completed 11 April 2009, 10.54 p.m.
The bus was nearly empty when it left the dilapidated station in the heart of the city where I grew up. Only a handful of people took that mid-afternoon trip to the cooler north. A middle-aged woman sat in front of me with her mother while her father was on the opposite aisle. To my right were a young man and a woman who looked slightly older. At first I assumed they were couple. But I didn’t notice a resemblance of intimacy in how they moved or talked. They were dressed so casually, the woman in a knee-length skirt and a lavender top, the guy in shorts, neutral-colored shirt and a baseball cap. The woman retrieved a can and a bottle of drinks from her shoulder bag, handed the other one to her companion, and they both settled in their seats as the bus rolled out of the station. I was already munching on the sandwich I bought at the convenience store earlier, chicken and a huge round chunk of pineapple slapped between bread.
There was a girl in her 20s who was on seat number six. I almost stole her seat when we were boarding. I didn’t notice the seat numbers faintly written in thick black ink on the ledge of the overhead baggage rack. I apologized to her, saying I didn’t know where to look for the seat number. She smiled without malice or irritation and pointed it out for me. If I were she, I would have snapped at the moron trying to steal the seat I asked for after sweating in line at the counter. I hardly noticed anyone else behind me, except for a short old man wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt in monotone, the kind old men wear. The seats behind me were empty so I reclined mine to a comfortable angle. The one next to mine was empty too, which was a comfort. I didn’t want to mind a seatmate. The last thing I wanted was to be engaged in small talk by a stranger, especially by someone who would ask what I am doing alone. It’s only a quarter of a day’s trip – it won’t be unbearable, not at all.
I tasted salty tears roll down my cheeks as I walked away from the house. My backpack was surprisingly light for a trip, especially one I wasn’t certain I’d return from. I mumbled a brief prayer before I picked my bags off the floor and left – please help me find meaning in what I’m setting out to do. Listening to music as the bus navigated the narrow streets of the inner part of the city, I sobbed silently, feeling a little scared. If I walk away now never to return, I only have a handful of shirts, dirty jeans, flip-flops, a new notebook, two books and three papayas to my name. No phone I compulsively check every instant, no laptop to check my email from or look at stored photographs. They were indispensable to the life I wanted to leave behind. If I bring them, they will only weigh down my bag, and me. The only gadget I brought was a music player – I needed a contraption to block out the world. My mind couldn’t do that yet.
The sky was bluer outside the city, wider too, appearing like it could swallow the expanse of green that ran to the horizon. The sun stood solidly against wafer-like thin clouds. I could breathe a little better and for an instant I thought I am better. Of course that’s not the case. It would take real medication to cure me. Pretty scenery was merely having a placebo effect on me. But I didn’t mind. It made me feel better far quicker than the drugs I’ve been taking for the last three weeks have accomplished. It reaffirmed that what I did was right by me.
I left with hardly a word to my family, friends, colleagues. For the first time I didn’t want to be bothered with permissions, responsibilities and explanations – and it was profoundly liberating. I’m tired of explaining to people who wouldn’t understand, and it wouldn’t be their fault. I didn’t want to be told again that things would be all right, that I’d be okay. They don’t know that; I certainly don’t. All I knew for sure was I had to leave, I had to be cut off from what has become my life, my pain. I couldn’t find a corner of comfort in my possessions or desires. Going through the motions of daily survival with no meaning or direction is killing me excruciatingly slowly. I feel emptier and emptier every day, but heavier and heavier too as if everything inside me was hardening into a mass of dysfunctional organs and lost dreams that will have me stuck helplessly in a place I no longer matter in. Without assurance of better days living this way means endless emptiness. It should be my choice to opt out. It should be my choice to be some place – be someone, something – that matters.
***
Bright light sifted through the columns of the tunnel. The moon sparkled white light eerie grey mist couldn’t devour as we ascended the mountain pass. Earlier I removed my earphones for a moment in time to hear the reporter on the evening news say a lunar eclipse would happen tonight at about half past eight. But cloudy night sky could block the view, she warned, though two more similar sightings are expected this year should one fail to miss tonight’s.
