Arthur's Unvoiced Words

Written by: Mark Francis G. Ng

Note: I wrote this literary work as a subrogatory response to "I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur", a one-act play which won First Place in the National One-Act Play Writing Contest sponsored by the National Federation of Junior Philippine Institute of Accountants (NFJPIA) last April 2006 in Baguio City. This sequel as well as its predecessor literary work are both biographical and depicts some of myriad of chapters in the story of my life.

In this literary piece, Arthur is the one assuming the narrative, as opposed to its predecessor writing "I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur" where the author assumes the narration.

P.S. I shall be posting "I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur" soon.

***

ARTHUR'S UNVOICED WORDS

(The Sequel and a Subrogatory Response to

“I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur”)

You had time to listen to me then. You had time to listen to the words I spoke… to the things I uttered… to the questions I would always ask. I remember that when I was a child I would often ask you a lot of things – silly things – those that I developed a certain curiosity about. At six I was eager to know everything about the world I was in in just a day, and every time I asked you, you would always give me an answer to my queries. Oftentimes I would repeat my questions, and patiently you would answer me again. And I would ask you the same questions over and over again and each time I do you would hug me and kiss me as you answer my queries over and over again too. As I grew older, I realized that the questions I asked then didn’t really matter. What mattered then was the fact that I know someone was there to answer my questions back. What mattered then was that I know someone was listening to me. During those times, and more often than not, I only wanted to feel that I had someone to talk to whenever I feel confused about things and someone I could turn to whenever I think that the whole world has already turned its back on me. But as they say, and as what certain things have led me to believe in now, I realized that those moments would not stay the way they were… that those moments were only shortly ideal… that those moments were naught but fleeting instances. What mattered then only mattered then.

It’s been two years since you’ve left our house. And it’s also been two years since we’ve last talked. Back then, I didn’t really quite understand why you seemed to have to distance yourself away from us. I didn’t understand why you seemed to have changed from being someone so utterly open into someone so kept back, reserved, silent. I knew there were certain things bothering you back then. I might be young then. I might only be a typical fourteen-year-old adolescent who didn’t quite understand what growing up was really like yet. But amidst all those, I could feel that you were struggling against something… something that back then you didn’t want to tell me. But I soon knew what it was. And now I know that it had the power to change you in ways so subtle yet so inadvertent. But what I didn’t know was that it would also have the power to change me in ways I never thought it could.

Did you know that I’ve always admired you, kuya? That I’ve always looked up to you and in everything you do? You were my closest friend back then. Only to you can I open my heart and tell you everything that I really wanted to say. We would tell each other our deepest secrets, the dreams we have always longed for, the things we have always yearned for. You were my best friend. But more to that, you were my refuge at times when I find myself crying, at times when I find myself alone. You were there beside me, ready to give me a tap on the shoulder and would tell me encouraging words… inspiring words… words that only someone like you know how to muster. But why the silence now, kuya? Every time I try to talk to you, why do you seem to avoid me?

Did you know that I’ve always bragged about you to my friends, kuya? That I’ve always told them that I had a brother who was brilliant, smart, witty, talented. When I was younger, I remember that every time my friends and I would go to our house I would show off to them some of the medals you won and earned. They would always marvel at your “little treasures” as you would call them. They would always ask me back then, “Are these the only ones?” And I would proudly respond, “These are just but ten of the several ones he has”. I have always dreamed of achieving the same feats you had, kuya. I have always looked up to the strength you possessed since then. But why do you have to pretend to be strong now, kuya? I know you were strong from the very start. But why pretend to be strong when you know deep inside that you, like I am, are weak?

Did you know that I’ve always dreamed of growing up just like you, kuya? That I’ve always wanted to become a disciplined person like you. To become an achiever. To become an orator. To become a poet. I would always love to hear you tell me stories back when I was a child. You would read me fairy tales ‘til I went to sleep. Sometimes you would conjure up your own stories, and I would enthusiastically and eagerly listen to them. You wrote brilliantly then, and I know you write even more brilliantly now. But why do you always have unspoken words, kuya? Why do you have to content yourself with expressing your innermost thoughts and emotions through the words you write rather than through the words you say?

