Being Erasure

I’m getting there, faster than any transit before me, and to think I have stopped just to write it down just delays the potential of arriving earlier. Where I belong must have been waiting for me for ages, or for the span of my lifetime continuing to expand. There, there, like a consolation from an unknown parent, or where the smog keeps covering the vanishing point. Or was it really vanishing? I never had the chance to ask people who were with me, going in different destinations, there. At terminals, where I could have pushed the turnstile and carried on, I carried away the possibility of travelling away from here. I hear it very clearly, hear it as if everyone were being words, talking, engaging, pulling like inertia, convincing me to stay. And there, however close there may be, I might just collapse and disintegrate into the dying self, the decay, and the quickness of my pulse, the rhythm of my footprints, the invisible music orchestrated by gestured hands. When I begin to feel cadence in what I’m about to say, I will know I am almost –

Now, also appearing in The Philippines Free Press:


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