postscript

	Florence + the Machine   Dog Days Are Over   Lungs

Six years, three months, eight days, an hour, thirty minutes, twenty-six seconds. It’s been a while since I signed up for a Blogger account. Through the years, this page has seen me through different times. I was an angry kid, a wannabe humorist, a pretentious movie critic, a washed-up advice columnist and lately, an emo writer. When I set out to write, it was just for the love of writing. I never imagined that anyone would pay attention to me for it.

Segue to last night, my legs shaking on stage, there was a screenshot of my latest story on the screen. I felt like I was gonna crap my pants when the woman called my name*. My heart felt like it was going to jump right out of my chest. My mind searched for words but I couldn’t find any. Under pressure, I am so not eloquent. In an awkward and hurried speech, I just thanked the Philippine Blog Awards and busted outta there. Now that I’m calmer and sober, allow me to give credit where credit is due.

First, I’d like to give a big wet kiss to A. Last night, I was looking for your face in the audience. Your smile made me feel better. I was just another emo writer before I met you. You inspire me more than you’ll ever know. On our third month, you said we still have a lifetime to go through. I can’t wait.

To the Coffee Babies for making sense of the jungle that is the blogosphere. You know how much I love you guys and though I may not show it much, I depend on you more than I care to admit. Jeff and Victor, you have my body. You just have to want it first.

A special shoutout to ןıuǝ oɟ ɟןıƃɥʇ for being my most loyal follower, commenter and friend. I really appreciate your guidance and no, you are not a bully.

To all the bloggers who have landed on this page, who linked, followed, shared and all those other cyber words I don’t have the time to enumerate. I believe that there is more goodness in our community than people understand and I am excited to see what new things the next year has for us.

And finally, to anyone who has ever cared to read my stories. I could say that I’d still write even if no one read me but being a Leo, I know I’d be lying. You make this all the more worthwhile. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

2010 has been a very good year for me. I got my heart broken, I met a ton of good friends and lost a few ones. I’ve had bigger milestones like my family being complete again, getting promoted at work, meeting the love of my life and now this. I don’t know what I did to deserve any of this. All I can do is thank the Lord every time I count my blessings. Now, I can officially say that my dog days are over. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Photo Credit: Manech

com-promise

	No Doubt   Cellophane Boy   Everything In Time

com·pro·mise (ˈkɒmprəˌmaɪz), n.

1. a settlement of differences by mutual concessions; an agreement reached by adjustment of conflicting or opposing claims, principles, etc., by reciprocal modification of demands.
2. an endangering; exposure to danger, suspicion, etc.: a compromise of one's integrity.

He opens the door, a crack just enough to see who it is. I stand there, hair still stringy from the rain and say I don’t love you anymore. Because loving him is a disease I needed to be cured of. Because people like us have no right to love. He lets me in. My boots make squishy noises on the doormat. The music starts to play.

When we were younger and when music was new, he asked if I knew how to dance. I shook my head. I’ll show you, he promised. He took my hand and made it hover over his shoulder. Keep it there. We mustn’t touch. His arm moved near my waist. Our palms faced each other like magnets of the same pole, an inch of space in between. When I advance, you must retreat, he began. If you advance, I retreat. We must never touch. This is how it must be if we want to keep dancing. This is how it must be for the music to play.

And so I learned to move the way he taught me. As my left leg steps forward, his right foot steps backward. Our knees moved carefully so they would not touch. We would dance for hours, my left hand longing for his right. The inches felt like miles. Each sigh seemed like an eternity. Our bodies were so close. If I tried really hard, I swore I could even hear his heartbeat. And if I breathed a certain way, I knew I could make my heart beat in sync with his.

I wanted to close the distance. Was I wrong to want more?

I became greedy. I desperately needed to touch him. I stepped towards him. He stepped back. When it was his turn to come to me, I advanced. At that moment, our bodies smacked into each other, the force strong enough to make us both fall. The music ended abruptly, the last note sounding like the pianist slammed a bunch of keys at once. With our bodies pressed together, I slithered my fingers into his right hand. My other hand squeezed his shoulder. His hand suddenly gripped my waist. I could smell the fear in his breath.

I closed my eyes and waited for him to kiss me. When I opened my eyes, he was gone. The song, his words, like an echo ringing in my ears. This is how it must be if we want to keep dancing.

The song ended. The room fell quiet. Now that it’s over, why am I the only one crying?

Sorry, I begged. I was wrong to want more. I don’t love you anymore, I said, my clothes dripping with rain water. Because I was wrong to touch you. Because it’s wrong to love you. Because I am addicted to the way we danced.

The music started playing as he let me in. The apartment smelled like dead flowers and heartbreak. Can we continue? Is it too late? My questions seemed alien. My voice didn’t sound like my own. He put his left hand near my waist. I made my right hand hover over his shoulder. Our free hands came together, the mandatory inch apart automatic. I advanced, he retreated. He pulled close, I stepped back. Those were the steps. I knew them very well. As long as I didn’t change them, he would never leave.

I knew you’d be back, he whispered into my ear. It was only a matter of time. His eyes seemed to pierce right through me. His pinky shuddered as it reached to touch mine. I fought it at first but he imposed himself. When our fingers touched, it felt like a mild current just coursed through my body. I looked at him, not understanding why he was breaking his own rules.

What’s this? I asked, my eyes fixed on our pinkies touching.

Compromise, he answered, a sly smile on his face.

We danced for hours, our bodies never tiring. If only my heart could be as willing.

Photo Credit: 141209