You had only distanced yourself from us – from me – for two short years, but why do I always feel that you have distanced yourself from the rest of my adolescent years – the time in my life when I needed you the most while I was growing up? It was so hard for me to grow up with no one telling me how to, with no one guiding me what to do, with no one who seemed to care with the way I was growing up. During those times, did you know the things I felt, kuya? I felt that somehow, I was lost. That somehow, I could only see nothing but dark nights, that days never existed in my world. What I could only hear then was silence… the silence of loneliness, of curiosity, of fear. There were a lot of things I wanted to ask you then, kuya. Things that I know you also went through in your growing years. I yearned for your guiding words back then. For the same words that you would always comfort me with when I was just a child. I had a lot of things to tell you, sorrows I wanted to cry with you, and joys I wanted to share with you. But I know you didn’t know a lot of those things. I know you didn’t know a lot of things about me then. And I know you didn’t know a lot of things about our family then too…

… Like how I needed you when I was growing up, kuya. How I yearned for someone to pick me up and tend my bruises whenever I get involved in fights in school. How I yearned for someone to help me with the words I should use when I wrote my first letter to the first girl I loved. How I yearned for someone to comfort me when the first girl I loved broke my heart when she said she loved me while all the time she was already loving another guy. How I yearned for someone to talk to, someone to cry with.

… Like how mom and dad would always cry secretly at night because she and dad could not find the right words to tell me that I had to stop schooling because they had not enough money to pay for the dues I had to pay in school. How mom and dad would always work so hard from dusk ‘til dawn just so to feed us with decent food on our table each day. How mom and dad would always pray and tell us that these things were just transient tests of our courage, determination, and faith.

… Like how I so desired to talk to you in the rarest times when you would visit us in the house – your house too. How I so desired to start a conversation with you but would always hesitate to do so because I know you had so many things to do. How I so desired to show you my poems and writings and ask you your thoughts about them. How I so desired to tell you that I missed you since the very day you seemed to have distanced yourself away from us – from the problems we faced… from the things that bothered us… from me.

I’ve learned from a friend of yours that you wanted to talk to me, kuya. That you wanted us to again rekindle those moments when we would just sit back, stare at each other’s eyes, and smile and laugh as if a conversation already took place. I want to talk to you too.
But do you have time to listen, kuya?

It’s not even a question. It’s only a simple option… one that I hope you’ll consider.

February 28, 2007
Wednesday
9:00 p.m.

The World Is Not Blind At All

Written by: Mark Francis G. Ng
Note: One of the motivational poems I have written.

***

The light of day may be faint to you
And the winds may not be as cheerful
The clouds may be gray and make you blue
E’en when birds do sing in ways so blissful.

You sit and watch the sky with awe
Yet with dolorous eyes you wonder
If the rest of the world could see your flaw
Like the ways you feel and ponder.

Pity is the only emotion you could muster
Despite the many wondrous things that surround
You and your world, your heart keeps falling faster
And you feel the choruses cease making their sounds.

Have it your way, but do reconsider
If what you think is true
Then how could you possibly neglect and not utter
The things that bring joy to you?

Have your sorrows hidden the beauteous
World that you have once seen and knew?
Of the tenderness she has caressed you with
Like the breeze that comes out of the blue.

If you feel that the world closes in on you
Think twice, your thoughts may be wrong
It always has its doors open
Ready to sing you its festive songs.

Stand straight and face your fears
Do not let them cloud your judgment
Use anger and hate you must not
They shall only add to your unease and torment.

Hold on to yourself like the way you did
When there was nothing but joy and love
Trust in your faith and unworthy thoughts you should rid
Put your loyalties to the one you endear above.

The world has its own eyes
But often closes them as it opts to do
So that you’ll learn to see things
In your own point of view.

Then shall thee value thy trust in thyself
Whenever you stumble and fall
Learn to rise up again and only then shall you fathom
That the world is not blind at all.

June 02, 2005
Tuesday
10:50 p.m.

While Guio Slept

Written by: Mark Francis G. Ng
Note: Another poem which is part of the Guio compilation

***

One silent night ‘neath the perfect starlit sky, Guio and I talked
In the meadow-like garden where we would usually take a walk
We sat beside each other, like how trusted friends often do
Whenever one would feel lonely or know not what to do.

He told me his sorrows, his doubts, and his pains
All those things he told me so and poured out like the rain
He had questions within himself, things he didn’t have an answer to
Things that were utterly ironic, paradoxical but true.

The words that he spoke were of weaved melancholy
That even his deepest longings and yearnings I could somehow feel truly
I listened to him, eagerly heeded every word he told
As the things he for so long kept hidden slowly to me did unfold.

