There is Nothing More

(In which I realize where I stand.)

***

As I was browsing my literature book in search for a short story, I found my self stuck on a page marked by a piece of paper. I held it up and stared at the white sheet bearing a penmanship so illegible that only the artist of that crudeness knows how to decipher its visual complexity. I ran my fingers on it and stopped at the colored blotches – dried marks of something once mine and alive.

“How terrible this poem was!” I though to myself. Yet what is more terrible is that it’s all real. It was and it is. How could these unfinished and untitled stanzas speak louder than spoken words? I stared and read for what seemed to be the entire night. I stared and read until I couldn’t bear to stare and read anymore.

Suddenly, I feel a growing feeling inside me and I saw the paper weakly succumbing to the strength of my fingers. The crispness of it seemed to echo through the corners of my room – filling it – filling me. Then there was a sound – a sound so heartbreaking as if it was screaming for mercy. I held the deformed paper tight so as not to let it escape but not so much so I can still hear its plea. I stayed motionless for a while then swung my arms to let it go. It landed into the plastic bin which I’ll get rid of first thing the next morning.

I let it go. And not a tear fell. Neither a sob nor a sigh escaped from my calmly closed lips. Only a loud scream from within.

Monologue

(In which the real battle truly lies within.)

***

How many times have you told yourself
About this being the last time?

Reverberating are the

Memories that seem to get one-sidedly

Old by the minute – the ones that have flashed warnings in the

Nether of your already-charted 

Regions of experience. Yet you never learn.

In spite of its 

Ephemerality, you still clung. Now you are left

Dangerously dangling alone in the 

Edge of the cliff you both built, for you sent

Caution to the 

Air. And are now stranded alone in your self-made

Dead

End.

Versus

(In which one virtue never wins.)

***

In our Literature class, we were talking about the different types of conflicts as part of our discussion on the plot of a short story.

Professor: Have you read “The Plighted Word” by Narciso G. Reyes?

(Edit: Dear Reader, for the full text of “The Plighted Word” by Narciso G. Reyes, click here.)

The students looked at each other. My friend asked me if I had. “I don’t remember if I had. It must be a no.” I said.

The professor, seeing the puzzled look in our faces, ended our agony by starting to tell the summary of the story.

Professor: The setting was wartime and it’s about the love story of Flora and Tonio. Flora’s father decided that she marries the son of the landlord. Tonio is a soldier and so his father doesn’t consider him a good choice for a husband. He told Flora that if she marries Tonio, she will be widowed early but if she marries the rich boy, she will have a good future. So everything about the wedding was being planned by the two parties. Flora told Tonio “When Sunday night comes, consider me dead. I am going to marry Damian, the son of the landlord, just like what my father said.”

The night of pamamanhikan came and Tonio survived an ambush. He came to Flora’s house and called out her name. Flora heard him and all their sweet memories under the moonlight came to her. And you know what she did? She covered her ears so she couldn’t hear him. When Flora didn’t come out, Tonio left. That’s how the story ends.

Groans of disappointment filled the room.

The professor’s smile seemed to me that she enjoys the sound of our sympathetic groans. Then we moved on.

Professor: In the first part of the story, who or what are in conflict with each other?
Class: Flora and her father.
Professor: Then it’s man versus man. What about in the last part?
Class: Flora and her self.
Professor: (Nodding.) It’s man versus self. Now remember that it is literature because it symbolizes something deeper. What does the father symbolize?
Me: Practicality?
Professor: Yes. (Pauses.) Realism. What about Flora?
Student: Love?
Me: Emotions?
Professor: Love and Emotions. Romanticism. (Pauses.) Who won?
Class: Her father.
Professor: Then it's realism. What does Flora's conflict with her self symbolize? (The class was quiet.) Flora was supposed to follow her father’s decision since the wedding has been planned, otherwise, she will embarrass her father. What does that symbolize?
Me: Loyalty?
Professor: Idealism. What about Flora’s attitude toward Tonio?
Class: Romanticism.
Professor: Which won?
Class: Idealism.
Professor: Young people will always argue that romanticism must always be first and idealism and realism should be less prioritized. But that just shows how young they are.

There was a brief moment of silence as if everyone’s contemplating on what seemed to be a newfound knowledge. Suddenly it all came to me. My thoughts wandered from the present to some months ago. I saw it. Out of the darkness, all the letters flashed in gold.

This is reality. You have to accept it.
I like you but if it goes on, it will be more painful.
I’m ending it now.
Just forget about me.

The painfully slow flow of my thoughts was stopped and I was brought back to reality.

“…we have to do a genre analysis. Now please look at the next page…”