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| Artcard by Marlney Causing |
“I just stepped out of the doniker
I don't know what happened and I can't remember
But I was soon to discover
That my radio had been broken
I'll do anything but break dance for ya, darlin'”
- Daniel Johnston, 1984, “I’ll Do Anything But Break Dance for Ya, Darling”
From time to time, I’ve often been found at the plaza behind the university’s historical century-spanning building, the Quadricentennial Park, participating in one of my personal favorite pastimes– people-watching. It’s an exhilarating hobby, in my defense. There’s an amusing irony to think that no one’s watching you in the veil of a crowd only for someone to do just that, with that someone being me.
It's strangely fascinating to see how each person’s day is going and how different each one is from the rest. Seeing Frassati students who have to walk all the way to their building from the Dapitan gates is pretty funny. Groups of friends getting lunch after a sweaty exam are always so touching. The couples manage to irk me the most out of all the faces I catch. But despite how different they all are, the common expression that all these different faces share is the look of a person trying to get to places where they should be.
The plaza is not the place where anyone’s supposed to be. Professors don’t hold their classes there, for starters. Sure, you can eat there, but when there are much more appealing sights elsewhere, it’s no mystery why people don’t bother with this one. And for how often I am among the concrete trees and stone benches, I'm beginning to notice that the accumulation of pedestrian faces changes day-by-day. There are no permanent fixtures in a place as big as this; not the plaza, not the university. None of the people I see ever look familiar.
None except for one, that is. The only unchanging element.
Like a nature photographer praying for a lucky shot, or a guerilla documentarist waiting for someone to stumble like an idiot, or a scathing critic returning to the theater disappointment after disappointment; the only one that remains in this place is me.
It’s a weird fascination. Maybe it’s my liking for the history-stained walls of St. Raymund’s or my boredom of BGPOP’s corporate boardroom aesthetic that keeps me coming back to this place. Regardless, with the amount of people that always come and go, it’s the perfect place to peer into the soul of humanity and be a spectator to everybody else’s lives.
Though sometimes, the strangers stare back and offer you a passing glance. I always sense an odd look in their eyes. It always feels like it’s about something else, more than what I deserve for just looking at their direction. 'What kind of glance is that?', I wonder.
A glance of pity?
A glance of amusement?
A glance of disdain.
So, I move on, and I get around. It’s not like it’s exhausting to sit down all the time. A subject of envy, I hope, to my less fortunate bipedal peers.
The Main Building. The Health Service. The Car Park.
As I pace back to where I’m supposed to be in the first place, I’m reminded of why I’m never seen inside one of the car park’s more delectable restaurants, taking advantage of the discount card God and the administration of Las Piñas have given me. You know, it’s such tough luck for only one of those restaurants to have a ramp be the one that I’m the number one hater of.
Author’s note: the restaurant will remain nameless as to not axe the opportunity of working under their PR department.
It’s devastating. It’s like the greatest irony to the perfect Greek tragedy. I suppose it’s God’s way of protecting me from food poisoning that the ramp to it is missing for most of the time, as it was His plan to lead me to my dream university, only three years too late.
…
It’s almost 1.
I finally crossed the field and found myself before the home of every Communication Arts student here in the university since last year. You can hear me with the humming of my motor, then everything falls silent, and the hallways of BGPOP are my own. That is if I’m not bumping into door frames trying to get in and out.
Before I go up to the 11th floor– and the doors of my very own personal elevator open– I turn the corner and see the floor littered with people younger than me who I now have to call ate and kuya. Once more, I’m reminded that I should be one year removed from school now, and yet I’m only half as competent as they are.
Some parts of me wished to introduce myself and reconnected with the people I’m supposed to be with, then I realized one of the only reasons they were still lenient with me was their seniority over me, as I clutch the microphone I wanted to hurl towards the stage.
Everything stopped to a halt. I was atop a mountain where time slowed down. Descending its ridges was a downhill struggle, and no signs or symbols can be seen. The trail is dark and damp with the cold breeze smelling of bile and air conditioning. Even when I made it down, a light shone down on me with the searing glare of a hundred billion stars. It made me think whether or not coming back down to earth was worth all the trouble, but I knew I had no other choice.
Telling the greatest story ever told was the rabid pony I rode to my return. And like a rabid pony, it took me to places I thought I wanted to see, and the masters I thought I wanted the company of. Only for people to find a witless husk and a voiceless gullet; stiff fingers and a bad gut; dead weight in an industry where the body is the machine.
Now, I spend the long days staring at the gleam of other people’s shoes because I couldn’t use my own.
A fool in sheep’s clothing.
I am enclosed by walls of eyes in a room where the only seats for me are on the front and the back.
A primal instinct to run and hide takes over, to cower and to sink.
Instead, I’m the face you always see.
I have no choice but to be.
…
The good thing about BGPOP is that the doors open on their own. Did you know that? You don’t even have to look up most of the time. A testament to their dedication to advance technologies when they demolished the decades old gymnasium for a hotel, and a testament to the goodwill of most human souls.
I’ve reached the room only to find most of the people who are supposed to be there haven’t filled it up quite yet. It keeps me a little bit calm knowing I’m not the only one who took the scenic route to class. 'It’s almost time.', as I reside myself in my usual spot where I see most of the people in class. I stare at my fingernails one-by-one, carving my thumb a quarter of an inch too short. Despite being blocks away, the same sets of eyes glanced upon me once more as I observed the oxygen in the air.
After a little while, the doors swing open minute after minute, slowly filling the room with bodies and noise. Some cram school work. Some sing till they're breathless. Some brew tea, while most would rather just sip it. They all breathe life into the confining atmosphere we all find ourselves in. But as many as they come and as nice as they are, none who entered were the ones I’ve waited the whole day to see. The room marred with elation couldn’t bother my back stuck to the wall and my eyes glued to the floor.
The doors stopped moving for a while. I was thinking of leaving for a bit to 'stretch my legs.' Instead, I waited and I remembered what kept me coming back here to this place– in the first place.
The mud on my wheels.
The paint on my chair.
The birds on my head.
The hands I’ve shaken.
The feet I’ve rolled over.
The smiles I’ve embraced.
The warmth of the sun.
The graze of the wind.
And the faces that look familiar to me.
The door finally opens once more and I look over.
I am where I need to be.
The room widened and my tongue came loose. I unclenched my jaw and let out my first words of the day, the words I've waited the whole day to say,
“Hello.”
