The Inception of Jairus

The mercury plunges and it's a natural tendency to let the temperature control so many things. The flower farmers in Benguet had to harvest early bacause the flowers started frosting. South of the country and and in other countries, there's been a long spell of rain and resulting flood. There is no snow in this sad republic but I see so much white. So much white to see too little clarity. So much cold bringing chaffed lips that hushed me and left my wits to a drought.

I'm always sick at the start of the year, which makes January both a beginning and a relapse. Perhaps it's leaning more towards a relapse because it sounds like I'm going back to my whining ways. I had several cases of existential blues in the office, and I've lost track of a sensible diet. Over drinks last weekend, I confided office woes to my wife. I've also gained around ten pounds that I've previously lost.

I'm reading Roth's Sabbath's Theater. I've been reading for nearly two months now and both that fact and what I read in the book sinks me further into sadness.

I scheduled a run this afternoon. After stretching, lacing up and the warm-up walk to Roxas Boulevard, a drizzle later fully developing into a rain made me abort the 6k-before-work plan. And work, needless to say, is rarely pleasant. The office is another big freezer that makes me feel like a corpse basked in formaldehyde.

And I've been dreaming violently. There must be some kind of Inception taking place. That's also the only decent film we saw in the last quarter. And yes, perhaps that's what's happening
now. Given this tendency to relapse into whining, the agents are re-wiring my consciousness.

After all all that violet dreaming and looking deep into me, the Inception was to have me look at my son's eyes and say: there is so much sunshine. It's from another subconscious item: a Walt Whitman quote.



Remember last Monday? Remember? Upon getting a package notice, you went to the Central Post Office. The tall pillars, high ceilings, the designed tiles, along with a cool breeze and Lawton's pollution made you nostalgic about your childhood. You remember licking stamps to the the letters you sent. And you are getting one now yourself: a handwritten letter. It came with music from a friend in the States who shared the same tastes. The package came with pictures from a strong 10k run followed by pleasant trips out of town.

Remember this morning? Remember? After another tiresome night at work, you were in a coffeeshop. You ordered chicken empanada while waiting for your wife, tweeting and tinkering with an iPhone (what you call your love-at-first-swipe-of-the-finger). Emerald Avenue in Ortigas had so much sunshine peering through thick brown glass pannels. She came and gave you what she called "the second best Meat Trio Sandwich" that she got from a nearby deli. The best of course, being the sandwhiches you make. You had an iced black tea that tasted exactly how you wanted it to taste. Compelled by her kindness, you insisted on getting her a giant peach tea. And on the way home you listened intently about the book she was reading on what babies say and attachment parenting. You both thought lovingly about your son. And shortly after, you were home.

The Inception agents must be saying: be not afraid and open your doors to the elements that made you effervescent with joy.

I'm going to kill myself now and wake up. Let's see what happens.