The world ends tomorrow, at least the media hype over the Mayan prediction says so.
And so if I die in my sleep, I will go with chocolate-sweet memories of whispers and embraces here and there, in faraway places and borrowed rooms, from a hotel named Tugu to a red tent on the white sands of El Nido, more real than the gushing words of dead poets.
I will remember the dancing silhouettes of two bodies locked in a trance, in the dead of night or in quiet afternoons as Frida Kahlo watches by.
I will remember the anchor that holds forever, rustic and stained but firm and strong, in the deep blue sea against the fierce current and smashing waves.
I will remember each step from the heart of an enigmatic young boy to the tea hills of Java, a village wiped out by a typhoon and lastly, to a paradise called Cloud 9.
I will remember with my last breath, the love more than the pain. Because Sunday Bloody Sunday is more than a song. Because it's only one in a million. Because we kept on trying.
And mostly because we dreamt that someday, small voices from the backseat will ask, "Are we there yet?"
