Note: Ang artikulong ito ay hindi satiriko kaya huwag mong pagtawanan liban na lang kung may problema talaga ang utak mo. Nais kong ibahagi ang kathang ito ng kaibigan ko para sa mga ingleserong ayaw magbasa ng wikang filipino at sa mga writer-writerang tulad ko.
-John DC
All of the world might have been a very different place, if there was a dreamer of the impossible. One who could bend the laws of human existence and defy the race of attaining full humanity by changing the course of their intellect, for nothing is ever more revered by humans than mere envy and greed and childish fiction.
Surely none of this generation is more likely to make such mere difference. The dreamy, the mind of both practical and theoretical concepts of goodness and kindness, the evaluator of what is virtuous and corrupt, the unifier of all, were not born on the days of this age.
However, people of some sort were most likely nurtured to be different, taught by several masters of the human understanding to be remarkably aware of what the world should have become and should be—those who were not bound to make a great change, but allow themselves available for such deed no ordinary mind would incur.
There were three boys locked in a vast silent room. The room was, in some sense, spacious and disordered. They were fairly distant from each other, paying no attention as to what or who has made any ruffle of a sound. They knew each other’s presence, but even so, they cared very less equally.
One of them, sitting unheeded facing towards the blankness of one wall, has eyes a mixture of black and shadowy gray. The gloss of the black wall reflected and glinted on his iris. He was fat though, with lumpy skin and joints awkward for telling. For quite a time he sat there, never sounding at all, except when he is amassed by sobs and heavy breathing. He was, never would he say towards the other two for he was as quiet as a sneaky robber, named the Poignant.
The other boy, standing near a framed painting of a bizarre crowd of faces and figures, looked gracious and relenting. Unlike Poignant, he was honorably eye-catching. He wore robes with artistic empire curves and suit that fitted his rather tall figure. Placed near him was a musical box that sounded so gracefully decent and pacifying. He sang along the sound of the musical box with voice loud and appealing that the crowd in the painting would applause everytime he finishes a song. He was, garbed with noteworthy eminence, named the Charmer.
The last of them, most likely noiseless as Poignant, sat in front of a table that piled heaps of paper, some of which scattered lifelessly towards his feet. He was writing and busily scribbling rubbish words with his pen which, if you look dearly, has an endless amount of ink. Every now and then he would cry in distress and tear away a paper and bolt his face flat to the table. He was silent, but not as melancholic as poignant, who is obviously unmoving like a statue. It was more of a fixated silence, an absorbed mute. He was named the Quixotic.
There was however, even with the inattentiveness of the three boys towards each other, a tension of some sort.The room was warm and dark and lifeless except Charmer’s space that somewhat lured a place for delight and combated boredom. They were utterly aware of each other’s presence, they just didn’t mind at all.
One moment then, when there was nothing more than frustration and unfinished issue in Quixotic’s table, he growled and made a sound at once, making Charmer jump and halt his performance.
“For Christ’s pity, please shut that mouth of yours, will you?” Quixotic requested, or rather demanded, facing Charmer.
“Pardon me?” Charmer replied.
“I am writing. Can’t you see?” Quixotic muttered, voice hoarse and dry. “I need to finish this a night from now, and I won’t be able to complete such assignment if you continue distracting me.”
“Am I distracting you?” Charmer’s mocking attitude revealed. He smirked lightly. Quixotic stared in disgust. “Shall I turn it two pitches down? Let’s go folks. C minor–”
“Turn all of it off!” Quixotic yelled. “It would be helpful really.” He sighed.
“You know I can’t.” Charmer pointed.
“Yes you can. Don’t make a fool of me.” Quixotic turned to his paper once more. “I need to finish this just once or else... Poignant right there will sob again and it’s more annoying to hear than you squealing out.”
“But I need to practice the colors of our world. Stopping for a bit will make a huge crack into our master’s mind.” Charmer said.
“I know how important it is for you to please our master.” Quixotic replied. “But there are more important things our master needs to get accomplished, school requirements, reports. I myself shall not stop too.”
“Forgive me, dear friend.” Charmer bowed lightly. “I shall make you work then.”
There was an ample time after when the last words of the discussion sounded. It was, for the record, the first time they chattered. When it was over, Quixotic immediately went back to work, until Poignant sobbed on his corner, making the frustrated writer growl louder in irritation.
“What is your problem, people?!” he yelled again.
“Our master saw something.” Poignant struggled for words, sniffling after the last word. Quixotic sighed heavily. Charmer only looked in pity.
“Do you want me to sing you a song?” Charmer asked. Poignant turned around, showing a face that spoke nothing but despair and an expression of brokenness; his eyes swollen and red and powerless.
“Don’t make matters worse.” Quixotic claimed. Poignant would have wanted to listen to another song. He cried everytime Charmer pauses from singing. It felt like all the joy and the reason to stay silently still reverberated a certain amount of sadness and more sadness as he felt every pain that their master felt.
