I have a strange way of dealing with my wayward thoughts.
Yesterday, my head was swamped with so many ponderings, so much inferences, that I didn’t know what to think anymore. It all started with a single idea that branched out this way and that way, and before I knew it, I was lost in my own web of confusion. Again.
I was riding the jeepney when I suddenly felt like going somewhere. Nowhere in particular really. Just somewhere.
Yesterday, my head was swamped with so many ponderings, so much inferences, that I didn’t know what to think anymore. It all started with a single idea that branched out this way and that way, and before I knew it, I was lost in my own web of confusion. Again.
I was riding the jeepney when I suddenly felt like going somewhere. Nowhere in particular really. Just somewhere.
Maybe it was the right time to find out where the Cubao Yale route ends?
I was already thinking of going for a quick jog to our house to fetch my map. But I was no Dora the Explorer. Following a map would strip off all the thrill of getting lost. My backpack was enough.
The moment I thought that, another idea occurred to me. Cubao was too familiar a destination to get lost into.
That same instant, an intersection caught my eye: Tomas Morato. It seemed like a nice place for an adventure.” Para ho.”
I found myself entering the unfamiliar boundaries of a place I have yet to discover.
My curiosity would get me killed someday. I imagined what the cause of my death would be. Andrea Libunao: Cause of cause of death: wondered what the poisonous apple would taste like. Something like that.
Anyway, I walked straight ahead. Straight ahead. And then I felt like going this way and that way… whenever a street looked interesting I just went that way without any second thoughts.
My feet were doing their job of walking me because I couldn’t care less where I was.
With every step I took, I made myself believe that each complication within me would settle with the non-existent footprints I left behind. How naïve. In time, my thoughts would learn their way back to me.
I was deep within nowhere by that time.
The street I was following was narrow and quiet, with trees everywhere I turned. The houses were nice and the air smelled of nothing but freshness.
As I was walking, I noticed a castle-like structure in the distance.
Excitement ran through my veins as the conical roof loomed nearer and nearer.
I reached a street junction and there it was, right across the street.
It was an art gallery in the middle of nowhere.
“Mga Obra ni Nanay,” I read.
I satisfied myself by just staring and observing for a moment.
And then I crossed the street and entered. As expected, I was the only visitor. The curator greeted me and gave introductions. I like the curator. She was nice to talk to, friendly, and smart. And as a plus factor, she’s pretty!
In-between talking about the artworks and the painters who made them, she mentioned something I would have never expected.
“This gallery is owned by Christy Fermin.”
And as if the universe wanted me to see for myself, the door to the gallery opened and a plump lady came walking inside. She was talking with her associates in that familiar voice.
“Hi Tita Christy!” The curator said.
It was Christy Fermin. In the flesh.
Ooooh.
The curator resumed her explanations. She was pointing here and there and piping some more names.
I looked at the artworks and shaped my face in a way that would suggest thoughts along the lines of, “Woah. Meron sya nun?!”
But in my head I was wondering who the hell she was babbling on about.
She must have believed the expression on my face because she continued mentioning names.
But really, it was a splendid collection. I found out, after I did some research, she has paintings of both famous and struggling artists (to give them a break, I guess) alike.
When I deemed it was time for me to leave, I also felt that it was time to start wandering back home.
WANDER home. No, I didn’t re-trace my steps.
I stood in front of the gallery again and searched around, overhead, for a familiar-looking building.
That same instant, an intersection caught my eye: Tomas Morato. It seemed like a nice place for an adventure.” Para ho.”
I found myself entering the unfamiliar boundaries of a place I have yet to discover.
My curiosity would get me killed someday. I imagined what the cause of my death would be. Andrea Libunao: Cause of cause of death: wondered what the poisonous apple would taste like. Something like that.
Anyway, I walked straight ahead. Straight ahead. And then I felt like going this way and that way… whenever a street looked interesting I just went that way without any second thoughts.
My feet were doing their job of walking me because I couldn’t care less where I was.
With every step I took, I made myself believe that each complication within me would settle with the non-existent footprints I left behind. How naïve. In time, my thoughts would learn their way back to me.
I was deep within nowhere by that time.
The street I was following was narrow and quiet, with trees everywhere I turned. The houses were nice and the air smelled of nothing but freshness.
As I was walking, I noticed a castle-like structure in the distance.
Excitement ran through my veins as the conical roof loomed nearer and nearer.
I reached a street junction and there it was, right across the street.
It was an art gallery in the middle of nowhere.
“Mga Obra ni Nanay,” I read.
I satisfied myself by just staring and observing for a moment.
And then I crossed the street and entered. As expected, I was the only visitor. The curator greeted me and gave introductions. I like the curator. She was nice to talk to, friendly, and smart. And as a plus factor, she’s pretty!
In-between talking about the artworks and the painters who made them, she mentioned something I would have never expected.
“This gallery is owned by Christy Fermin.”
And as if the universe wanted me to see for myself, the door to the gallery opened and a plump lady came walking inside. She was talking with her associates in that familiar voice.
“Hi Tita Christy!” The curator said.
It was Christy Fermin. In the flesh.
Ooooh.
The curator resumed her explanations. She was pointing here and there and piping some more names.
I looked at the artworks and shaped my face in a way that would suggest thoughts along the lines of, “Woah. Meron sya nun?!”
But in my head I was wondering who the hell she was babbling on about.
She must have believed the expression on my face because she continued mentioning names.
But really, it was a splendid collection. I found out, after I did some research, she has paintings of both famous and struggling artists (to give them a break, I guess) alike.
When I deemed it was time for me to leave, I also felt that it was time to start wandering back home.
WANDER home. No, I didn’t re-trace my steps.
I stood in front of the gallery again and searched around, overhead, for a familiar-looking building.
Found one.
I followed my own version of the North Star.
When it was near enough, I realized that it wasn’t really a building I knew. Haha.
I was more lost than ever.
After walking around some more, I stumbled upon Mother Ignacia Street. I followed it.
And then I found myself on SCOUT MADRIÑAN STREET.
Oh my God. This is where Paul lives. I stood in front of his house wondering if he would come out or if I should knock or ring a doorbell or something.
I decided to just resume my journey.
I found the National Bookstore. From there, I could’ve ridden a jeep the MRT station.
But. I don’t know. I wanted to walk back to E. Rodriguez.
And so I did.
While I was walking, I noticed that I felt better.
I don’t know if it was the exercise that did it (Did the serotonin and dopamine work their happy chemical magic on my brain?) and I don’t know it the discoveries I made and the thoughts I concurred sufficed as answers.
All I know is that everything felt just right.
As the wind whispered softly past me, I realize that it was a nice day for a walk.
And I’m glad I did just that.
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