Roger Rabbit

The days ran on like racing rabbits in the greener meadows of my avid antipathy for all things great and unknown. I looked up and was surprised to see November with its sinister smile and its subtle claws digging 15 layers into my pallid skin. To some, this is a good thing. To know that time is passing, to feel that you are moving. But as much as I wish, I could not bring myself into wanting for time to drag its racing feet into the greater wilder world that is the future.

And this should be wrong. Wrong as in a knot that could be untangled and be undone by firmer more resilient hands. I think about the future, intoxicated with the prophetic promise of a brand new day, and imagine that in a few years time, three semesters from now, all I know of the present will melt into thin air.

The truth is, all I ever want is to graduate. It doesn’t have to be grand. There is no need for a Magna cum laude under my name. To make it all the way to the finish line: that is what I am bleeding for.

And it costs so much to bleed. There are days when I look out to the open view from the sixth floor of the university and imagine a day when all of this is over. Then altogether there’s the sound of boulevard traffic echoing into the nook and cranny of the abandoned classroom, footsteps tapping the polished floor like the ticking of the clock, voices of all sorts transforming itself into a massive form of tyranny, laughter like perfumed air poisoning the clouded sphere of corruption under their watchful eyes that glare like laser beams in the absence of all my defenses. And in the end comes the gentle reverberation of my own hearbeat slowly filling the crowded air as I try to find an escape into the equally crowded hallway.

I used to think that there is salvation in the future, for it promises a break from all of these present worries. I used to imagine a life somewhat better in the brighter days to come. But one day I stopped looking for all the right reasons to wait for the future, and pondered instead at the word ‘contingency’. You see, there is no such thing as the future, only actions taken by a human who sees and understands the greater picture of events well enough to prepare for the proper response, a human who looks through life with the frenzied anticipation for both the better and the worse, a human who is ready to accomodate accidents whensoever they take place in the midst of all that is planned.

If there is such a thing as the future, maybe it is in the here-and-now of things. Maybe it is tucked away in the very presence of the present, awaiting for its time like a flower awaiting bloom. Maybe, as they often used to say, the future is what we make of it. Better still, maybe there is no future. Only a projection of what we envision ahead of time. And that what we have instead of the future are contingencies, drawn and outlined in the image of our projected future. But like I always tell myself, maybe only time could ever tell. There are days when the mere sight of the calendar is enough to bring ache in my heart but there are days too when the thought of time passing in a slow but steady rhythm is all it takes for salvation.

Whatever will be, will be — or we let it be.

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