Half an hour past the expected time of the eclipse, we emerged from flat lands into the darkness of the mountain road. I was facing the window, my back was leaning on the side of the upright seat next to mine, my legs drawn up to my chest, when I remembered the eclipse. I looked up to the shining moon as the bus assaulted the sharp mountainside curves. Based on my estimate, we should have been at the destination by now. The last thing I packed into my bag earlier was the music player. I haphazardly copied songs into it. The 79th track, also the last, was already playing and based on my calculation we should have arrived by the time the last track played.
We arrived three-fourths of an hour behind schedule (but as I later learned the travel time now is one hour longer so we actually arrived 15 minutes earlier). The bus made four lengthy stops on the way, perhaps waiting for passengers. I could hardly sleep due to the frequent stops but at least no one was sitting beside me. A young woman did halfway through the trip. There were plenty of empty seats from behind mine to the back. Even if she saw the plastic bag of my papayas resting on the chair, she still motioned her intention to have the seat. She used her mobile phone all the time. I turned my back to her, distracted by the glow of the display. A few times that day, upon hearing a familiar beep, I instinctively reached for a phone I didn’t bring. The anticipation for a message or a call that wouldn’t come was precisely why I buried my phone. In case of an emergency I have an ID.
Lately I have frequently fantasized about getting into accidents – absentmindedly cross streets, walk near construction sites, or run into another bus with a daredevil driver in the pitch dark of the night and vanish down the cliffs. One is, I guess, left to fantasizing about the end when you can’t successfully bring it upon yourself.
I was shown to my room at the attic by the housekeeper, a pleasant woman who cooks delicious dishes every meal, two at dinner, and who has a sophisticated taste in television shows. We’d watch HBO, CSI, American Idol and the occasional local primetime soap.
The house was spanking new, it felt and looked hardly lived in, furnished but without the clutter of personal belongings to indicate domicile. It was warmly inviting, like the family who owns it.
I chose the smaller of the two rooms on the third floor upon ate’s suggestion. From one of the windows I could see the city’s rooftops, from the other I could hear the rambunctious noise of students in the small school next door.
It was cold by my standards, 20 degrees inside. I changed into my pajamas, plopped on two fat pillows and wrapped my body around a fuzzy orange blanket. I peeled off the plastic wrap of the book I bought just a day ago to bring to this trip. It was another Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun. I had no inkling where that place is, if there’s one at all, or what it meant. It felt though that I might as well be lost there.
***
It was already noon when I got out of bed. It was a long, dreamless sleep – or if there were dreams they didn’t haunt me to wakening – the kind of sleep I haven’t had in months.
Sleeping longer than eight hours every night amounts to a waste of life for me. Perhaps sleeping started becoming difficult because I resisted it. I don’t know if it was for the same reason that it became troubling. Scene after scene appeared so vividly I genuinely felt living in my dream. Also, I often dream about running or being chased and being naked, neither of which seems to signify good luck. About a month ago, it grew worse. It took hours to fall asleep then I awakened at the faintest sound. And as if on cue, I always wake up at 5 a.m. for mysterious reasons. There were occasional nightmares, a recurring one was watching myself having a nightmare and struggling to wake up from it yet unable to, with the devil or a ghost by my shoulder. How can I like sleep when it can’t even afford me a little rest?
There was food waiting for me when I went down – a regular breakfast of longganisa, egg and rice, only colder in room temperature, for which I thanked ate profusely. She said she recognized me from a big group that visited years ago. I mentioned I have gastrointestinal problems and had trouble eating. She would always serve food though and encouraged me to eat. “Feel at home,” she assured.
At dinner she served a hot pot of pork sinigang, steam rising from its surface and giving off an inviting aroma that curiously made me hungry – not the typical pang of hunger I try to satiate because acids were probably dissolving my insides and I was on medication. On the contrary it was a genuine desire to taste food as it should be consumed – heartily, with a hint of joy. I ate more than I normally do, which is not much in the first place, and was full, bloated and ready to burst by the end of the meal. My stomach convulsed painfully and my chest constricted.
