10.01.2012

Forlorn Eyes Only


image © Yoko Ono
You took a half day off from work to get your second student drivers permit from LTO (how pathetic does it sound?) this morning. The last time you got it was more than a decade ago when you felt the shame of speeding around your hometown with your father's motorcycle minus a license and without a helmet. Obtaining it again this morning was a successful mission, amid the undying red tapes and under-the-table dealings from other applicants and their fixer cohorts. This is something ordinary in your country, you thought. But at the end of the day you felt that this first day of October 2012 was something not very ordinary.

You were already inside the MRT train, on your way to work Northbound at lunch time when the train stopped by at Ortigas Station. Then, a familiar face stared on you and stole your soul. That trademark sad eyes behind the round framed spectacles woke you from deep and slumbering thoughts. John Lennon printed on somebody else's bag is trying to convey a message silently and you felt the chill for reasons that you could not fathom.

The office work in the afternoon was good, you were able to proceed without much hassle and without a significant time wasted. There's the usual gabs, the usual faces, the same old atmosphere not far from anybody's workplace on Monday. There's the usual how-was-your-weekend talks and some sci fi film recommendations. There's a new "kid" that needs another round of tutorial or informal training. There's the old routine of updating data, some delegations and transitions of responsibility that needed some guidance. And of course, the same routine with a friend on the way home. And even if somebody bluffs to you that someone's sad because you're not around this morning, it brought you a great deal of happiness for a minute before crashing back to earth and realizing that it was all just an illusion. Still, the sad eyes of John Lennon trying to warn you about something is in your head.

And when you reached your current town in the evening, totally hungry and tired from a two-hour ride of jeepney, train, and bus, you saw again that familiar face while walking on the street, a face printed in some dork's t-shirt staring at you mysteriously and empathically. Mr Lennon spoke into your eyes: "I feel for you man" or just simply "Tsk tsk tsk." with a headshake. The reason (or the irrationality of it) still remains dancing like a firecracker inside your head, and you thought you better shake it up by lighting a stick of Marlboro lite menthol instead.

This is a sad day, you declare. But a meaningful day none the less.

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