on the way to lrt station in katipunan, i saw a vagrant man just beside one of the many waiting sheds. he was clothed with dirt and his scent was a mixture of sun scorched skin and fresh wednesday trash bags. by the looks of him, you could easily say his psychologically insane---psychotic to be more technical.
the sun was just warming itself up that morning. it was only 7, but i have decided to hit the road again. but for this man, his day was just about to end. like fixing a bed, he neatly flatten the dirty soil beside the shed; his arms extending and flattening the soil as far as his reach. while his legs were sweeping the hard rocks and plastics wrappers away from his resting sheet. he positioned his head in the soft and dusty grass which only occupied a small portion of the area. then he slowly laid down his head on the grass cushion. at first i thought he would immediately close his eyes, thinking he might be really exhausted the whole night. probably from scavenging something to eat or just tilting his head the whole night talking to the stars. but i remembered it was a starless night last night. foggy mist have covered the wholeness of the bright moon and dark thick clouds overpowered the meek brightness of the stars. i felt his mourn. his eyes remained still in blankness. there was no trace of making any blink or some sort. there were marks of restlessness though. the kind that is untraceable of any cause. the mere sight would make you wonder why. as if the anxiety was hand over to anyone that would witness the sight. it bothered me, yes and i mean big time.
looking at him, spoke vast folds of bizaare stories like an entire compilation of the most trageic or the most wonderful stories of the world that nobody could tell. having this idea on mind, i thought if only he could speak to me (or us), he could be the best storyteller one could attentively hear. but it already dwelled itself on the words, if only. in which only in his silence we could understand him. while in his rage, we usually throwback fear and even retaliate with violence. but most of the time, we tend not to listen to the words uttered by silence and realized that would really matter. like ghost they walk amongst our street being feared without them doing anything. our irrational fear of them blinded as with a more potential fear that we should intend to the 'sane' person walking next to us. thus, they remained unseen and like them to their selves they are unminded.
from afar, i imagined him 20 years back. in the peak of his youth. probably drinking beer with his peers, courting someone he loved or in his widest smile holding his first child. i thought of the most joyful events that i could relate mine to him. then at the end of each, i could not help myself from asking,
"what happened?" it would just depress me.
it was basically inevitable of not thinking what happened. you could actually think of the most remorse thing that would still keep your heart from bursting. but we know, we need to push our imagination more than our limit in able to know and fully understand them.
most of the time, it scares me. thinking what if i push myself to hard that i could not bring myself back again. but come to think of it, there are times when i could catch myself fancying their state. thinking of absolute freedom. acting, thinking and behaving without hesitations, without any doubts to one self nor thinking what other people are thinking and expecting from you. then, i realized the more you are being pressed by people around you the more you dwell on these caves: and the less people are expecting from you, the freer you have become.
but in a "snap", i told myself, "not yet, not --- now."