Upon the Streets of Maligaya
We were drinking and driving upon the streets of Maligaya. Ignorant of the orientation of its pavement, we gambled and bravely maneuvered. We turned a blind eye to every forking path and chose the least traveled in the hopes of making a difference. We admired the gentrified neighborhood juxtaposed with the dirt on the curbs. We believed it to be a memory of what the place once was, which offered the pleasure of nostalgia. We were driving recklessly on a busy street, unable to recognize any other color but green, which caused me to never lift the gas pedal for the time being and consider the brake unnecessary.
We were drinking and driving and kept circling the heart of Maligaya when you started seeing red, while I, exhausted from seeing circles, took a left turn. This time, the other pedal was deemed necessary. You got out of the car while I remained seated, unaware of the approaching horror. Your rage was an image of a car crash: violent, disturbing, and fatal. With all the dents you’ve made, windows you’ve broken, and tires you’ve punctured, I still refused to get out.
Despite what you have done, you have managed to find your way back, while I hold myself accountable for the mess we left in that narrow section of Novaliches. You went barefoot on the streets of Maligaya, while I continued my journey on a nameless street, this time sober, and that made the difference.
