Four Friends and a Funeral

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."
-- George Carlin

Four Friends

I met up with college friends last Tuesday at Dôme in Shangri-La. I already ate dinner before going to save myself any uneccessary expenses besides a pack of lights. I tried my best to feel good, to be in manic mode again, but I haven't been good at convincing myself lately.

With a raspberry ice tea at hand, I pretty much remember what our conversations were about but I don't have the mood to go elaborate on them right now. I told someone how I was hurt by her comment. The last thing I needed to see online was the truth being shoved in my face. It was a very short comment but the thought lasted for hours. I thought of posting a retort on my behalf, but I'm not one to lash out, not anymore.

I was there but my head was somewhere else. It had been flying through with the faint music, with the smoke coming from other people, with the slight glances strangers make at other people, with the ticking away of the minutes.

The Funeral

It was hell trying to get a ride from that area. My friend and I resolved never to go to Ortigas again. Both victims of street crime, we were so paranoid that night, cautious as if all the people surrounding us were timing in for the kill. We rode the bus and then a cab to Arlington where her close friend's grandmother was on wake.

It was a pleasant change being there. Quiet, cool, well-lighted. Once again I was around new people and the simple conversations got my mind off a lot of things. I'm not in the mood to elaborate on them right now.

We rode the cab home. I slept through my exhaustion.