Festering, festering wound. Right there in our liver drowned in all the excess of pain killers we took. Right there in our lungs drowned in all the excess of cigarettes we took, malevolent and magical, like the sorcerer’s manner of denying the disparate, turning handkerchief to dove, dove to handkerchief. Right there in our heart drowned in all the excess of love we took, malevolent and magical, like the sorcerer’s manner of denying the disparate, bringing the enlightened ones closer to the ‘masses,’ bringing the chauvinistic lover closer to the damsel-in-distress, bringing my reticence closer to your reticence.


The fragility of body and skin. A split-second carelessness turning into a swabbing of suture. Suddenly, the future is sutured. You count your remaining blood and you feel ashamed that they are greater than the number of loves you have lost and then you think that perhaps you are fortunate. You count the stitches that wound your wound further and I think that I can lose a finger but not your hands on my hands.


The hospital is not for the faint-hearted. The faint-hearted can survive Insidious 1 and 2 and Conjuring and the Saw series but not the hospital. The hospital is real and close. The blood and the fragility are real and close. There is no ending, no cuts. All cuts cut right through the wounds of the wound; in the end: festering.


Being in the ‘trauma room,’ undergoing a minor, no-life-and-death operation gives an excuse to fantasize at full strength. I was lying there, with two ‘surgeons’ attending to my almost-festering wound, and there were needles and gauze and a billion bottles of blood. There was little pain. There was the ceiling too, white, well-lit, not like the world of Hemingway. In the ceiling were my fantastic imaginings while my right, pointing finger is being nursed with its wound in reality. In the ceiling were beer and the Palanca and a book launch where everyone will drink and throw up after, very slovenly and very indecorously. In the ceiling were a PhD soaked in blood and a nice veranda overlooking the trees of the province; in the ceiling were all of my bourgeois dreams and my bourgeois honesties. It feels good to get stitches and to see blood. The ceiling looks good.


I needed a surgery, and not photoshop.

I needed blood, and not fancy beauties in my luxurious lunches and winsome wines.

I needed wounds, and not a picture in front of Bohol or Kuala Lumpur.

I needed the truth of fragility, not the falsity of truth.

I needed to be slapped with my body’s flimsiness, not to be slapped with the potential of heroism.

I needed to be humbled, not to be dishonestly elated.

I needed blood and blood and wounds, and not the immaculateness of the world.

I needed a festering wound, gnawing the fiber of my self-stability.

The festering wound tastes and looks delicious.

Yum yum yum yum yum, festering wound.

Yum yum yum yum yum, festering wound.