P&M

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punctuations

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essa guierra

Punctuations and Marks by Essa Guierra

Copyleft Š Essa Guierra 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

punctuations

& marks

<,>

A girl, a boy. Their eyes are glued on the movie screen. Playing is a romantic B-movie comedy where the protagonist lies forlorn by the sudden departure of a former lover. Three times that night, the two of them have made it clear that this is not a date. They’ve talked about it for the past three days through text messages. The argument: he’s too immature for anything that could border on being serious; she’s a romantic fatalist who just wants his company. Given this, it really is a wonder why they even want to hang out with each other.

He reaches for the popcorn. He wonders if this was really worth the effort. In a perfect metropolis, Makati is only half an hour away from Quezon City. One can forgive the distance but not the long and staggard stretches of traffic. Civilizations could rise and fall while traversing the in-betweens of Diliman and Ayala. He gives in. Nothing to sooth but her ego in choosing to forego a lurking argument.

She reaches for the iced tea. She deliberately lets her fingers brush his arms: skin traversing skin, nails grazing the few centimeters excused by accidence. She wonders if he’s really a cynic like herself or was just pretending to be one on the hopes that she’d someday entertain him. Either way, they just enjoyed sitting through the lame excuse for a not-date movie.

All their actions are calculated: when to laugh, how to laugh, when to give a scoff, and when to give a comment. Everything that this movie preludes to is also calculated: where to go next, whether to go home afterwards or not, and whether they would keep in touch after this foray. As the movie credits crawl, they feel the weight of decisions and possibilities looming in. He thinks of burning the night away at a nearby cafĂŠ. She thinks of inviting him to spend the night at her apartment watching more movies of the same taste. They left the movie house still undecided on what to do next. Her hand is intertwined tightly in his.

< and >

A girl and a boy. They are sitting through the commute home to Makati. He is watching the world outside. Amazed at how rapidly the cities here grew and just decayed. Everything is in chaos. He wonders if traversing the whole stretch of EDSA would lead them to the grumbling belly of a beast. He chuckles, picturing MOA and Monumento transforming into Kraken and Leviathan whenever no one's watching.

She is deep asleep, lulled by the evening transit. Perhaps dreaming of Chickenjoys or thesis proposals or her bohemian ex-boyfriend. He never really knows what's going on inside her head. And she enjoys this fair distance from him—from everyone. This week, they'd be seeing each other every day, as if missing a single day is a mortal sin against the thin fabric that ties them together; and then the next week, she wouldn't even give as much as a text message, acting as if he doesn't exist at all.

But this is one of their good weeks. They've seen each other for three consecutive days and nothing seems amiss. The bus makes a sudden break and she almost hits her head against the metal hand rail. She jolts awake. He gently pulls her back and puts his arm around her, letting her head rest against his chest. He hums a lullaby while his fingers go through her hair. She stays awake, her face quite undecided to whether smile or remain empty.

<;>

A girl; a boy. They are standing idle at the bus terminal, notwithstanding the throes of strangers busy with their own transits. She's not budging. He glances at his watch: 9:15. He's missing his final exam on international linkages. He gives a scoff that sounds more like relief. He lets the world unfold in front of him, reminding himself that he should breathe now and think about the gravity of his decisions later.

She touches his arm. Her hand slides down and holds his hand. Cubao grinds down to a halt. Above them, a lone bird is nailed on an ash-stricken sky. Metal bars jutting from the concrete below surrounds it, as if clawing against the ceiling of this world. She speaks: did you regret spending last night with me? He does not respond. Her grip on his hand tightens. She motions for her bag: when will I see you again? This time he responds: Honestly, I don't really know. Her face sours.

He thinks twice if he should apologize for his response. She is waiting for an apology but gets nothing more than a blank sigh. Her hand loosens itself and lets go. She picks up her bag and hails a cab. You know how to reach me, she says as she dumps her things and eases herself inside the empty car. He holds the door open. She paused, wishing he'd come with her.

He won't. The world eases itself to a start as he closes the car door. He decides to burn his time walking the streets of EDSA. Overhead, he catches a glimpse of a lone bird stuck frozen midair. His eyes focus. The moment he gets a clearer look, the bird continues its flight. He scratches his head. There's no use in bothering with the little things. He has a lot to think about. Time and gravity sets in. He starts walking.

<.>

There is a boy. There is a girl. And this is how they would end. An argumentat composed of nothing but silences and blank stares. A hand lets go. Packed bags, torn posters, memories are mere baggages if not paperweight. Both of them are waiting for a civil, if not apologetic, response. However, no one would get it. Beyond the madness of this critical period and the collapse of all planned out possibilities between them is a return towards singularity. Perhaps a last second chance.

