Chosen

This will be short. Almost all happiness is. See, this is what you have to understand, you were meant for this night. From the moment you were spotted drinking with already drunk Bohemians and leftists crooning about what it takes to get into the Palancas or saving the fishes of Tubbataha, you were solely chosen for this. Your face is stoic, partly because you’re trying hard not to show your tipsiness and partly because you’ve already lost track of the conversation after somebody starts a discussion on the lost beauty of iambic pentameters or how adaptation plays a role in balanced reciprocity. Here’s a secret. They don’t understand it either. And this faux conversation is really just a series of parallel talks hidden under the influence of alcohol. After all those amber bottles start to line up and smoke rings rise like consciousness in the air, there is only this moment.

All the rest will be memory. All the rest shall be accused to experience about how once, you were a spoiled little girl playing with the big boys on picket lines, a fresh graduate about to be thrashed out of life’s comfort zones. But please, reserve that for later. Just to reiterate, this will be short. It’s 4 am on your clock and the sun is about to come up.

Please don’t think you’re not a groupie because you are. Please don’t think you’re anything special because you’re not. As is, you were chosen only because of two reasons. One is that you do not seem to be a fun girl. Fun girls will always kiss and tell. You will probably drench yourself in cold showers and cower about your weakness as a woman and the moralities you exchanged for belongingness. The other reason being that you are young. Not that that’s not an asset for some but for you, sitting here on this bed with only freshly-ironed clothes, orange peelings and a stranger for companions, that will be your fall. The young is filled with bottled-up dreams, anger for idealism and an insatiable need for iconography.

Exactly what’s needed in this case. You see, almost everyone has the imposter syndrome, and the fear that someday somebody’s going to catch on the act .So really, what you’re doing is helping the role to be continuously played. You will cooperate as student with the prodigy mentality. You will be taught about practicality, shortcuts, where the best ukay-ukay finds are and how to hug the back with your legs.

There, that’s it. You’re learning well. There, those hands. There, that tongue. Did you know how good a prodigy you were? But hurry. The sun is up and so are details that make you real—whimsical candles on the stand, vintage powder containers on the boudoir, notebooks with doodles and sketches seen so many times from those who attempted to dream and died before you. They’ve all been used and gone. But you’re here. And you are not supposed to be real. The jalousies in your room bring out explosions of color which give you pain and life. You were more beautiful when caught in darkness and shadow. And that’s where you’ll stay.

But first another lesson. There will be nothing beyond this. You were chosen and that makes you special. The world will never understand what special means and will set out to destroy all that is. All moments, the best of them, should be kept in secret. Which is why, nobody should ever know. Always remember that across stares in opposite sides of the room, accidental touches of knuckles and cryptic messages online. Let’s make this short. That way, you will stay frozen as the greatest joy I've ever had. You all are.