Room.
I am showing you my life:
At half past midnight on a Tuesday night which is really Wednesday morning, this room is still stifling. Heavy with the oppressive weight of sticky heat, you're almost made to believe you may only be imagining the incessant murmur of the airconditioning unit. Ah, but this is summer in the Philippines. In a couple of months or so, the colorful umbrella you keep stored under the staircase would be protecting you from rain, in place of the scorching summer sun.
Outside, a dog barks. Followed by another (then another) until they have formed a canine choir performing a one-minute rendition. You stare at walls. The ones in this room are white, not the perpetual and pristine kind, could even be described as yellowing. Worn from being stared at so much perhaps, these walls have backdropped everything from conjured imaginings, names written on air with flicking wrists and nonexistent pens.
From where you are, a list of the first three things you can touch:
a book - a downturned copy of 'The Kite of Stars' (Terminos seems ripe for a second reading);
a green iPod named J. Alfred Prufrock (yes, from that poem);
and orange-flavored Tic-Tacs, pack almost empty.
You think about how you can't see far with those walls obstructing your view. And then things you take for granted like the bacon and eggs you had for breakfast or Tuesday nights that are really Wednesday mornings. Know the next sound you hear in a stifling room that tells of repetition.
I am showing you the implications of a sigh, behind a sneer.
At half past midnight on a Tuesday night which is really Wednesday morning, this room is still stifling. Heavy with the oppressive weight of sticky heat, you're almost made to believe you may only be imagining the incessant murmur of the airconditioning unit. Ah, but this is summer in the Philippines. In a couple of months or so, the colorful umbrella you keep stored under the staircase would be protecting you from rain, in place of the scorching summer sun.
Outside, a dog barks. Followed by another (then another) until they have formed a canine choir performing a one-minute rendition. You stare at walls. The ones in this room are white, not the perpetual and pristine kind, could even be described as yellowing. Worn from being stared at so much perhaps, these walls have backdropped everything from conjured imaginings, names written on air with flicking wrists and nonexistent pens.
From where you are, a list of the first three things you can touch:
a book - a downturned copy of 'The Kite of Stars' (Terminos seems ripe for a second reading);
a green iPod named J. Alfred Prufrock (yes, from that poem);
and orange-flavored Tic-Tacs, pack almost empty.
You think about how you can't see far with those walls obstructing your view. And then things you take for granted like the bacon and eggs you had for breakfast or Tuesday nights that are really Wednesday mornings. Know the next sound you hear in a stifling room that tells of repetition.
I am showing you the implications of a sigh, behind a sneer.