He told me he wanted to cry, but would oft stop his tears
Each time he felt unneeded, unloved, and thwarted by his fears
No matter how he smiled, the sadness inside him he still finds hard to contain
Amidst the pretense of elation, inside him were his concealed and clandestine pain.

He wanted to face those things like a man, full of ardent vigor and might
But deep inside, he told me, he’s still but a child who in his weakness could not yet fight
He wanted to play with his toys, wanted to roam the world with utmost glee
And to his own little world, the haven he made for himself, he always wanted to flee.

As he told me these words, I somehow realized and did comprehend
That to vulnerability even great men also do bend
In a plethora of instances, my likeness to Guio I have always proven true
Like how the dawn and dusk seem to create colors of perfect shade and hue.

I held Guio’s hands in mine, and looked him as he wept
I told him words that since then I have always to myself kept
“Know that you are loved, that alone you are not at all
A kindred is here to guide you, to pick you up each time you fall.”

As the birds momentarily ceased singing their songs, a certain silence seemed to abound
As Guio and I conversed, a solace in each other we have found
One that made us close to each other even from the very start
A nexus that somehow linked our thoughts, our minds, and our hearts.

Like a small and innocent child on my lap Guio laid
As we both gazed at the stars and wondered how their radiance never seemed to fade
Close your eyes, Guio, try to set your wearies to oblivion
And in your dreams do weave for yourself a clear and unmarred new vision.

While Guio slept, marveling at his pure virtuousness, I cried
And in awe I wondered in silence how innocence could be so undauntedly personified
Each time I looked in his eyes, I’ve always found someone which in my past I have not seen
The childhood I thought I never had, and the child I thought I have never been.


March 1, 2007
Thursday
10:00 p.m.

Know That You Are Loved, Guio

Written by: Mark Francis G. Ng
Note: This is another poem I wrote which is part of the Guio compilation.

***

To your own little world, Guio, you always seem to take flight
A haven you have created out of your dreams, aspirations, and youthful might
Where the birds seem to comfort, seem to stop not their songs
A place you call your own, one where you know you truly belong.

Placidly you go and seek for refuge, for contentment in solitude
Yet with it you seem to deny yourself of blessings so abundant and in multitude
A sanctuary you seemed to have crafted, where everything you seem to perfectly hone
Only to find out that in that world no one lives but you alone.

Then you begin to ask yourself where you did go wrong
Of how your wishes and your desires always seemed to take so long
That each time you stumble, why does no one seem to care
To pick you up and lend a hand, no one did ever seem to dare.

In your solitude, you seem to always want to cry
Sometimes with reason, but often with things you do not know why
You would gaze at the stars and wish that they could hear you
As you whisper to the winds words you long to say, words so honest and true.

This I tell you, Guio, your thoughts are wrong
Know that there is a soothing melody behind every song
For no matter what your dreams are, no matter how they seem so high
The winds shall carry you, and with the breeze you shall fly.

You’re young still, Guio, things to you shall still unfold
And teach you that to yourself, trust and faith you should firmly hold
Cry not, though at times it is a relief to do so
Forget not to smile and gladness always exude and show.

You may not know it, Guio, but to me you always are an inspiration
Amidst the many things, the pains and deprivations
So never think, Guio, that dreams never come true
For a dream of mine already did, a dream I saw in you.

‘Tis not the mountains, sturdy and tall
It’s the little stones that make us stumble and fall
In isolation and loneliness we cannot heal our pain
We need someone to tell us not to open the wounds again.

So each time you feel that the world does not care
Remember, Guio, that to you I can always share
A helping hand to pick you up each time and when
You need someone to talk to, someone who’ll sit with you and listen.

Never should you stop dreaming, in your dreams always soar high
Have faith, seize the day, and etch you name in the sky
Be hopeful, believe, and with tears you should not sob
This I tell you, Guio, always know that you are loved.

March 4, 2007
Sunday
9:00 p.m.

Song to Oliver

Written by:

Mark Francis G. Ng

NOTE: I wrote this poem after I watched the teleserye "Ikaw Ang Lahat Sa Akin" and sympathized with John Lloyd Cruz's character, "Oliver". He portrays a second son shadowed by an elder brother from his father's pride. In the series, Oliver is a painter and one of his most wonderful works was a "Sad Child" portrait that somehow reflected his inner vulnerabilities despite his funny and often naughty outer side. This characterization and its portrayal as well as the painting served as my inspiration in writing this poem.

