Photo by Bruno Martins on Unsplash

My son,

The times, they are a-changin’, and your old man can barely keep up with them. Everything moves so fast, and I… I feel so slow. My vision isn’t so good anymore. But I can clearly see it bothers people when it takes me a bit of extra time to cross the street next to the seniors’ residence where you and your sister so reluctantly put me. The other day a young man yelled at me, claiming I should do like other seniors and get me an hoverchair. I flipped him the bird; he called me a dinosaur and dove his head back into his car’s motion dashboard. My doctor also told me, albeit more politely, that I should start using an hoverchair to spare my bad knee the shocks of walking on the concrete (hell, back in the days, doctors used to tell me to take long walks three or four times a week so I’d reinforce my knee). I understand his point, but I don’t want you and your sister to spend another fraction of your hard-earned coins on the useless old man that I have become. Oh, and your sister mentioned biotech implants for my knee and eyes: tell her I don’t want any of that bullshit overpriced technology grafted on my collapsing body. Anyway, I’ll keep using my two old feet to get around. It feels good to feel the ground beneath me, I don’t know why every goddamned thing has to be floating nowadays. Nobody gives a shit about gravity anymore I guess.

I remember when uncle Luke (you remember uncle Luke, right?) and I managed to actually keep up with emerging technologies. We used to marvel for hours at the wonder that the Internet was. Back in the days we were even able to make good money thanks to its expanding popularity and accessibility. Now the “Internet” is just another dusty word that belongs to an era steadily falling into History’s hands. And I’m afraid I, too, will soon have to be on my way. I must become part of this past I have dreaded and fled and fought for so long, for too long. I haven’t got many tomorrows left; I can feel it inside of me. There are days when my whole body is aching, when every muscle I have is begging me to let go.

And I’m ready to go. I want to, and if I could, I would, right now. But I can’t: I made a promise to your grandmother years ago, a promise I intend to keep until the very end, bitter or not. Sometimes, before taking my daily bath, I stand naked in front of my room’s only mirror, looking at each and every tattoo that covers parts of my sagging skin. Did I ever tell you how many times your mother told me to get rid of them? Hundreds, if not thousands of times. But I was a stubborn man, and I never set foot inside the paying laser-erasing booths that popped up years ago. And I’m glad I didn’t, because today I look at the ink’s fading colour and I smile, remembering a bunch of people, moments and feelings. They’re a proof reminding me how young and alive I once was. How stupid, how angry, how broken-hearted and how hopeful I have been.

But those days are gone. Now I am mostly weary. I have done my part, I have fought my battles. This world isn’t mine anymore, it’s yours. I have laughed and loved and suffered enough; I’m ready to go dance with the stars now. I am filled with both pride and pain, and I long to rejoin the ghosts that illuminate most of my memories.

You and your sister were the best thing that ever happened to me. Even when my tired body leaves, I will stay with both of you, in your hearts, for as long as you let me. And if you listen closely, I bet you’ll hear me laughing in the wind, glad to have finally found the answer.

With love, always

Your old man

Photo by Samuel Scalzo on Unsplash

The old man stood still under one of the room’s bright white lights. He sat silently on a pale plastic chair, both arms resting on his lap. His blue hospital gown barely covered his wrinkled knees. As one neon light flickered for a second, he blinked slowly before letting his gaze return to the very same spot on the ceramic floor he had been staring at for the past hour. Hanging loosely around his right wrist was a bracelet on which his name and some numbers had been printed. He was mostly bald, but light patches of short, white-grey hair tried to cover the sides of his head. The room’s whiteness reflected on the upper part of his forehead. Under his grey eyes, the skin was darkened with touches of blue and purple.

He didn’t budge as another, younger man passed him by. The other man walked with his head slightly bowed, mumbling to himself, and pacing his steps with an unfaltering attention. He had been steadily circling the room for more than an hour. The others, annoyed by his mania at first, had come to ignore him. His black beard and hair were long and unkempt; dark chunks of hair were protruding from his chest, right where the collar of the gown stopped. Except for one orderly who threw a quick look his way from time to time, nobody seemed to care about him.

