I am niavi's favorite paperback. Unlike her other books, I am not placed on the shelf to gather dust; I sit on the chair she has not used for over a month now since my return. Everyday when she wakes up, she looks at me and thinks whether she should conceal my tattered skin. But after some time of mental dialectic, she shakes off the idea and sighs, "You are a crime and I'm the criminal."
I am niavi's Meteor Garden poster. Her kind Grams taped me to her door during the days of MG craze. Above me is a sticker of the child Son Gokou. Son Gokou was placed high, beyond niavi's reach. If anything, he is safe. He will not be pulled down when niavi gets her new poster from her friend. I am dreading, counting the days before she tears me off her door.
I am niavi's overly acidic and lactose-intolerant stomach. Whenever she eats high cholesterol food, drinks milk or carbonated or alcoholic beverage, or does not eat or drink at all, I get hurt and she nearly dies of the pain. But if you know niavi, you definitely are aware of one of her cherished philosophies: masarap ang bawal. True, niavi's pain can be considered beyond tolerance, but she doesn't think about that while she hits on the forbidden. Soy milk. Sip after sip after sip. Carton after carton after carton. An hour or two, and then pain.
I am niavi's fried brain. I am doomed to calculate for the rest of her life. Even when niavi is sleeping, her nightmares are of dancing butt-naked numbers. But last night, I gave her a different nightmare. Her teeth were falling off. She woke up alarmed, fearful that it was an omen that someone in the family will die. After a little while, she got over it and stared at the ceiling instead. I can't have my teeth falling off. Braces are expensive. What a shame to use dentures after all the money Papa spent on my teeth.
I am niavi's guilty conscience. When the semester started, she swore that she would religiously study to redeem herself. Well, she did that -- for more or less two weeks. Now, she's slacking off again.
When the semester started, she swore she would forget about the past. She would move on. She would not miss the overnight sessions, the rehearsals in THY, the people she loved to work with, the boy. She would get rid of all these things and get on with her life, because these things, these people seemed to have gotten over the past easily. She envies them. She hopes to forget so she would not be slacking off again.
And so I am her guilty conscience. Because no matter how hard she tries to do the things she has to do, she will strive forever to rationalize them -- for her benefit and for those who love her. I wish to be free of the guilt of course, but her sensitivity to even trivial things makes it impossible for me to recover.
***inspired by tyler durden, fight club
logout;.
{/.9:35 AM}
|