***

You wear such masks, Oliver
To fool the world may be your plot
But amid the subtleties of your ways
Hide your hurts from me you still cannot.

Tell me, Oliver, the things that bother thee
Things that set you distant from bliss and glee
Tell of the ways that urge you to hide
The thoughts you think and feel inside.

I sense deep sorrows within your heart
Eclipsed by the smiles you always wear
And though the ways you act do part
You from these, still I see it in your weary stare.

A sanctuary in your paintbrush you somehow found
Like an avenue where you can express
Certain things that lie inside your bound
Concealed by hurts that often oppress.

Your woes you seem to have collected
And poured onto your works of art
And thus the seed you sowed and harvested
Manifested itself on a sad child’s hark.

I know there’re things you opt to keep alone
Thoughts and feelings only you can unearth
But to rely on it can somehow be wrong
And cause you to reside on false mirth.

Think not ever that you are unloved
For there are those who still care
To let woes haunt you permit them do not
To yourself a little hope you should spare.

Do not ever commit thyself
To a doleful world you try to create
Breakaway from the chains that hold thee
And to the light of day you should permeate.

Come away with thyself to a place
Where your thoughts to someone you can confide
Take your time, ‘tis not a race
The rules are yours to make and abide.

You are not alone, Oliver
Though unreal you may be at all
We are no less than alike, and so
This song I offer to thee, and to all.


June 02, 2005
Tuesday
10:10 p.m.

Permit Me To Write These Songs, Guio

Written by:
Mark Francis G. Ng

Author's Note: This poem is the first of a 50-part compilation of writings about a personage named Guio, whose identity the author chooses not to disclose.

***

Permit me to write these songs, Guio
From the countless thoughts that linger incessantly in my mind
Songs that speak of the things and ways you are so
With admiration, wonder, and a passion that’s true and rare to find.

These words I write to dare describe
Thee and the ways that make you dear
These songs are vows one binds as a scribe
Etched in the stars, so genuine and clear.

Face of innocence, of joy, of youthfulness, and of hope
These are the words I wish to describe thee, Guio
Words that I have kept since the day we met
Left unspoken then, but now I desire the world to know.

You remind me of the beauteous flowers that blossom in spring
And the birds that fly and roam the skies with glee
Of the butterflies that kiss the morn with their colorful wings
As they all head to the majestic meadows where they’re forever free.

Like a prince, vigorous and romantic you are
Who wins a lovely virgin with his lauds and wit
Whose chivalry and bravery are known e’en by those from afar
And things so noble, that to thee honor and praises do fit.

You possess within thee the brilliance of a poet
Who writes with words and phrases so artistic
And the likeness of an epic hero whose humble epithets
Speak of deeds worth telling, meritorious and majestic.

Like a child you also muse of fanciful flights
You build thy dreams as castles in the sky
Yet you know by heart that with thy hopes and courageous plights
Thy aspirations shall come true as time passes by.

On a night so silent with the stars so bright
I stay seated, thinking, with a pen in hand
Armed with a feel of admiration’s plight
In my mind do stir these thoughts so grand.

How could you have inspired me so, Guio?
In such ways not even these words can tell
Yet in spite of these, this truth others too shall know
That thee, Guio, can truly inspire so well.

And so with thee in mind I now shall write
These words about thee I have kept so long
As the nightingales muster their melodic songs in their flight
I ask thee, Guio, permit me to write these songs.

January 14, 2007
Sunday
10:00 p.m.

Excerpts, Chronicles, and Pains of Growing Up

Written by:

Mark Francis G. Ng

Author's Note: This literary work appeared in the A.Y. 2006-2007 issue of The Auditor, the Official Publication of the Bicol University Junior Philippine Institute of Accountants (BUJPIA). The author was Creative Editorial Consultant of the said publication.

***

I need not mention his name. He said even if I did, it would not matter. No one wanted to know anyway – at least that was his opinion. People see him as how they see him. In most cases, they never cared. In most cases, too, he didn’t care either. It’s as if he has built a certain detachment from the people around him, and maybe from the world even. He admits that he is used to building worlds which he could treat and call as his own… worlds that to him were perfect… worlds that he could run to every time he felt rejected… worlds where he could freely cry without anyone seeing him do so… worlds different from the one he’s living in and trying to escape from.

