I should be writing. There are so many things to write about and people to write to. Letters, I should be writing letters and these days, I seem to do nothing else but that. Important ones, not like the ones I used to write. Ones that do not matter now, if they ever did.
I should be writing letters, but right now, at 3:51AM, the last thing I want to write are more letters to other people. Perhaps a letter… to myself. Musings, like the ones I used to write.
Two nights, I sat on a bright yellow bench, with my dusky pink sweater wrapped around me, a cup of strong sweet and creamy coffee in a stryfoam cup bought from the sari-sari store nearest to that bright yellow bench that has endeared itself to me, and listened to Taylor Swift’s Fearless on my phone. I never did pay much attention to Taylor Swift, except when her video is on the music channel because she is absolutely pretty with that pouty lips and tiny mouth of hers, and except during that time when Kanye West was an a** to her at some particular awards show, but for some reason, I found it fitting to listen to Taylor Swift as the wind blew my hair around my face and the coldness of the early morning seeped into my jeans. A pair of bootleg jeans, perfect for my cowboy boots that has made itself famous in this particular city I happen to find myself often enough these days and that I have dug out of the bottom of my childhood cabinet – a memoir from my high school days.
Two nights, I sat on that bright yellow bench in the bus terminal, with a cup of coffee, music in my ears, wind blowing my hair, slap-slapping me in the face, waiting for the bus to leave, and thought about how it felt to be in the red deck of the Super Ferry, bound for Coron. Same, same. Sitting on the floor, a cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup, music in my ears, wind blowing my hair that slap-slaps me in the face, at an odd hour in the morning between dusk and dawn, when everyone, including the roosters are fast asleep, and there’s nothing else but the sound of the sea and the saltwater spray and my thoughts and me.
I thought about doing another of those grand getaways. Take a boat to an island some place, where I know no one and no one knows me, meet new people, make friends with some locals, hang out with them every night, hang out in my room everyday, walk around by myself and take photos during the hours when I feel like stretching my legs, and find something odd, something new, something interesting, something cool, and something and anything in between. After a few days, board a boat that will, in a matter of six to eight hours, take me to another island, where I do the same thing over again until I finally tire of myself, and packing my bags, and moving my stuff from one cabinet or one bed, or one room or one house, to the next. Sometimes my stuff never even leaves the bag. I had loved comparing one bathroom to the other. I still do. It’s one of the things I find most amusing.
Two nights, I sat on the bus terminal, waiting for no one, waiting for nothing, not even really for the bus to leave. If that bus leaves while I still do not feel like getting up, I can always wait for the next, I thought. I come and go as I please. I sat there because the wind was lovely on my face, and my thoughts drowned in it.
In one of those nights, I had thought about packing my bag and leaving for the beach that very same morning. Even as I was on the bus, eyes closed, I entertained that thought. I’d get home, pack my bag with swimsuits, rashguards, boarshorts, sunblock, a towel, a sarong, some shirts and underwear, and then off to the beach I would go. But when I got home, I went straight to bed, put my arms around my sleeping daughter and went to sleep. The beach will wait.