If I knew how to drive, I’d probably be like those preppy kids now, still grooving to their out-of-date dance songs or commercial hip-hop fluff on their nipponese car trunk speakers, recovering from a hangover, frolicking in the Sunken Garden with easy girls in voluminous padding.
Kidding. You will never catch me wearing a gold necklace.
Instead, I roll with my homies in the bike lane around Quezon Circle. I still can’t take in how a grown man would wear cycling shots with pride. I’m wearing worn, oversized, hand-me-down corduroy shorts, thank you.
Pumping from my cheap Taiwanese mp3 player is Team Sleep‘s first album. I am so infected, I even unconsciously lag so far behind the Sunday bikers. How overly typical, I think: no better than a kupaw kid 😕 Sorry, Chino.
I detour for the university, just when the faster songs seep in. The rough, unbathed, unexercised self conforms to the tempo, but obsese legs can only have so much horsepower. La lee la, crunch, crunch.
Someone in red just came out of the murky walkpaths of the BLISS houses, flashing in the corner of my left eye like a spicy streak my vision took. This was when a gap from the songs came in.
I head for the bump of land in front of my college, stinking dew all over. Loud drums, drum, dru… the sweat is dripping from my goatee, calling for my Good Morning towel to alight.
My earth-lying is doing well. The sun breathes a well of… electronic beeps? Staring at the Queen is now playing, glad to see the display on the player still working. Have to ask for some duct tape later from punk roommate to replace the battery cover.
Diamond-shaped shadows voluntarily resize on my face, like that new Photoshop feature. It’s not kite season, but the wind is generous. Those kids with strings on their fists swell like bubbles.
‘Restart! Nothing, just don’t stop!‘ – King Diamond, Team Sleep
Task from hereon: practice writing.