He’s twenty years old, but he told me that yesterday he was just twelve. Of course I didn’t take his words literally. I know he meant something else… something more than his spoken words. Somehow, what they said about him was true. They said he was brilliant; that he was smart, witty, disciplined; that he’s close to becoming a perfectionist, always aiming for excellence in everything he does; that he’s persuasive, with his words resembling authoritative orders. For these reasons, I understood why certain people admired him… why certain people somehow hated him… and why certain people seemed to fear him. But I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to know him on a personal basis, not know him because of what others say about him.

I waited for him to talk to me. I mean, he would talk to me occasionally, but more often than not, he would hesitate to do so. Every time he talked to me, he would tell of things that were utterly ordinary… things I already know. You might ask why I know those things. I have been with him for almost a decade already. Given that period of time, I should already know. I’m yearning for him to talk to me more… for him to tell me about the things I wanted him to tell me – the real things. I kept my patience. I waited, until finally, he decided to open up.

He told me he wasn’t used to talking to me that way. He would often describe himself as a reserved person. He told me that he was good at voicing out his ideas on a lot of things in the academic sense of those things, but when it came to voicing out what he really felt about certain things apart form their “academic” counterparts – the humane, emotional side of things – to him it seemed like a daunting task. What he usually does is to keep all those feelings to himself. He would talk about certain things but he never elaborates them. It’s as if he’s imposed certain restrictions upon himself, inhibitions that deter the true words he really meant instead of the subtle ones he would usually muster. But this time, it was different. He was breaking away from the rules he’s imposed upon himself. He decided to tell me the real things about him… things that I wanted to know more about him from the very start. He told me hundreds of things about himself… things he wouldn’t normally tell other people, even his closest and truest friends.

He shared with me some things about his childhood. A childhood that was brief, one he thought he never had. He told me that he had two families since he was a child. He knew who his real mother was, but the one who raised him was his second mother. He remembered that as a child his real mother and his father would take him every Friday night to their home far away from where his second mother lived. He told me that every time he’d cry but would have to stop because he knew he spent more time with his second mother than his real mother and that his real mother wanted to be with him too. He also told me of his other siblings. He was a middle child. Being one was not easy, but he managed to cope up with it. When he started to exhibit signs of potential intelligence and talent, it brought hope, excitement, and expectation from others at the same time. The first time he became an outstanding honoree in the first grade, he was so proud of himself. Since then, his toys were replaced with books, books, and more books. He garnered numerous lauds and recognitions which made him and his family proud. He told me that looking back to his childhood was a burdensome task. For one, he only remembered himself being a child ‘til he was five years old. He couldn’t even tell if his childhood was blissful or not. All he knew was that when he was six, he treated himself as no longer a child. He had no choice but to grow up.

Then he told me about his encounter with love when he was in high school. He told me he never knew he would be in love. He was too busy studying that he didn’t have time for love. But it dawned on him one day that he was in love. He never really told me the real reason why he fell in love. I just remembered him telling me that perhaps one factor was that he wanted to experience being in love and what it felt like. He had denied himself of many things and he knew that he should not deny himself of the one feeling that could probably cast the emptiness inside him that time to oblivion. For one he told me that he fell into depression then. He stopped being happy. All he could feel then was sadness, loneliness. He wasn’t himself during those times. His friends noticed it too. Most of the time he wanted to be alone. There were so many things inside his mind and his heart back then. Their family business was not going so well then. His older sister had no stable job. His older brother had just planted a seed in his girlfriend’s womb. His younger brother and sister were both facing the reality that they had to stop schooling. His college dream was also becoming bleak. All those things he kept inside him, not telling anyone a single word.

But he said when she came to his life back then when he was in the middle of solitude, a spark of hope somehow glistened and slowly became a beacon light. He found in her the strength he once lost and she was the one who helped him and guided him to get his strength back. He told me that meeting her made him forget about his problems momentarily, made him happy again, and made him realize that amidst all the challenges he faced that time, the world was still beautiful.

He related to me that she too, like him, was a writer and a poet. He found in her a certain kind of solace that writers and poets alike find amongst themselves. Every day he would be thrilled at the idea of seeing her and would walk her home after class. Inspiration would always follow him that he was able to write ten lyric poems in one day with just her in his mind. He told me that every time he looked back and read the poems he did, he would laugh and wonder if he really was the one who wrote those. Truly, out of love people do trite things, special favors, humble works. But she told him that she wasn’t ready. He told me he understood it. He wasn’t ready for a relationship either. He liked her. She liked him too. They liked everything about each other. But they both weren’t ready. For one, he wasn’t courting her yet. Those things he did for her were not considered as courtship. To him they were only subtle acquaintances, he told me. Maybe after ten years as they have both agreed, they can start again.