The doctor suspects that my body is not moving waste efficiently. I thought once a day was enough but he said my body might be retaining more. It baffled me no end – how can so much waste be stuck inside a small body of a person who eats so little to begin with she lost two inches around her waist with no exercise to speak of. My insides could be rotting and even the thought wasn’t pretty. “You’re too young to have a damaged colon,” the doctor assured me. But as my aunt later reminded me, “You’re young now but we have a history of colon cancer.”
The third doctor I saw recommended a cleansing procedure as well as an exploration to locate ulcer, which would have set me back 15 grand in debt. My mom said for all my intelligence, I’m stupid before doctors. I don’t ask questions, I don’t doubt their words and say yes to everything they say. I agreed because I’m an imbecile in front of doctors and in hospitals – that’s why I hate both equally.
She went with me to consult another specialist. “For second opinion,” she called it. In front of my mother and uncle this doctor said I might be pregnant and that was the first thing that needed to be ruled out. (It was ruled out soon enough.) My mother’s eldest brother prophesized a long time ago that I’d be pregnant before I reached high school. Whether he meant it as a joke I’m not certain, but I’ve always wondered why he thought so. I’ve always been rebellious yes, but promiscuous, hardly. I was such a goody-two shoes geek until high school, something present friends couldn’t believe. My mom had me when she was 22. I’m turning 26 and no baby, just a terrible case of indigestion.
Cleanse the natural way, the doctor suggested, tasking me to eat lots of papaya. I still had to take a small cocktail of drugs for acidity, motility and spasms. I’ve been on medication for almost a month I hope my “young” liver can take it. Funny thing is the doctors haven’t labeled what I have. At least they haven’t told me I have a grave-sounding illness for certain. I’m sick without a doubt – severe headaches, loss of appetite and weight, lethargy, sleep disturbance, chest and stomach pain – symptoms of so many things, or nothing. The doctors agreed that stress is possibly an underlying cause or trigger. So it’s confirmed, stress can kill.
***
The silence wasn’t deafening here. It’s unquestionably piercing, making me aware of it from the tips of my hair all the way to my toes, but not threatening. I’ve always feared being alone because I fear the silence. But it was what I sought here. I’ve been without it too long. Noise never filled the void.
Every morning for over a year now, I smooth a certain brand of moisturizer on my face. For that length of time, today was the first time I noticed that squeezing the white cream on my finger then wiping it off against the nozzle at a 45 degree angle could produce the crude shape of a fish. The triviality I haven’t noticed before amazed me.
Here, time doesn’t hang heavily on the hands of the clock. Instead it flows fluidly at a languid, savoring pace. I could lie in bed and study the floral pattern of the spread. I could stare endlessly at the spotless blue walls of the rooms, the warm beige of the hallways and the pure white ceiling. I could stand in front of the mirror and contemplate every blemish and imperfection on my face and naked body. I could lie down and listen to my ragged breathing like wind seeping through cracks. I could look at the browning wounds on my wrist with curious eyes but without the curious intention to add to them. The voices were still in solitude, for a change. I could hear the night’s natural music.
***
Chilly air and warm sunshine met my face as I strolled uphill the famous road filled from end to end with shops and commercial establishments. People lined up in queues in bakeries and, in spite of the cool weather, ice cream shops. This city has always charmed me. It has uncanny similarities in appearance to downtown Manila – the layout of its narrow streets, the façade of its old buildings and rundown apartments, vendors hogging sidewalks, a videoke joint at every street corner and the endless stream of people – but without the grit and seediness. It’s navigable as taxis are cheap and jeepneys ply many routes, though I prefer navigating on foot. It’s convenient too. You have the choice of mom and pop type of shops or the big mall up the hill. But the greenery and the climate give it idyllic charm and I believe a hint of rural innocence.
I walked uphill and downhill, through the parks and out the winding streets everyday earphone-less. I was a stranger – I knew they could tell especially when I opened an umbrella as the softest drizzle fell quietly, hardly leaving a wet spot on my shirt, when no one else had an umbrella over their head – but I didn’t mind. The city was very welcoming.