A buzzer rang, and the heavy set of locked doors opened at once: an old, smiling lady came in, carrying a reusable grocery bag. She examined the room, searching. Stepping out of the reception desk’s corner, the black-haired man appeared in front of her. She smiled and watched him going around for a second.

‘Martin,’ she said. ‘I’m here.’

Martin looked up, puzzled at first. It took him a moment to recognize the woman’s voice and face.

‘Hi mom,’ he said, monotone.

‘How are you doing, honey? You’re feeling good?’

‘Yes.’

He answered to all of her following questions with the same calm, tired voice. They were standing and talking right in front of the bald, older man, who seemed unbothered by their presence.

‘Listen, Martin. I brought you some new sandals, like you asked on the phone.’

She reached for something in her bag, her hand feeling and analyzing the shape of different things. Then, with a twist of her wrist and her tongue locked between her teeth, she pulled out a pair of brand new, black rubber sandals. Martin frowned at first, but his face softened once his fingers felt the smoothness of the soles.

‘Thanks, mom,’ he said.

His mouth hinted at a smile that never showed. The mother touched his hairy cheek with the palm of her hand, and offered him a warm, honest smile.

‘If you need anything, you just call, okay? Your father and I will be at home for the weekend. I love you son, take care of yourself.’

‘I love you too, mom.’

The woman turned around and got out the room the exact way she came in. Martin removed his dirty sneakers and handed them to a lady behind the reception desk. She nodded and stored them away in a transparent plastic box full of random things. With a sigh, Martin put on his new sandals and resumed his circling of the room. The old, bald man kept staring at the floor.

A frail and agitated man sat on the empty seat next to him. His eyes were light blue and bloodshot; he blinked twice for every second that passed. Every now and then, he made a loud snuffing sound, reflexively touching the left nostril of his crooked nose. He had a blue pen with him and he played with it nervously, passing it through his fingers. After shifting on his seat for ten minutes or so, he leaned closer to the staring man and whispered:

‘So, man, why you here for, huh?’

The older man stayed still and silent.

‘Ah come on, man, you can tell me! I won’t judge. See, me, they brought me in here ‘cause—’

‘Chuck!’ a burly orderly interrupted. ‘Where the hell did you get that pen?’

Chuck scrambled away from the orderly, muttering an incomprehensible answer.

‘Gimme that, now!’ ordered the imposing man. ‘Don’t make me send you back to the fourth floor, Chuck.’

Chuck hesitated, frowning and holding on to his pen defensively. He was weighing his options, his gaze switching back and forth between the authoritative man’s opened hand and his pen. Then, with a grunt, he gave it up.

‘There. Now, you wait for lunch without making a fuss. And leave that poor guy alone, will ya?’

Chuck moved to the other end of the overly-lit room and sat in a corner with a bitter look on his face. The noise in the room was once again reduced to the sound of keyboards and fuzzy mumblings.

Then, without the usual warning buzz, the steel doors burst open, surprising everyone in the room except the bald, old man. Martin stopped walking and raised his head; Chuck stared avidly at the entrance. A young, Hispanic man entered, escorted by two police officers. He had no shirt on and fresh blood on his knuckles. He looked all around the room, but he didn’t seem to actually see anything. He was in shock, and his dark, empty brown eyes were searching for something, for a way out. Just before the doors closed behind him, what appeared to be his mother’s pleading, Spanish voice was heard in the other room. The taller of the two policemen motioned to the lady behind the reception desk.

‘Where do you want us to put this one?’

‘Room 121,’ she answered bluntly, pointing towards a stretching hallway.

The shorter policeman gently pushed the newcomer on his back, inviting him to lead the way. They disappeared further down the corridor, followed closely by the reception lady. Half a minute passed and things in the room went back to the way they were.