Then he entered college. He took with him all the strengths and lessons he learned. He was now trodding a new journey, the path to maturity. He had to be firm, disciplined, educated. But as he had predicted it and feared at the same time, the problems that haunted him when he was in high school tested him again. He knew he had to face all of them like a man. Many times he did so. Many times also he did not succeed. Their family business closed. His parents and siblings had to transfer to four different places and houses just so to find shelter. His younger brother and sister had no choice but to stop school. He was fortunate enough to have his second family support his college education. But what good is that when you know that your real family is suffering while you try to pretend that everything’s fine, he asked me. I didn’t answer. I knew I wasn’t in the position to do so. And so he told me that in his sophomore year in college, he decided to distance himself from the things that bothered him then. It broke his heart doing so, but he had no choice. For two years he distanced himself from his family, not aware that his older sister already bore a child; that his older brother and his wife already gave birth to his first niece; that his younger sister was yearning to go back to school; and that his younger brother had already given in to peer pressure and already became a chain smoker. He knew about all those things, but he did nothing. After all, he said, what was he to do? He couldn’t change the way things were then. But he’s hoping that somehow and someday he could, and he told himself he would.

He stopped talking to me after that. He was busy perhaps. I know he was. He always was. I decided to wait again for our next conversation. A year passed and he still wouldn’t talk to me. I was worried that maybe he was avoiding me. But I know he wouldn’t do that. I’m a friend of his. One of his few and true friends.

It took two years before he talked to me again. This time, he told me that he would already speak the truth. By that he meant that he would already tell me what his heart and his feelings really wanted to say. Plainly. Straightforward. Sincerely.

He told me that he missed his real family, even though he had for hundreds of times denied it. He had always convinced himself that he could always stand alone. That he needed no one. But all those were naught but pretense. It was just his way of saying in subtlety that he needed someone to be with him.

He told me how thankful and grateful he was to his second family. His second mother raised him up well and treated him as if he were her own son. She was the one who took his mother’s responsibilities ever since he was a child. She was the one who taught him how to sing, how to write, how to be who he is now.

He told me that he wanted and wished to talk to his younger brother. He knew he was one of those who were to blame why his younger brother became the way he is now. He told me that if only he could have been by his younger brother’s side in his brother’s adolescent years, he could’ve guided his younger brother instead of allowing him to stray away from the right path.

He told me that he wanted to hug his mother and father just like the way he hugged them when he was a child. But he had been told and taught a long time ago by life’s challenges that expressing one’s emotions through actions or direct spoken words were somehow signs of weakness. He did not believe it. He knew that what he had been led to believe in was wrong. But despite of it, he could not present proof of his non-belief. Because in spite of the fact that he looked and appeared tough in the outside, he was actually weak in the inside.

He told me that he wanted to feel like a small boy again. To feel the freedom he denied himself of. To play with the toys he already threw away and forgotten. To feel that the world was somehow still a happy place to be in. He’s all grown up now, but deep inside him he knows that he’s still just but a little boy… yearning for the innocence that has been marred by life’s cruelty… vulnerable to tears… wanting to love and be loved in return.

If only he didn’t choose to grow up too fast, he told me.

Then, after our conversation, I didn’t know whether he did it on purpose, or whether it was just coincidence, or whether it was really etched in the stars. He left me on his chair as he went on his way to his next class. I was there, left alone inside the room. Moments later, a young man came inside the room I was in. He was searching for something – a book he forgot perhaps. I noticed that this young man was someone whom my friend considered as a close friend in his ideals, though my friend has not opened up to him entirely yet.

Knowing this made me conjure an idea. While on the chair, I did sort of whisper so that the young man would know that I was there. At the same time, I prayed that he would finally go to the chair I was at and notice me.

Finally, he did notice me. At first he was hesitant, knowing that it was awkward reading someone else’s private thoughts. But I knew his curiosity he could not always contain, and this was a case of honest curiosity technically. He picked me up from the chair, opened my cover, and started reading my first page. I felt a sense of fulfillment in that I was linking my friend’s thoughts and his unspoken words to this young man who was just like my friend – a reserved person, a weaver of words, and a poet alike.

I need not mention my friend’s name anymore, ‘coz even if I didn’t, the young man would know by heart who I was talking about anyway.

February 17, 2007
Saturday
11:00 p.m.