random thoughts triggered by boredom

There’s a smorgasbord of ideas to jot down even on a tissue paper in a coffee shop when the pen is on the itching hand of a wannabe blogger. Yes, I know I’m an amateur in the field so I choose my readers. Sorry to those who unintentionally come across my blog site and throw up after reading my articles including this one. Nah, nobody has told me incidents as such. I am just being anticipant.  I mean, I don’t write like the pros do so beware: this write-up may break your day. It is not worth reading. I can only promise that when my pen slides, the sincerity goes with the ink. But I am not trying to change your mind.

When he was but knee-high to a grasshopper, he would cape himself with a blanket, jump from the bed, and shout his favorite superhero’s moniker with clenched fists even the superhero wasn't the very famous Superman. He would play in the backyard with other naughty kids in the neighborhood and would end up in brawls. He would masterfully patch his reasons up when the monster mom of the foe gets in the scene. Most of the time, he would get scratches on the knees, elbows, and on the face because of his sundry of curiosities. How and why were his favorite questions. He would also run after rare-looking dragonflies and giant grasshoppers and end up gasping on puddles of mud and carabao feces. The scenario would always remind him of the fantasy comics his lolo kept for ages in a wooden chest. He could be very impossible at times because he would not give up climbing trees to chase the ever elusive cicadas. And on isolated cases of triumphant chase he would eventually free the winged creature because it doesn’t dree-dree before his waiting inquisitive eyes. He could be ridiculous because in the first place he knew a cicada wouldn't share a decibel of its sound when in captive.  He would then go home with torn shirt and scratched arms he would try to hide. Habitually, he would cry the pain of whips from his disciplinarian father, but would do again the reasons of the whipping. 

He was stubborn—very stubborn.

On his very first day in school he could be crowned "the most behave boy in the corner." Did a single soul notice his eyes saying,  “Enjoy this day, the rest will be mine.”? It happened. The bullied boy at home became the bully in school. He was all skin and bones and no taller than a sitting dog, but could scare away a boy or two of his age. Once the class was sweeping and pulling weeds in the school yard. A chirping bird was heard but its whereabouts couldn't be traced. Boys and girls went searching but failed. Suddenly a brown winged creature fell from a banana tree. He looked up and saw a nest protruding from the fruit cub. He thought of climbing the tree and gave up catching the fallen birdie, which the other kids chased with cheers. Just when he was about to climb, a bigger boy pushed him. And with a little effort, the other boy reached the top. But he didn't give up--he knew what to do. With a few swings of his bolo, the giant herb collapsed against the ground with the rude boy crying in pain. He picked up the nest and hurried home. The next day he was at the principal’s office with his mother. 

He was pain in the neck.

Young and carefree he could be labeled, but his young mind knew that the world was not surrounded only by beauty. He lived in a world that was seasoned with atrocities—ones he battled, failed, and triumphed with. When he was nine, he started doing jobs of the grown-ups. He used to endure the burning heat of the sun in the fields as he plants corn seeds that he would harvest in the dog days of summer. He would get up in the morning and join his tiyos and lolos shovel gravel and sand along the Cagayan River and deliver them in far-flung places of the town. The creek, which was on foot away from their house was his friend.  There he would gather clams and sell them in the neighborhood—five pesos a glass. Most of the times, he would be promised to be paid but was not. He never asked twice for the reward his labor deserved but he never forgets those people. They who cheated a young boy who perspired for a living. Some of whom have been resting...

...six feet under the ground. 

He has forgiven them. 

School was not his favorite place. There were times he’d rather climb up the santol tree across their tiny dwelling where he would spend half or whole of a school day. Up the tree he would sometimes see his mother doing the laundry and catch himself giggling over his unbecoming behavior. He would also swim in the river with other lazy grade schoolers and end up fabricating reasons before the mad school  principal, school counselor, and class advisers. “What a bunch of crap!” He would always tell himself. Mother and son then would go home and he would see her cry. Often did he see her weep—when he gets a big wound; when he’s badly sick; when he gets punished by Father; when he visits the principal’s office. But not on commencement exercises. She would see her smile as she puts on the medals and ribbons on him. Would you believe it? Kidding aside, he was a consistent achiever despite his misdemeanors.

Now, this is humblebragging. So I’d rather park my pen.

Note: I haven’t edited this post so bear with the flaws.