A bevy of motor vehicles rampage through the city streets. Jaywalkers flood main thoroughfares like ants scurrying away from fire. Manila is lit up by many a light, and yet, it too is enveloped by a darkness that seems all consuming, and very, very, real.
Buxom prostitutes mill about back alleys and streets lined with bars, hoping to snag a tourist looking for an evening of casual sex. Nearby, a group of shirtless men play poker, and drink gin. Karaoke sessions abound, pushing dated standards deep into the night. Somewhere, a teenager dreams of a better life. Somewhere, a once vibrant voice is silenced by abuse.
Millions are spent conjuring up ideas for how to beautify our back yards and make onlookers' eyes sparkle. Polishing our respective dressers- that's all well and good, but of what use is that if our youth remains uneducated, uninitiated in the ways of real life. Familiar only with hard knocks, and melodies of losing faith and the sound of bones breaking upon unforgiving pavements.
People travel, or want to travel, for many different reasons. People go on trips to celebrate successes, and mask failures. Some fly off to escape prosecution, only to be reeled back in by, well, extradition. Travel ensues because of work, because of cravings for pleasures of the flesh, for peace of mind, and spiritual well-being.
What happens, though, when "travelling" is equated with fleeing from life itself? From everything one had ever been exposed to?
In this world, colors easily fade, and musical brilliance metamorphoses into chaotic beats.
When one is unable to leave, he/she does not just feel disappointed at the absence of a luxury that may be deferred. They lament at the demise of all hope, the cementing of an identity that may forever be defined not be stories, but by statistics.
They feel "stuck".
"Stuck" is really the worst place you could end up being in.
MC
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