“He needs a song.” Charmer retorted.
“He can handle it that easy.” Quixotic said, still facing the paper. “Just don’t mind him and he’ll stop.”
Poignant only stared towards the robed boy. The figures from the painting were the same as Charmer has. It showed care. But there was nothing they could do. Poignant continued a sob —now silent and even more pained.
Charmer wondered what their master saw. Why Poignant cried in deep agony for nothing is more hurtful than the way he looks now. Would it be something memorable? Something disappointing? Something painstakingly worrying?
“What is it that our master saw?” Charmer asked in a low voice.
“He saw Quixotic himself.”
The writing man made a halt. And for a moment he sat still, staring at the blank page.
Charmer turned his attention from Poignant to Quixotic. He was rather puzzled.
“The master can’t see us, can he?” he asked. Nobody answered. “Can he?!” he raised his voice.
Poignant was hesitant, nonetheless, he spoke a word. “He saw Quixotic, and he was disappointed.” Poignant remarked. “Stop it.” Quixotic finally spoke. “Our master saw his works, and people were disappointed.” Poignant talked, his tears continually falling from his drained eyes. “You know it Charmer, Quixotic is the dream of our master, to be a writer, and Quixotic must maintain that. That’s what he needs to do, to write and write and write and keep telling people the things he knew about.”
“But the people loved Quixotic.” Charmer appealed. “They stopped loving me. They can’t...” Charmer walked towards Quixotic. He gasped as he saw the paper Quixotic was persistent to write about.
“You can’t resign.” Charmer demanded.
“My time is over.”
“No. We can work this out.” Charmer tried to collect himself as he started to feel rather weak.
“I am leaving Charmer.” Quixotic said nonchalantly.
“No!” He reached for the paper, but just as he was about to crumple it Quixotic shifted easily and stole back the paper. He pushed Charmer hard he fell on the floor with a loud thud. Charmer stood up and tried to retrieve but he saw late enough a resignation signature.
It was over.
Charmer stared at the writer deeply, disgusted. He ran towards him and gave punches and the other struggled. Poignant sobbed the saddest noise he could make. He didn’t want to see his twins fighting. Poignant could do nothing. He is too weak and too fat to stop them.
The door slammed open and two men dressed in black suit appeared. They walked hurriedly straight towards Quixotic. They picked up Charmer who endlessly attacked him with blows of punch and screaming and took the now blood-drenched boy from fainting. They lead Quixotic to the door and took him away from the dark room. Quixotic, taken by the two men, was gone forever...
000
There was once a boy who dreamed to be a writer. He took the chance of showing his desire to grow to write. But everything else seemed to resist from the idea. He had a family not wealthy enough to bring him to a decent school. He had nothing but torn books and an almost-destroyed house built near houses which are even more miserable. He had no vision to the real world, as he grew up in a place far from remote to the urbanized societies of downtown.
He was after all, special and ‘underappreciatedly’ wise; nurtured by the experience of his and his family’s struggle for life. He, for quite a time, mastered Quixotic, Charmer and Poignant.
Then came a day when everything seemed to flow correctly. It was a time when Poignant started writing the feelings of his master. When Quixotic resigned, he took place. He felt, from the moment he sat on the chair his twin used to sit upon, right for the call. The chair fit comfortably. And the pen, darted out exactly what he feels. Charmer burnt all that Quixotic wrote upon, the papers that were written out of frustration. Now, the papers were filled with colors and both happiness and sadness and undeniably appropriate accounts of learning and reflection. For the first time in a long time, there was peace. No tension in the dark room, just the soft hiss from the music box. Charmer also stretched his capabilities. He started working through painting, dancing, and drawing, anything that he finds amusing and pleasingly fun.
One day came a knock on the door, and the two stopped and stared upon where the sound came from.
Slowly, so slowly, the door opened, and a face of light encouragement flowed upon his face. The two boys jumped in mere joy.
It was Quixotic. Only, he is not quixotic and imprudent looking as before. He was... blissful.
“Quixotic!” Charmer, who changed his name to Excellence, and Poignant, who changed his name to Poet, hugged him who shrugged in joy as he spoke back to the brothers he once lost.
“I’m no longer Quixotic.” He mumbled. “My name is Change. Just Change.”
And there they were, living peacefully in the mind and heart of the once hapless boy. He dreamed again, and for a certain moment of his life, he found the truest meaning of his existence.
The world doesn’t need people who can make a great change in the ideals of the people. The world doesn’t need cleverness. The world needs gentleness of the heart, one that truly balances the heart and the mind and put with it the inspiration that, at some fortunate tale, would bring enlightenment towards them. That we need nothing more than humanity, but a humanity of pure love, acceptance and unity.
The dreaming boy said to himself, once again, for the hundredth time since, “I will be an Excellent Poet, one who can make a Change.”
Pedro Inglesero
