inedible passions. tasty little braindump.

Toc-toc-toc-toc.

I am inside a jeepney, bags in hand, everything in a wash of desert yellow, and I focus on the sound. It’s the sound a knife makes when it comes in contact with a plastic chopping board.

Toc-toc-toc-toc.

The sound of breakfast prep. I am on my parents’ couch. God knows what time it is.

My mother squeals while reading an email from her former co-worker turned friend. “…so-and-so passed the CPA board exam…now connected with PriceWaterhouseCoopers…so-and-so is an IT engineer at Accenture…oh, he wants to go abroad. She asks, how are you? How are the kids? Nakasal na ba sila?” My mother playfully shrieks, “No!!”

I burrow my face deeper into the couch. God, this is embarassing. Her friend’s kids are years younger than me and look how far they’ve come. Where am I? Do I have to wake up? Fuck.

I open my crusty eyes and focus on the ceiling. The last thought I remember before becoming fully conscious is “I have taken apart my life and put it back together again. I will build an empire with my hands.”