(UNTITLED)

Entry No. 1

I

No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.

I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.

II

I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.

I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.

I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.

III

“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.

“A what?” I replied.

“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”

“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”

She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.

“Do you smoke?” she asked.

No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”

“And stuff, huh?”

“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.

“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.

“No. I was born on this town.”

“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”

Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.

“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”

“I don’t travel much,” I replied.

“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”

I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.

“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.

“Your family?”

“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.

There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.

“Well, got to go,” she said.

She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.

QUESTION NO. 9

How do you kill boredom?