An hour later, the buzzer rang once again. A handsome, brown-haired man in his forties pushed the doors and held one opened for the woman he was with. She came in hurriedly, holding on tightly to her companion’s arm. Her nose was redder than the rest of her face; her puffy green eyes scanned the room swiftly. Both her hands went over her mouth as soon as she glanced upon the old, bald man who was still staring in front of him. She rushed to his side, dropping her purse on the ground in the process. Her partner picked it up and stayed respectfully behind.

‘Thank God, she cried. ‘Thank God you’re here.’

The old man’s inferior lip began to shiver as he felt the woman’s hand patting the back of his neck. He tried to keep his gaze locked on the ceramic floor, but his eyes were starting to fill up with burning water. He closed and opened them a few times, breathing heavily, his wrinkled hands shaking. Then, he grabbed the woman’s wrists impulsively as a tear rolled down his cheek.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

The old, bald man was still crying when they called my name.

Photo by Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

We all thought we were so unique, so different, but in the end we were pretty much all the same. A bunch of young fools in love with the idea of travel and freedom and fancy check-ins, swimming in a dirty fishbowl we mistook for a sea of possibilities and opportunities. In this opaque water polluted by carbon dioxide, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, fast-food, shitty music, free porn and disillusioned sarcasm, we were having a hard time just seeing one another. Man, I bet our souls were dying to shine their light. We knew something was wrong, but it felt like it was already too late. So we danced and we drank and we fucked and we cried and we tried our best to love, knowing our Titanic would crash as soon as Monday came around. Knowing we'd barely be able to put up with the cold water and the cold facts. We needed to shake off those thoughts and feelings that kept slashing at our guts with their painful truths. So some of us turned to sex, porn or both (it does get confusing sometimes). Some turned to the wide array of consciousness-altering substances that were always at hand. Some turned their backs on all of it, and frankly I don’t blame them. Others turned to music, sports, careers, cash or entertainment. And the most desperate among us turned to God, sending their prayers through what they hoped was a bidirectional communication channel. We all turned to something or someone. I turned to an innocent white page, and I painted it black.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Hey, old man.

I know it’s been a damn long while since you saw me around these parts. Here, I brought you flowers. One from Mom, one from sis, and one from me. You might be wondering why I drove all the way down here just to bring you a few flowers, huh? Well, that’s not exactly why I came. I came to pay my respects, of course, but I also came to talk. You see, I bumped into this girl two days ago. The girl I had loved a whole freaking lot two years ago. Maybe a bit too much even. Anyway, I wasn’t prepared, and I didn’t know what to do, so I kind of just ran away. But I was tired of avoiding her; I’ve been doing this for more than a year now. So the following day, I reached out to her, and we went for a walk. Best decision I’ve made recently. You should have seen her, Dad. God, she was beautiful. And I’m not talking just sexy and pretty. Hearing her laugh and tell me stories, seeing her cry and smile, I remembered how much of a beautiful human being she was. I remembered why I fell in love with her. I told her everything that had been on my mind and heart since we broke up. The pain, the self-doubt, the repression, the outbursts, the nostalgia, the hope… I laid all of it down. It felt damn good. She’s going to leave again, soon. But at least now I’m not mad at her about it. I’m slowly making my peace with the fact that she’s going to be hanging out somewhere in my heart for a while. And it’s okay. Who knows, we might just bump into one another further down this winding road. For now, I’m just glad I got to spend some honest time with her. To hold her small body close to mine for a few powerful seconds.

Don’t worry though, I didn’t come here just to talk about girls and love. We have much bigger issues to discuss, you and I. You must remember how angry and sad and scared I’ve been the other times we talked. Since you left, I’ve often felt like this world didn’t make any sense. That the inevitability and finality of death and the recurrence of pain and loss stripped this life from meaning. That this world somehow wasn’t enough. And I’ve carried this sour aftertaste in my mouth for years. I’ve constantly focused on the bad stuff. Unfortunately, I still do it too much.

