Walking back to my boarding house at past seven in the evening is my typical prelude of the night. Walking on damp streets illuminated by yellow light coming from the street lamps offers the possibility of not being able to reach my room alive. There are dark imagined corners that add to the thrill of walking alone. I always give a sigh of relief every time I get to pass a dark corner and step on the street light’s periphery. Walking back home in a city is like one of the movie scenes in Sherlock Holmes where the yellow light and the drizzle add to the drama of beating the enemies with a long umbrella.
But I’m not expecting flying ninjas with shining swords. In the first place, a Filipino country doesn’t have ninjas. And who am I that must be plotted of assassination? I am no damsel, first daughter, or a witness (denied from witness protection program). I really am not expecting swords or red dots but short knives held not by black-wrapped, may or may not be, man but by a person of my age or younger demanding for my wallet. This is a reality I do not like; people tired of begging for petty amounts and started taking advantage of an instinctive human weakness — fear — to get whatever of great value.
I write this in my room. I’m still alive. I survived the walk, would always want to survive the walk, will keep walking. This is one of my stories and I wrote this because I’ve been greeted by the night with this scene for three years now and I will make full use of the preposition “I” because this narrative contains the primacy of personal opinion, personal biases and a sense of triviality of human experiences. Perhaps this is nonsense.
Everybody has a story, makes stories, destroys stories. One story is heavier than the other. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m writing this when a lot more stories are worthy of public space. But the ceiling fan is revolving and is the only thing moving in my room stirring my towel, my tidy uniform, and the curtain sways in response. I guess this is how things work; one affecting the other. Maybe this is why the walk became a one-page narrative. Maybe I want to let the old folks know how our age thinks, that not all of us bypass everything, that we actually pay attention at each passing moment. Maybe because I’m looking for something that makes sense. Maybe that’s what I want to say.