2014 I was in Baguio with Nicholas. This December was easy, I admit.

December 2015 I was sleeping in LB after munching some chicken. Before the month ends, a friend of mine invited me to come over. I was having an allergic outbreak. She had a bottle of beer; I had a mug of coffee.

Last night I came home and noticed the blast in city lights. I am unsure how to spend the next December. As I’ve said, I am now an orphan and an island because I have disowned every blood relative from my life last Saturday..

In an old house in an old room

When I die, I want to be clothed in black and look stunning. Afterwards, I want my body cremated and my ashes scattered — wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere. But before all that, I want my closest friends to read their eulogy. I will sit in front or in a corner, and listen to our ancient stories. Every word of it.

I want to know how they would remember me.
I want to know if I’ve been good, over all, and if I have been worthy of this existence.
Like a regular human being, in the end, I need to be validated.

For now, let me lay on this bed in an old house in an old room. There is a certain tranquility in watching the low sun passed between the small openings of the capiz window. There is incarnation. There is finding again.

There is hope.
No matter how tiny and bleak and almost impossible it looks,
it exists.