We were mopers at our worst, stolid thinkers at our best.

When I was tired and sleepy and waiting aimlessly for the motions of the clock, I will not hit the sack. Idioms, idioms, they are becoming safe and boring ways of redressing the expected. What is the point of sleeping but succumbing to the limitations of our body, exposing ourselves to the ghosts of what we avoid – unspoken dreams we won’t utter to ourselves while looking at mirrors lest we want this terrible guilt that make us less credible even to ourselves.

What is the point of staying awake? It is this: living. Breathing, and waiting for sunrises and cuckoos whose point of origin we do not have an idea of, and these: drinking glasses of water and reading the hell out of those who purport to be arcane and magnanimous, and writing words and attempting to make way through the endless bombardments of everyday.

Do I know the limit of wakefulness?

Sometime soon, I shall give up, and opt to recline, and then doze off, and then find out that I again is looking forward to more hours of imagined somnambulism, cathartic smoking, body-breaking and rule-bending with my activities, my outreaches, my sometimes hopeless whispers to the wind.

Does the wind carry what we throw at it?

Let me hear you answer. Are we really living? Are we really thinking? There was this advertisement saying that impossible is nothing. With all seeming positiveness, with all its radiation of motivation and inspiration, who shall not take heed? But what was it saying exactly? What is impossible but a word, what spurs us to keep on pushing the envelope of possible further. But please buy their shoes, it will help you breach past the designated “impossible.” To put things in quotes, like: “this,” is to make us reread and think twice about that word – its source, its situation, its meaning. It seems like the way we think is usually shaped by these advertisements, and by what we hear from rostrums, from the pulpit, from who’s in front the chalkboard, from who’s inside the enshrined national office. I am lost for coherence. But at least, I do not pretend to be stating a unity. This is why we are falling apart. Not all of us are willing to participate in the silent game of making believe and pretending that things are all going fine, that things are as smooth as long lost pasts we only encounter in books and novels. But this is what we have: falling apart and incongruity. There are no shrouds big enough to prevent the explosion of sad events.

This is where we end. So let’s cola and smoke.

I and the Puerto Galera streets.