The Smokey Mountain of Tondo

    

    Beyond the glimmering skyscrapers and bustling colors of the urban life lies a filthy facade. The pretty skies and shirts in dyes masks the neglected garbage that had established its own identity. A Mountain  of waste, and a home to some. Filths that one would avoid, a source of income to another. 

    A man neither younger nor old treks upon mucks waltzing in mires. He grins in spite of the awry ambiance for where one should be. In garments of nothing more than preloved pants and rubber boots topped with a fedora gets him through the day. Accompanied by his cane to make ends meet. No weights of sacks will anchor him to exhaustion as he floods his mind of what he earns from the gathered rubble. One of the boys is no older than five nor younger than of an infant lifts sacks after sacks than prancing with peers of his age as any child should. Another with a sack tailing his very move through the ocean of rubble, gazing upon the half-dressed older fellow. Two among hundreds of youth whose hands should be holding pencils and clays, grasped with shards and rags as dirt paints their hands.

     A Scavenger, hooded in bags of indifferent cloth, finds his share through the musky landfill in exchange for today’s only meal. There was no room for fatigue from the filth. Like farmers plowing in their fields, he plows through gardens of garbage. Diapers as his roses and plastic bottles as his gold. Alone afar halts to take in the scenic land of incomprehensible  chunks. In pink, they sigh sorrow from a hustle that lurks underlying threats to one’s welfare. Salvage anything that can sell as the sun scorches and the humid atmosphere wafts around was an everyday movie. Poverty waltzes with corruption as they play the lives of the vulnerable. With the endless lust of power and papers of green by men and women in suits, while these fellows wear nothing but sacks and ragged cloth. Promoting recyclable and reusable commodities distracted minds of ever fixing the growing hill of beckoning. 

    It repels the use of innovating environmental alternatives. Humans are the danger to humans themselves. The growing population where garbage greets them instead of bread first thing in the morning and the last they see as they succumb to slumber. Stomaching a putrid embrace as quenching one’s hunger becomes a race. Garbage is the new gold.

Begotten Sepias

   I came across words of different kinds but somewhat meant the same.

“Yes” she didn’t hesitate. “I’m sorry” is all he could mutter. “I just really can’t” she was so sure. They all led to an end. Decisions so firm, It felt easy for them to let go as though I didn't bear any weight in their mind. All I could do was trail it back to me being at fault, time wasn't entirely on my side, it was my enemy. Episodes of decisions played on repeat, brewing I envy towards those who chose so well. Until this very end of a relationship, did I realize that time was a friend and that there was no such thing as a right or wrong decision. Everything is a wrong decision. Sincerity was a curse and being genuine made you a fool. Life doesn’t end from a bridge burnt down between you and another, that I very much knew. Adults have berated me that I have not lived half my life to finally surround myself with the right people and anything I decide at such a tender age is nothing more than a childish bliss. I found it foolish rather, to live your life without feeling miserable from a strained connection or declaring you’ve found the one. Simply, I’ve lived to believe that miserable luck was my counterpart and I can never get rid of it. No prayer nor witchcraft could probably extinguish it from the face of the earth. The walk home after horrendous Monday has never been this serene, crowds of children decorated the alleys of where the school stands, silenced sullen thoughts for a while at a glimpse of her. I had questions, itching to burst. "Would you like me to walk you home?" I spoke with all my might wishing she could have heard it through the chatters and passerby wheels. In my luck, she heard. "No. Go home and get some rest" It didn't take her long to come up with a response, tapping my shoulder and slowly her figure shrinking as she marched off to the corner evoked tears that I dare not drop upon unacquainted pavements. I was held in a daze, until I faced streets painted as though it was an abyss waiting to devour me at an instance. Out of the crowds, my hands that were once intertwined with hers, was now embraced by a gentle breeze. The walk home should've been longer as I would walk her home, an opposite direction to mine. The journey that should've been short felt longer. As my black leathers grovel among pavements and gravels, I tattooed the truth that I am disposable, a latent talent. Being remembered as a regret no longer fazed me as it did before. Was I simply not worth fighting for? my pace slowed as the idea echoed in the corners of my mind. I was not worth the energy, was the underlying message behind their words. It aroused begotten sepias as far as even six years ago. My idea of love that was already shattered has been further plummeted into bits and ashes for the winds of the city to carry Arriving alas at my abode, rains of tears trekking down the paths carved by the ones shed from before. In a call with him, one of those who imbedded knives of neglect, was the least person I expected to lavish me comfort, a tear-filled fool. It just happens that he was the first face I saw and knew of my dilemma . All he could say was I always chose the wrong decisions. Very comforting must I say. Everything I seemed to do was wrong. I knew I was a fool, but how could I fail at love as well. The call ended with sorrow not leaving my side, I stared at the ceilings as its plasters found no more reason to stay, peeling. The silence was unable to win against the voices only I could hear. I’ve fallen back to the place that I once escaped from. I spent several days upon blurry blank stares on dust plastered walls ignited by a drisson. I walked back home along the streets neither as dark as the abyss nor bright like heaven’s skies, my mind was once again lost in a trance. I was in a river of angst whose current were much more powerful than my storms from the past. Today grew worse. She no longer looked at me nor could she stand to be in my presence. At best, she would find a way to never even see me again. The folds of her eyebrows and her face painted in disgust for each time I tried to converse with her, spoke volumes immeasurable. Lamppost after lamppost and a car, the eerie silence harmonized with my wistful canvas of a face came to a halt. There was simply nothing I could do or choose for none of them would have been right. This comforted the grieving tattered heart of mine who was at its last straw. No choice of mine would have been correct. For there was no such thing as a wrong or right choice, it was and will always be wrong for it is time that makes its right. What I may have chosen or said today may be wrong, yet the right one for tomorrow or maybe in a few years from now. The regret I may have in the future may have been a success if I did it now. I was wallowing in what if’s when everything was feasible in its own time. I was a few steps away from my house’s doorstep and my body welcomed a comforting numbness I haven’t felt in years, moreso, this was my first time being granted its touch. Tomorrow came like a unwelcomed guest and brought me back upon a classroom that never ceases to be raucous. In the corner of my eye, everyone was silhouettes, but her. I sat sitheless as I fawn over her at a distance. The time may have been wrong, but loving her was right, I protested.