At dusk, I’d return to the house, help prepare dinner and linger at the sala. Then I’d go up to the room and read until the night grew quieter and quieter. Finally, wrapped in a fluffy blanket, I’d curl into a ball clutching my heavy chest and stroking my tummy which feels like a bruised peach to the touch, listening to the popping and fizzling inside, feeling wave after wave of spasm until I fell asleep.
***
On a clear day they say one can see the South China Sea from this village at the peak of the hill. The day I was there I could see nothing beyond the thick white mist enveloping the hill. It was a makeshift village showcasing traditional houses of the Cordilleras, a tourist attraction of sorts also with its galleries showing works by artists hailing from the region. But I really came for the view.
The girl at the entrance booth gave me a map showing a fairly simple roundabout trail. Did I want a guide, another girl offered, which I declined with a smile. On trips I have a habit of breaking away from the group and wandering off in solitary exploration. I’m always at the edge of a herd.
I followed the trail going up and passed two houses. Then I came upon a fork in the road that the map didn’t show. I took the trail that look less traveled, the one that didn’t look like it was cleared and shaped on purpose. Up the hill I went where the grasses were taller and I could hardly feel the hard ground under the thick foliage. The earth was brown and damp from the moist. I sniffed minty oregano and the thick smell of numerous trees and plants. There was no one else there except three dogs I spotted further up. Maybe this was part of the eco trail, I thought, so I climbed up. An old man was standing near a small clearing and I walked up to him and asked if there was a way around to the other side. He pointed to the direction where the dogs had been and mumbled something I didn’t understand. Circumnavigate I went, clawing my way up and crouching my way down. At first I feared slipping and falling down the ravine with no one knowing I was there. But after I saw the man I thought at least someone would have seen a girl who never came back. There were plenty of trails that wound up and down the hill and I took them all until I ended up by a thick cluster of trees, a steep drop and a fence with a sign saying no trespassing. When I returned to the recommended trail, fenced in by bamboo railings, I realized that the park itself could be navigated in less than 15 minutes. I wandered off the map for an hour. I wondered if I could have vanished in the mist.
***
Steam filled up the blue bathroom. Hot water ran down my spine, pierced my skin, left my scalp raw. I stood under the gushing warmness and watched the mist rise and take the form of my dreams.
I stood in front of the fogged mirror and gazed into a grey silhouette. I traced “Sef was here” across the surface – it would remain there for days, appearing each time I heated up the bath. I didn’t want to wipe off the proclamation of my existence.
I stepped out into a Utopian day. The sun cast a tender glow over the city, warming the gusts of crisp breeze that tickled my ears with whispered secrets. It would be my last here, for now.
Once again I took the long walk up the road and down to where so many streets converge until I reached the gate of the university. I decided not to go inside but as I turned back, I heard a voice I have not heard for a long time it sounded like it was coming out of a tunnel call out my name. He, a friend from college, asked what I was doing here, and alone as though being alone is almost an abnormality when the opposite is more uncommon. And he knew that for he would later admit that he moved to this city for the same reason I escaped to it.
“I felt lost,” he said, “And this is the perfect place to run away to.” Stay, he urged, sort out the drama here. A teaching post would open when he has to leave to study.
After all it is only six hours away – it is six hours removed from the accumulation of stolen days, aching nights and haunting memories; six hours away from your scent, your taste, your sweat.
The six-hour distance might quell the compulsion to stroke your cheeks. It might erase the hidden imprint of your warm hands on my face and warmer lips on my nape. It might be far enough for you to forget me, and realize you couldn’t.
And you’d find me at the south of the border, west of the sun.
It is where one goes when, after day after day of watching the sun come up, make its way across the sky and sink in the horizon, something breaks inside you and dies. Because it is not enough to merely plod one’s way through life.
There are moments you live for, moments when you live. And the rest, you die wailing in silence.
I have heard the languages of apocalypse, and now I shall embrace the silence.
-- Delirium, Going Inside
Endless Nights, Neil Gaiman
