It has been 1,500 days since she left. I’m not really one for counting the days. I just know she’s been gone for four years. Come to really think of it, that’s quite a long time and with all the hell and things and stuff that has gone through in my brain, I’m not so sure how I got out of it with my head still more or less straight. I’m not even sure if I ever got out of it. One never knows with these things. But then I’m writing this stuff down so I guess things are still moving as the universe intended it to be.
Sometimes you feel you’re just a passenger going somewhere you don’t know.
I dreamt of her a few days ago. I do not remember most of it now but I do remember feeling so delightfully surprised upon seeing her and it seemed that that was her plan all along and she was laughing out loud because the surprise worked. And then we gave each other a lengthy I-missed-you-so-much kind of hug. It felt so real like I wasn’t dreaming at all. But I knew I was dreaming and I also knew I didn’t want to wake up … yet. But I eventually did wake but I still thought it was a good dream.
So, for those who care to know, I am fine. I feel better than the week before. I look old, time-wearied, assuredly tired and broken in a few corners and places. But generally, I’m fine. The world turns and since I am still alive there are responsibilities to take care of. There is still walls and spirits to mend.
“You slowly turned and walked away. There was a hesitant pause, a noticeable sigh, and finally you disappeared among the crowd.”
People leave. Sometimes by their own choice and sometimes they leave without realizing that they have left already. Sometimes they just give up. It has happened numerous times before for one mundane reason to the extraordinary. But some people hold on even if they know they’re pulling on empty strings. They hold on maybe because they see the value of the person even if they’re not there anymore because to them it’s worth it.
I believe that behind each photo there is a valued moment, an unworded thought, even a short story. Sometimes I have stories in my head waiting for the right photo. This is one of those times.
Eyes closed, I hear your voice from the kitchen. Faint but still sweet. Always melodious. I feel your whispers. I hear the trees and the stars sing with you. This world was meant to be seen with your eyes. And it has not been as beautiful without you.
it was a cold morning when you left. i remember because it was raining really hard the night before. there were no goodbyes but just a gentle brush of your hand against mine. the last touch. that was ages ago. the room had become darker as the days passed but each day i still wait for you to come back. sometimes i would sit by the window and look for your face among the multitudes that pass by and i would just close the panes after the sun has set.
but now i grow tired of sitting and looking out the window. the faces have become blurs in time. the room has gone much darker and i tire.
i feel myself starting to leave.
This photo was taken in the late 90s, the words were written sometime in early August 2015, and I put them together and posted it on Instagram in the latter part of August of the same year.
This photo was the one that got me started with portrait photography.
This was taken when Cherry and I were just starting to go out. It feels like it happened just a year ago. Time is biased. It goes so quickly during the happy times and walks all too slowly during the not so good times. As of late, time seems to just linger about as if waiting for something to happen.
The photo was taken with a borrowed Pentax film camera loaded with a Kodak black and white film. ISO 400, if I remember correctly.
This is one of the first few photos that I took that I liked.
This was taken early morning, the first of January, New Year’s day, some decades ago. The mist is actually the smoke left over from the previous night’s New Year fireworks and revelry. The guy on the bicycle is what one can call a newspaper delivery boy on the way towards the Malacañang area. One can still see the barbed-wire barricades further down the street guarding the entrance to the Palace gates.
This was photo taken on film — the dark patches on the left is from its deterioration because I’m bad at keeping this thing.