ayoko na lang magsalita. tingnan ko na lang kung anong mangyayari bukas.

maraming salamat sa mga taong hindi ko inaasahang makita ngayong araw na ito. paulit-ulit sa isip ko ang mga salitang 'mabuti na lang...'

i am a little wistful about a reminder from a well-meaning sister about the realities of my present environment. truth be told, my head is still spinning from it. am seeing the carpet being pulled off under me. but all in due time and all for my own good.

good evening.

good afternoon. i thought this was posted as soon as i clicked the button 'publish post.' apparently, it didn't. and so i find this discrepancy and i find the wayward post still there at blogger.com but as to why it didn't make it to the final cut, i can't even be bothered with that.

i could be bothered with the scorching heat that has been running for more than a month. some people opine that it's not merely scorching, it's prickly, painful. yes, painful.

i could be bothered by the three girls who are struggling with the high chair assigned to their computer unit at this internet shop, fiddling with their webcam, precisely the worries bart and his mother harbor, thus justifying the decision not to buy additional webcams.

i could be bothered by things and people who somehow feel they have the sole version of the story of how futures are to be shaped. dreamt of, conjured by, oh the machinations, those juices sure feel good, the kill oh so sweet.

the intrepid observer, however, places a footnote: pray tell, are those the most feel-good juices ever extracted? have they bothered to tread the canopy of the amazon? the farthest reaches of antarctica?

the amateur passerby raises a finger to shyly ask: are you sure you went for the right kill? are you sure that's the sweetest you could come up with?

for now, everybody is placated. the hunter is satisfied with the kill, sure that the method was swift, clean, admirable, not to be detected that a kill was executed.

the half-awake child rubs his eyes, scratches his head (and his little bottom), looks at the crimson finery, stares at it for a long time, only to come out of his reverie with this curious pronouncement:

you made the wrong kill.