They remembered that all the second chances they have given to each other is because of one excuse: love. But today, there is not enough love between them, not even a glimmer of hope, enough to purchase one last second chance. Perhaps there is only a finite number of second chances that could transform periods and terminal points into temporary reprieves of longing. And they’ve used up all of their lifelines. Once one of them leaves this room, there is no turning back. Their city returns as a jungle of possibilities.

There is this funny thing about statistics and possibilities. Statistics tells us that no matter how many times an event happens, there still lies an even chance for it to happen again. But we are lead to believe that the chances are slimmed down when an event has passed. Like tossing a coin and getting heads three times in a row and believing that there’s a greater chance that the next one is going to be tails.

Given this, in an infinite universe, there is no such thing as a last second chance. Only a limitless possibility of second chances that are laid out in front of them. But for now, a period is a concise way of letting things go. Both a physical and metaphorical door closes between them. What remains is a precise understanding of possibilities and impossibilities. And no matter how plain and nondescript their ending might be, this is how they choose to let go.

< a girl >

There is a girl. This is the eight day she hasn’t left her room. She lives off whatever remains from the weekly grocery bag she and her boyfriend brought home from the grocery. Erratum: Ex-boyfriend. There are the staples: chips, cup noodles, biscuits and cookies, five packs of Marlboro lights. She lies sulking in her bed in a pitch black room where the only sounds present are the utterances from the series she is binge watching, the commentary sobbings, and the bland hiss of the electric fan.

Outside: a fine Saturday morning gears itself into life. A bright sky says hello to the first traces of people that starts to litter the streets. Diliman transforms into quite a humdrum during weekends, and the funny thing is, they—the former couple—used to enjoy this, willing themselves to turn into morning persons, if only during the brief intermissions provided by the weekend.

Inside: her room transforms into subterranea. By virtue of the absence of light, it’s nigh impossible to tell if the room is still the same room where they once shared histories: making love during the wee morning hours; post-it notes on walls of sweet nothings and affections; discourses, arguments, episodic manias and depressions.

And it’s as if this perceived darkness is an allusion to the emptiness that follows one grave argument they had over how they see themselves in the next five years. But as perturbed by the contrasted void that is this room, the presuppositions from narratives bear no weight agains the sheer gloom found within. And this gloom asks for no further explanations.

This is the eight days and she’s living off what is left. She rummages for what remains in the grocery bag. Deep inside, she finds a post card she gave him during their first anniversary: a sketched house where they dream of living together. Now, unarguably part of the void, the picture means nothing. She then moves and puts her back against the door, waiting for that single knock that could smash this made up oblivion.

< a boy >

There is a boy. He lies motionless in the expanse of grass located in the middle of the university. He wants to pick himself up and leave but still couldn't find the will to move from his spot. He stares intently at the cloud formation overhead. One heap reminds him of something he can't specifically remember. Maybe he's still on a state of shock—or maybe just plain denial. Maybe he hit his head and got an amnesia. He thanks the gods for not having the ability to remember what is obvious. He thinks that everything is starting to clear up.

The first streaks of the sun starts hitting his face and stirs him to motion. Around him, he hears the morning joggers do their rounds around the oval. He sits up to watch them run: aimless but with direction. He realizes he hasn't really lost his will to move, he just doesn't know where to go now. Everything is shifting back to normal, however he defines what normal for him should be. He stands up and was quite surprised when a pack of cigarettes found its way out his pockets. He couldn't even remember if he smoked or not. He checks his other pockets for a lighter. He finds one and lights a stick. He coughs—violently. But he still chooses to continue smoking the stick.

The slow ascension of smoke reminds him of the heap of clouds he was staring at earlier. It reminds him of something--or someone, and an image resurfaces. His memories start functioning again. Everything creeps in. There's a painful throbbing from the back if his head. He motions towards the academic oval. His pace turns to a jog. Now he's running, cigarette stick still plastered on his mouth. He coughs and wheezes but this doesn't bother him. He closes his eyes. He wishes he'd forget everything the moment he wakes up again. He builds up speed continuously. A few moments later, a lighted cigarette falls on the pavement. It sits there for a moment as if waiting for its minute embers to be fully extinguished.

< >

A girl and a boy. They are lying in bed in one of the thousands of motel beds in Cubao. The air-condition hums from the background, speaking in a language they both won’t understand. The lights are dimmed into a soft grainy glow. The world spins madly outside. Inside this room, however, were only possibilities. The motel room dims itself into a blank, similar to how movies end. But for the two of them, this ending has become interchangeable with beginnings. As their perceived world collapses, forever wills itself to existence. This is where their story would end. But this is also where their lives would begin—outside our reach, but most importantly, free.

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