BATU, Indonesia. Photo by Jes Aznar

Thursday, December 20, 2012

The End of the World

The world ends tomorrow, at least the media hype over the Mayan prediction says so.

And so if I die in my sleep, I will go with chocolate-sweet memories of whispers and embraces here and there, in faraway places and borrowed rooms, from a hotel named Tugu to a red tent on the white sands of El Nido, more real than the gushing words of dead poets.

I will remember the dancing silhouettes of two bodies locked in a trance, in the dead of night or in quiet afternoons as Frida Kahlo watches by.

I will remember the anchor that holds forever, rustic and stained but firm and strong, in the deep blue sea against the fierce current and smashing waves.

I will remember each step from the heart of an enigmatic young boy to the tea hills of Java, a village wiped out by a typhoon and lastly, to a paradise called Cloud 9.

I will remember with my last breath, the love more than the pain. Because Sunday Bloody Sunday is more than a song. Because it's only one in a million. Because we kept on trying.

And mostly because we dreamt that someday, small voices from the backseat will ask, "Are we there yet?"