I was smoking a cigarette on my balcony with a good friend last week. We were discussing this tendency we both shared: focusing on the negative. And I told him bluntly (I was also telling it to myself) that we were stupid motherfuckers. That we were consciously choosing to put the bad first and ignore all the good that was around. And that this had to stop. Because you know what? I couldn’t even count all of my blessings if I tried. There’s just too much good stuff. The majesty of the sun setting on the river while I was driving to meet you here. The warm smile of this girl I was just telling you about. The laughter and hugs and adventures I share with real friends. The jokes, drinks, and meals I share with Mom and sis. The overwhelming, mysterious opportunities that lay just beyond our tomorrows. And this cold Rimouski wind that dries my tears while I sit here by your side.

I miss you Dad. I wish you would’ve stayed just a bit longer. Because this world is enough.

And I’m so thankful you and Mom brought me in it.

Photo by Aditya Chinchure on Unsplash

Are we bound to carry our flaws until our legs fail; until our heart quits; until our mind snaps? Can we really escape ourselves? I keep falling for the same old dusty traps. I still feel anger, dread, jealousy, anxiety, pain. They trap me; squeezing my soul inside myself. Adversity should make us stronger, better. But these days it makes me feel older, weaker. And scared. I’m scared shitless. Scared of becoming someone I don’t love. Scared of meeting someone else I could love. Scared of dying without the ones I love. Scared of goodbyes, and tomorrows. Everyone’s got a plan and a place and a play. I have none of these. I burned their map and their house and their script long ago. Now I’m alone and I’m bitter. Empty phone and I miss her. Broken bones and I’m colder. Maybe I should’ve stayed young longer, or forever. But my father failed and transformed into a phantom before I could fathom living without faith and freedom. Left me with a body to bury and no footsteps to follow. Only shadows to escape and chains to break. And an easy excuse for all my mistakes. Thank God I had an Iron-Mom to mimic. Beat the odds, and gave me a heart of gold to gamble with. I lost the guts to go all-in. But I see a mountain of smiles to win. So let me count my chips while I try to beat the Man. Will I find the courage to bet again?

Photo by Daniil Vnoutchkov on Unsplash

This isn't a short story; it's a real story. It has no clever, surprising ending. It is simply the written account of a day I want to remember. A.B., if you're reading this, I hope you're doing great. I loved your company almost as much as I loved your smile.

He got out the train. It was a beautiful, sunny day in Vernazza. He had just said goodbye to his friend in Cinque Terre’s first colourful village, Riomaggiore. A lot of people were walking around him, mostly tourists. He smiled. Vernazza really was a handsome little town, and it felt great just to be standing in its narrow main street. He could have gone on a hike with his friend, but his knees and his back had started to hurt a bit the day before, so he had decided to spend the day reading, writing and drinking small, strong coffees. Slowly, for he was in no hurry, he went down the crowded road in order to find a place to sit and think near the sea. He didn’t mind the place nor the thing on which he would sit; all he wanted was to be close to the sea, to be able to see it and smell it. He soon found a few wooden benches close to the rocky beach. Most of them were occupied, and on the one right next to where he was standing was a cute looking girl reading something on her tablet. “That will do, he thought”. He sat, throwing a quick glance at the girl who seemed very focused on whatever she was reading. She was wearing a sporty outfit, and he guessed she must had walked through the hills earlier in the morning. He lit a cigarette and looked around. A ferry filled with people was moving on the calm, blue sea; a small, steep hill dominated the even smaller village of Vernazza. You could discern a tiny winding path that led to its top, but its entry point was hidden behind red and yellow houses. Three of his best friends had taken a nice picture on top of that same hill, three years ago, and he had promised them he would try to do the same when he got there. Looking at the girl again, he decided the picture could wait.

