Art appreciation day

Today is an official holiday (oo, official, hindi gawa-gawang holiday ng mga tamad pumasok tulad ko), so my sister Audrey and I decided to make this day a productive one. 

We went to Pinto Art Museum (@Antipolo, Rizal) in hopes that we would get some fresh air. Although art must be appreciated in all the days you've been blessed with, this one was a special sort of an art appreciation day for me.

Things have been a crazy combination of twist and turns in my life lately: pressure and panic building up in a matter of only one hell week. School works, social responsibilities, write ups and problems altogether were an inch away from driving me insane.

Luckily for me, that did not happen since I've finally decided that I am badly in need of a breather - which is of course, none other but to roam in a museum accompanied by no more than 2 people, to see artworks from different artists.

It was indeed a fun adventure, both in mind and in spirit, to see lots of creativity in a span of 2 hours while reflecting life within each paintings. 

Took lots of photos, but these didn't even reach half of what Pinto has to offer. I only got to capture some of my favorite pieces, while of course, adding my face in the picture from time to time. 

I am more than proud to say that this art exhibit is not only a place packed with canvases hanging on its white-painted-walls, but it is rather a home for every human being who clings to art like it's oxygen needed by their souls. 

I finally got the peace of mind I've been looking for... kahit panandalian lang.

Drunken soberness

I took a glass of vodka and drank it in three seconds straight. After my second, third immediately followed. You stared at me unbelieving, and all you could ever say was "You drink like you have to forget something". And I do. If only she  knew how many thoughts inside my mind I wanted to drain so badly. Of course she'll never know. There's no way for her to figure it out. She was not perfect, but I guess she's also not as messed up as I am. And so here's my fourth.

She had people. People she could trust and would love her all the time. People who would be there for her, and not her money, not her brain, not her looks. People who enjoyed being with her. People who understand. How could she know when all she's ever gonna be is a happy girl who's yet to know of my sorrows. 

As I downed my fifth glass of vodka I realized no amount of alcohol flowing in my blood stream could ever ease the pain. It only made it worse. So I went for sixth. This time I could hardly feel my lips and my arms are getting numb. But even when my vision starts to blur, I could still see your face ever so clearly in my mind. 

Seventh. 

It's the time when I started to talk about things - things she's never gonna fully understand in this wrecked of a lifetime - things I couldn't say when I am sober. This is why I hated being drunk, I kinda let my walls down. And no, this isn't the alcohol to blame. It's her. She tears down my walls in seconds that I have been building up for years.

So I downed the eight. In hopes that I would forget the reason why I was murdering my kidney, I drank every bit of it.

My blood-shot cheeks matched my glassy eyes, she said. Thousands of butterflies rose from my stomach, only to drown at my ninth shot. 

"You're beautiful." She said. And God how that sounded sincere in her voice. The flashing blue lights illuminated her face for a second, and that was enough for me to want her more. The room was pounding with music, lots of people dancing the night away - but my Lord she makes everything around us a blur. 

Tenth.

"You're beautiful too." I said. Her head fell down to her lap and I was disappointed. She should never hide that beauty of hers. It's not everyday that I see something that wonderful. "You're just drunk." She said in a soft voice. Yes, I am. But tomorrow I'll be sober and you'll still be beautiful.   

As I drank my eleventh glass I've realized I had been staring at her in awe for so long. "Do you come here a lot?" She asked, trying to bring up a topic. "Sometimes," I answered. "Define sometimes," she said back. "Sometimes when it all doesn't make sense. Sometimes always." 

This is the twelfth, so I asked her for a drink. She gladly took my half-finished glass and downed it all at once. She suddenly turned pink, and I love the way this vodka highlighted her beauty that's been lingering on her for so long. "I'm sorry, I'm not a fan of alcohol." She shyly said. And it was evident. But it was not something to be sorry about either. 

A smile is all I could ever give. And I guess that was enough for her. There was silence for a minute, and as I was about to drink my thirteenth shot she said "I wonder how many bottles of vodka it will take for you to realize that the boy you once held in your very arms are now lightyears away from your fingertips." 

With that one sentence I swear I felt all the alcohol in my veins drained from my system - and I was suddenly flushed but awakened to my senses.

"How did you know that," I murmured. "You don't drink alcohol like that for no reason." 

So I moved in closer to her face, only to find her moving even closer to mine.

The next thing I knew my lips were around hers so hard it starts to ache. Her warm soft lips got me drunk better than any liquor did, and I felt myself getting lost again and again.

We parted lips at last, but we both knew it was never going to be enough. Not when I've finally got a piece of euphoria. Not when I've finally found someone who could heal my broken pieces.

She looked at me with hopeful eyes. I figured this isn't possibly right, but how else could this be wrong? My mind is intoxicated and it was impossible to fight the urge to feel her for the second time.

This isn't the smartest thing to do. But her lips tasted like vodka so I kissed them again - My thirteenth.

Aftermath

I remember a night when I was alone with my father in our little home. I think I was 7 back then, and as young as I remember myself to be, my mind was curious - but innocent - and somehow, naive.

The sky was dark and the wind was roaring with rage. It was only 5pm, yet the sun was a total no-show. No kids were playing on the streets, no cars passing-by. Thunders occur from time to time, followed by the flash of lightning, the crashing sound making me hide under our little coffee-table. 

My 7 year old logic was able to guess what was going on: that a storm was about to happen. To which I later on figured that I was half-right, because it wasn't just an ordinary storm. It was a tempest.

My father gently pulled me out of our coffee-table with arms wide open, and his tone mild and securing. He tells me it's okay, he tells me he'll keep me safe.

When I was in his arms the first thing he asked me was if I'm afraid of the storm. As if it wasn't obvious, I nodded my head in response.

My father smiled. To which he replied, and I remember the exact words he said; the storm is nothing to be afraid of. It's not the storm that you should be worried about. For it only lasts for hours. Soon it will leave the certain area, ready to move on to another place to wreck. The storm is disastrous, but passing. 

What you should worry about, kiddo, is the aftermath. For unlike the storm - it lasts. The departure of the storm is only the beginning of the mayhem, not the ending itself. For when the storm is gone and all, the debris it leaves behind is much more painful to bear. 

My 7 year old mind could not quite make an understanding of what my father told me. I was young, and my mind was curious - but innocent - and somehow, naive.

Not until I was 19, and in love with you. 

Only then did I realize - having you in my life is more like a storm. Disastrous, but passing. And when you left - the aftermath was unbearable.