Today I went to Plaza Independencia to get a peek of the past.
Yes. I visited the place where we dated three years ago.
I walked on the same streets and veered on the same nooks.
I could still see the same shops and buildings even the lover’s house near that Chinese School.
I was impressed with myself to navigate these in details.
Oh yes! I did a short cut to Boromeo Street to drop by the old stall we used to buy fruits for snacks.
I decided to get inside the Sto. Niño church to pray. You brought me here to burn candles on our first date.
Certainly those dates and everything in between.
Then I suddenly stopped when a little boy ran to my side to beg for some money. Oh well, I wish I could give him dollars.
I couldn’t believe his flocks still lived in the same ghetto sniffing solvent three times a day. They seemed happy at least.
From where I stood; three-hundred meters away from the historical gates of the grand Plaza, I could see the towering height of Fort San Pedro seated in the center.
It was such a beautiful sight to see—like how we were.
Or maybe not.
As I drew closer my heart sounded its alarm. I felt anxious.
I continued walking until I reached its gate. I remember we used to fight whether we looked for a seat to the right or left since it was full on the weekends. We were crazy.
I went to the first bench we used near the fountain along the stoned path. The flowers were still fresh around it and the sea breeze was sedating. The government added some lights too to contrast the antique from modernity.
That was quite a favourite for some. It used to be ours too. I guess.
I sat on the same benches; five of them to be exact.
Every scene came rushing; every word was heard; every action reenacted and every voice was listened to again.
And because I tried to relive our past, the pain resurrected as well. And I lost count of the time when the water dripped my eyes like a reset.
Again don’t laugh.
If I wanted to scream fuck you like you did but couldn’t.
If I wanted to run away from your lambasting voice but couldn’t.
If I wanted to throw things at the image of you but couldn’t.
If I wanted to scratch your face with my unclipped finger nails but couldn’t.
If I wanted to nag you even in my brain; for breaking my first cellphone and for throwing away my sim card for no reason but couldn’t.
If I wanted to kill myself to end this but couldn’t.
You are so mighty!
Even if we already lost eachother, you still won the battle.
And I lost.
I’ll keep losing until I learn to unlearn the hurt that ransacked my heart for years.
I’m a masochist and a sadist, I know.
I developed these skills when I loved you.
You must be proud.
To even point a finger at my vulnerability.
I wish I could master some witchcraft to cease loathing you.
It would lessen the pain of loving you.