Throwing his cigarette away, he motioned to the girl. She didn’t blink. He waved his hand a bit closer so she could see, and then she slowly raised her head and smiled. It was an honest smile, and he was glad it was directed at him. He asked her if she was from around here, already knowing it was not the case. She wasn’t, and from her accent, he guessed she was Australian. He guessed right. Pointing at the hill, he said he wanted to know if there was a way up nearby. There was, and since she had just came down from it, she explained quickly how to reach the top. He thanked her with a smile. She was nice, and her accent felt good to his ears, so he decided to keep the conversation going, even though he had told himself he would spend the day alone with his coffees and his mind. Being alone could wait, just like the picture.

A.B. was a nurse from Australia. She had been traveling for a couple of weeks already, and she was leaving Italy later in the evening to meet a friend in another european country. They started talking about a bunch of different things. She was kind and funny, and she had great sense of humor. So they laughed and they cracked jokes and he thought he was lucky to have met this nice-looking nurse from the land of the koalas and kangaroos.

As minutes flew by, the subjects went from shallow issues to life’s deeper trials and tribulations. At first he thought he’d try to charm her with witty jokes and well-timed compliments−a formula that had already been proven successful for him a while ago. But as they spoke, he soon got compelled to tell her more about him, about his story, his life. Maybe being far from home and connecting this much with a total stranger pushed him to reveal the darker chapters of his past, he thought. Like feeling a need to look back on all of it and say “So, this is my life, this is what I’ve been through, what I’ve loved, and for now, this is who I am”.

So even if he had only just met her, he ended up telling her the whole, uncensored story of his life: his childhood dreams, the loss of his father, the troubled years of high school, the girls, the alcohol issues, his most recent heartbreak, his ongoing sobriety, all of it. They spoke for hours. She was a great listener, and it felt like she really cared about the things he was telling her. Once he was done with his storytelling, he felt a great wave of relief washing over him. It felt good.

Time passed quickly, and before they knew it, the sun had raced through the Italian sky and night-time had slowly crept in the small town of Vernazza. The tourists and the street artists progressively filled the restaurants and the bars on the main road. The steady talking and laughing had made them hungry and thirsty, so they hopped back on their feet, left their wooden benches and proceeded to find a nice place to grab a bite where they could keep chatting. They settled for a small pizzeria two minutes away from the train station. As they ate and talked, she also opened up to him: she told him about her travels, about the emotional intensity of working in a hospital and about a guy back in Australia for whom she recently had developed feelings she knew were true. Eventually, the time came for her to leave; she had a train to catch and a friend to meet. He walked with her to the train station.

The rails soon started vibrating, they could hear the train approaching. They said their goodbyes and promised to stay in touch. As he held her in his arms, he thought he was truly blessed their paths had crossed. Even if he was a little sad he had to let her go this quick, he thought he was lucky to have met this stranger turned confident. “How surprisingly delightful life can be when you just let it happen.”

He got off the train station in Levanto and started walking towards where he was camping with his friend. The night sky was obscured by clouds filled with fresh rain. The drums of thunder soon started, and he began to feel small raindrops on his naked shoulders. He looked up, and whenever lightning struck, he saw hundreds of flying, luminescent insects hovering above him. At that precise moment, he thought anyone who said magic didn't exist was a fool. Still looking at the stormy, eerie sight, he thought about his life. About how it got him there, across the ocean, to meet a stranger and tell her everything that had weighed on his heart for years. He thought about all the mistakes and the heart breaks, and he smiled. He looked at the Italian sky, filled with its luminous Italian bugs, and he smiled again at the night. It was an honest smile, and he was glad it was his.

Photo by Brennan Ehrhardt on Unsplash

Mother, I’m coming back home. I miss the smell of your love-stuffed meals; you pressing me to help myself to another serving. I know it sounds silly, but I just feel like washing the dishes while you stand by my side, drying them, asking me a bunch of questions about school, work, health, love, money, food, sports and everything else a loving mother worries about. I miss your grey hair and your timeless wisdom; I miss being your son. Mamma, I’m coming home. I want to sit on the couch right beside you and watch whatever’s playing on the TV. Lay my head on your shoulder while you pat my hair slowly, softly killing all of my worries. I want to see the smiles and hear the chuckles you offer my stupid jokes. There ain’t a love like yours, Mom. And sometimes, I can’t even believe how lucky I am to be the object of it. I’m a lucky guy, Mom, I am.

