Strange days

Everything is tainted with the color of dreams. Highways like EDSA, Ayala Ave., and Buendia seemed so familiar until the death of Nanay two nights ago.

My mind craves for dreams just as a hungry stomach longs for food.

Flashbacks are becoming the habit of my head.

Thought flashes by; then goes back; split seconds turning into minutes and hours.

It occupies most of my idle moments. 

For awhile, I thought that the pathways inside this crematory, Loyola in Guadalupe, looks like the catacombs in Europe--the ones I used to watch in the defunct TV show, the Scariest Places on Earth.

Though it doesn't necessarily scare me, I feel a medieval sense of sadness with one-way, yellow-lit hallways: reminds me of torch-lit dungeons in TV shows (for TV is all the reference I have for the medieval period). 

I can see that obtuse angled edges have the tendency to trick the eyes that the hallways are longer. It also confuses the sense of direction for you never really no where every turn will lead you.

Small coconut trees and some plastic-looking plants sprout on the eye of this building.

There is no silence at night. People keep coming at nearby chapels. They come with tears and reluctant steps. After a few minutes, family talk raises spirits. This is natural--reunions at funerals.

No matter how busy, broken, or sad; people would always stop by for dead people.

But EDSA and its hard-honking buses and jeepneys born to race with space, time, and life; shall ever numbly move.