In shallow, stagnant waters

A slight drizzle washes through Katipunan. The sidewalks of a highly urban space are not particularly suited for late-night/early-hour strolls: pieces of black garbage bags there, fractured sidewalks with mysterious liquids of varying stenches, and streetlights that illuminate god knows what.

I opted not to open my umbrella since it’s rare to get blasted by acid rain and dusty air but above all, the water had melted my shackles of indifference.

Right now, there’s this boy that I just met in Pop Up Katipunan. I have visited University of the Philippines (UP) Diliman and seen its facilities and possibilities, and the dry heat is more bearable than that of the humidity in Los Baños.

I can be who I am, far and removed from my old self. Strutting through the street, I could be scouted as a model. Or maybe I could finally be a real theater practitioner and be recognized as a legit writer.

But alas, much like puddles of water, the smallest disturbance would cause it to ripple.

Such fantasies are perturbed with no foundation, shallow waters that house no life. Before I go home, I would have to brave the traffic to Cubao, then wait for the HM Transport bus to get filled up, then sit in silence in the barely cushioned seats.

It is tough on the ass with the travel time ranging from two to five hours, depending on the traffic. I would contemplate my life on the way back because what else can you do when you’re suddenly presented with things you’ve imagined yourself doing? I can only dwell.

When I finally get home, a quick splash of water wakes up the senses. Life in UP Los Baños feels way too fast-paced which I blame on how arts is an afterthought. I can’t even do or write what I really want. But whenever I set foot in Diliman, time feels slower.

There are actual facilities to do what you want. Connections are easier since it’s in the metro. I don’t have to burn myself out producing papers like a printer. A gentle humming stream where I can safely plunge my feet and breathe.

I have been in Elbi for nearly nine years and nothing new fazes me. Being from a high school in Elbi meant that I had to expect to see people from the past. I find myself on rapids: trapped between rocks that could mean life or death. I need to fight against the currents that carry phantoms that cling to me. Yet, the warmth that this place used to have is no longer here. It has changed but so have I.

For example, the sidewalk in Oblation Park is newly cemented, new roads to accommodate the richer kids are being built, the Japanese Gates near Freedom Park are obscured by whatever building they are constructing. The pond pool in CPark gets its light show at night with a matching fountain and koi fish that would die in the algae-infested waters. Meanwhile, I am unable to quickly process such changes. People’s faces are twice blurred: first looking down on the reflections, then facing upward to see that they have already passed me.

The decision to stay in Elbi after high school wasn’t my choice but that of my parents. I had to sneak applying to La Salle and even though I passed, my mom would rather I stay in UP. “You’re already in UP, just finish it,” she’d reply whenever I said I wanted to study somewhere else. Both my siblings got to study in paid, private schools.

Since elementary, I have been a scholar and an achiever but I was never the favorite. My younger sis was favored by dad, while Ate was my mom’s bestie. I never had much autonomy, fully submerged in a tank that my parents made for me.

When I finally set foot in UP, it was as if someone had broken the container with a hammer, the water descending atop a high pedestal. I wasn’t taught how to function alone in a solo studio apartment room. If all your life the water was everything you lived and breathed, how do you stand on the ground? Of course, my experience isn’t exactly unique.

Two of my closest friends here in Elbi have more or less spent the same years in Elbi. They would bond over how we really wanted to go to La Salle while another laments being unable to go to Diliman. I am grateful that I can confide in them my increasing hostility toward our degree program and Elbi as a whole. It feels stagnating to be here; there are moments where I could’ve made a name for myself had I been anywhere else.

It is so hard to discard ambitions and passions only for us to discover them washed ashore in some distant lands that we cannot reach. Their bridges are now long eroded, consumed by the great deluge of time. People say it’s never too late but it definitely is: The anxiety of being left behind and your parents relying on you is enough to break even the strongest of dams.

There are regrets on our part: of how we could’ve fought against our parents’ wishes, of wanting better for ourselves. At the moment, we dredge along the muddy paths toward our dreams and grow along as we go. Walking along the muddy sidewalks, the silence is always disturbed by the abundance of cars that now invade the little town that I loved. More and more things will come to tell me that the rain has passed and brought with it change.

In the meantime, I would lay in the stagnant waters of Los Baños. It is safe, knowing that it is quite literally the baths. I would let it flood my senses, jump-starting the lives I have previously lived. At some point, I have to swim upwards with renewed determination.

—————–

Ze Manaois, 21, spends most of his time writing, running around, and managing theater productions. He loves the world no matter how much it disappoints him.