After the last mass at Greenbelt, I took a walk.
I had a small knapsack with me, swinging on my left shoulder. It was heavier than usual, because I bought some books at Powerbooks and I had the idea of bringing a flask of home-brewed coffee.
The priest discussed marriage for some reason. I listen to sermons indirectly, as if through a reflection. I zone out and focus on the general direction of the altar, and I let my mind wander. I justify this as divinely inspired daydreaming. I am in a holy place, after all, in a holy ceremony.
I don't like the idea of marriage anymore.
When I was young, I imagined I would be married with kids by the time I was 24, because it had seemed to be a very old age to be. Then by the time college came, marriage just seemed so crazy. There so much to do. I wanted a career. I wanted to have sex with boys. And girls. I wanted to travel. I wanted to shave my head. I wanted to screw up badly and redeem myself. I couldn't imagine taking care of anyone else.
My best friend in college had a solution: get married in Las Vegas and get divorced right after, just to get it over with.
This idea was recently made real by Britney Spears, but years ago, it was also (apparently) done by the parents in Family Ties. One episode showed how the kids discovered that the parent were previously married. It turns out that they were previously married to each other. They got married early, got divorced, then found each other again.
Well, our idea was to get married and get it over with, so that I can just say to everyone (Dad, Mom, everyone) that I tried it and it didn't work.
Another great way to get married then get widowed early. That is more tragic and would draw sympathy, unlike the reaction for a Las Vegas divorce. But wishing to be widowed was risky business.
I thought about these things during mass, all the way up to the end of mass, and up until my evening walk. When I stopped and looked around, I was by the Filipinas Heritage Library. How did I get here?
Oh, well, where do I go next? What's open on a Sunday night? Maybe Jupiter. How about Rockwell?
The evening was warm and clear. No chance of rain. And it was nice to have trees above me. I always wished that Makati would have a huge park, a real one, not the fake parks it has now. Parks with big open fields where I can lie down during cloudy days and listen to my iPod. Where I can play Frisbee with my gang.
When I reached the corner of Paseo and Buendia, I bumped (crashed) into someone.
Sorry! I said, holding my chest. Ow.
He was running. It was a guy I assumed. Or a big girl.
Tangna. I cursed. No one saw it. On the sidewalk, I noticed a small book. It looked like a Bible. I picked it up. It felt like one.
The guy must have dropped it.
I went and tried to follow the mystery man to return the book. He turned the corner into Dela Costa. When I got there, he was gone. Maybe he went to Ministop, so off I went. Not there. I peeked into Figaro. Nope. Oh, well.
I ordered some coffee jelly--hold the ice cream--and sat down. Hmm, I need a smoke, but no cigs.
I picked up and opened the book. It was in French. Something about Camus. Not a Bible after all. There was something scribbled on the inside of the front cover:
Et quand vous trouvez ceci, vous commencerez à vous trouver.
Back home, I translated it, and realized that I forgot to drink the coffee in the flask in my bag.