When I decided to take the risk two months ago, I was adamant of something. I was resolute to stay in Singapore because at that exact moment, it was the most feasible endeavor that I could make for a certain goal: to find a better niche.

So far, the extant turn of events are not fully on my side. I am still in this huge tussle between patience and optimism. I have my rays of hope shining straight from the Katong sky and some foreboding spaces as days go by.

Though I wasn’t really expecting for something great immediately when I first came here, I was confident that I would be able to pick a random apple from the Lion’s tree. With just a week of online job hunting, I received calls inviting me for interviews and I did well. I was honest. I was seriously proper. Those moments boosted my pride. I mean, I know that I am qualified with most of the jobs that I am bringing into play but my nemesis was (and still) that ridiculous quota shit. The depressingly high 2013 ratio of local and foreign workers was unexpected and last year’s allotted 120,000 plus S-Pass slots are now down to 75,000. It absolutely brought me a huge surprise and a little scare. But I didn’t quit.

A few weeks later, I found myself  inside a room teaching a boy how to play C, G, Am, F in ukulele. Days after that, I found myself earning a little money and going to 7-11 to buy a pack of Marlboro and Vanilla Coke. I found myself traveling from Lot 1 to Mountbatten Road on a regular basis. I found myself preparing for songs to teach. I found myself having conversations with co-teachers and jamming with the admin staff after school hours. I found myself talking to parents about their children’s musical growth and discussing pseudo-music theories that would eventually be diverted to me answering questions about Manila, aswangs, and my “atsaka”.

Now, as I lay myself on my folded foam, in this dim room in a wee hour of Wednesday, my head is teeming with a lot of “maybes” that I hope I can write down before my phone’s battery drains out completely. It’s dark and I don’t want to look for my charger because I don’t want to disturb Neil and Lee who are so tired and now sleeping tight with the former snoring progressively. Haha.

4 pics

Maybe I shouldn’t entertain all the maybes but maybe I will go home on Sunday. Maybe Gideon didn’t read my e-mail proposal. Maybe Manning is just a fluke and that I am really meant be a creative writer for Media Corp or a salesman in the Steinway Gallery. But maybe I should really go back to the Philippines and recharge for a while instead of finding a Taxi Driver who will take me to the back door of Hell. Maybe I should start buying pasalubongs later. Maybe water chestnut really came from deep-wells and Chicken Rice is actually pork. Maybe curry really gives you the banal odor that emanates in Bus number 66 and maybe I don’t really have enough initiative, and groping for affirmative responses just illustrates my not-yet-ness for facing the grinds of the Red Dot. Maybe.

Maybe I am right. Maybe they are not. Maybe it’s wrong, to say “Please love me too,” `cause I know you’ll never do. Somebody else is waiting there inside for yoooouuuuuu. Maybe it’s a song. Maybe I’m corny. Maybe I’m restless. Maybe there were actually signs for everything that just fell flat. Maybe love is bleeding. Maybe hatred is monolithic. Maybe solicitude is unilateral. Maybe cynicism is a test to pass your faith exam. Maybe I can substitute C major’s Neapolitan 6th for the D minor chord. Maybe I am dreaming. Maybe I am dreaming. Maybe I am dreaming. Maybe I am dreaming. Maybe I am dreaming. Maybe I had thought too much of my belligerent interests and the enormity of my delusions are just happening right now. Right now. Right now. Right now that I am on the left side of the hyphen. So maybe I am a noun who used to be an adjective that’s outside the parenthesis. Maybe I counted the chicks while the iron is hot. Maybe I stroked it while it’s raining eggs on my parade.

Maybe I should really look for my charger. Maybe I must go to the living room on all fours and begin to find the coin that constantly drops on the floor. Maybe orthodox repetition will never really defy the apparent because I was absorbed and absolved yestreen while constructing some metonymies for the tenants in the upper floor. Maybe they are “busy bees” or “shabu powered” or “hole makers”. Maybe ghosts are real and I can really hurt them with salt and iron.

Maybe I should stop writing right now because all these “maybes” are now turning into one big question that I must sleep on. That is, if I will sleep.

Maybe I won’t sleep. Maybe I don’t sleep. Maybe I should pray. Maybe I am getting crazy. Fuck. There’s that coin again.

Maybe I should sleep.

I will definitely sleep.



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