I want to lose myself… in the voices, the chatter, someone’s life story that occupied pretty much this cramped jeepney. I want to be molded, joined, lost in the bodies squished left and right, front- and back-seat. I want to become the blurred face as the jeep momentarily speeds before it slows down, approaching the traffic light. I want to be no one, to be empty, to assume no name or identity. It’s a Friday. And I don’t want to exist.
Yester-night. I was in diaspora… I felt displaced, inside. It was a Friday and I didn’t want to exist… that when I arrived at work, I went straight to the pantry. I drowned my throat with coffee (but can’t flush the thoughts aside). I didn’t want to talk to anybody, I didn’t want to be reminded what’s the basis of my existence at that moment. What is it, you ask? Why, a contract, of course! An obligation to show up! HA-HA-HA. Who ever forgets, come see me; I’ll remind you. HA-HA-HA. My inner diaspora, this self disconnect. Ask me again, I’ll be honest this time… at that very moment, all I wanted was to exist, simply exist. To know that we are here because this is what Fortune handed you. And me. An us.