Sister, I’m going back home. Would you mind coming back too? I miss our fun; I want to hear your clear laughter resonate in our kitchen, again and again. Sister, I wonder, where have our deep talks gone? When did we stop gracing ourselves with heartfelt advice? I miss being your brother. I can see a place up ahead where our roads diverge, and I can see you rolling on your road that parts from mine, and while I know we can’t walk the same paths, I can’t help but be afraid. I fear we might get carried away on the wings of time and experience, I fear we both get to touch skies so different, so exalting that we forget about the big brother and the little sister we left behind, on the ground of our past. Sister I don’t want our love to become a ghost that haunts our future selves. We’ve lost enough already; we must not lose each other, ever. And if life gets bitchy and decides otherwise, if we must in fact lose one another, let it be for a short while only. May we always find our way back to each other’s heart. My arms will always be wide open for you, no matter how far you go, no matter how long we stay apart.

Father, I’m going back home. And if you wouldn’t have been such a fool, you would have done the same.

Photo by Morgan McDonald on Unsplash

Avais-tu les mains sur le volant, juste avant de partir? Pendant que le gaz s’infiltrait en silence dans l’auto, étais-tu conscient d’où tu t’en allais? Une dernière ride de char, avec tes quatre pneus immobiles, pis ton moteur qui tournait. À quoi tu pensais? Pensais-tu à nous, pensais-tu à moi? Une dernière ride de char, allé simple pour l’autre côté. Pendant que le gaz s’infiltrait lentement dans ton système, nous voyais-tu? Me voyais-tu? T’imaginais-tu que ton fils serait encore là à taper sur son clavier pour te parler, 13 ans plus tard? Y fallait ben un 26 septembre pour me sortir de mon silence.

T’es-tu dit que j’allais m’en remettre, que j’avais ce qui fallait dans les tripes et dans le coeur pour rattraper mes sourires? Sûrement pas. Tu pouvais pas savoir que j’aurais peur que tous ceux que j’aime suivent ton exemple et lèvent le camp sans avertissement. Que ça serait une foutue épreuve de faire confiance, d’aimer comme du monde. Une dernière ride de char; des fois j’aurais aimé ça que tu m’emmènes. Comme ça j’aurais pas eu à saigner et à pleurer autant. J’aurais pas eu à essayer de trouver mon chemin à travers un labyrinthe de douleur pis de doutes. J’aurais pas causé autant de dommage sur ma route.

As-tu entendu la mort t'accueillir avant de fermer les yeux pour de bon? Parce que moi je l’entends depuis 2001. Elle me chuchote dans l’oreille, chaque jour, pour me rappeler que c’est elle qui va finir par gagner. Pis des jours elle chuchote tellement fort que j’ai de la misère à y voir clair. J’ai commencé à mourir à petit feu dès que t’as tourné ta clé. À 11 ans j’ai compris que c’était pas un compte de fée, et que je pourrais jamais récrire la fin, même si j’essayais toute ma vie. Une dernière ride de char, à zéro kilomètre à l’heure.

Sais-tu quoi? Je suis fatigué de crier devant une tombe muette, chaque année. Je suis fatigué d’essayer de pardonner et d’accepter. Je suis fatigué de me battre avec l’anxiété pis mes démons poussiéreux. T’as rien laissé derrière, ça fait qu’aujourd’hui je te le demande : envoye-moi toute la force que t’as jamais eue. Envoye-moi tous les morceaux de ton coeur brisé, je vais m’arranger avec ça, je vais trouver un moyen de les souder sur le mien. Je vais le faire battre pour deux mon coeur.

La paix que t’es allé chercher, elle a laissé derrière une guerre que je mène non-stop. Mais j’ai pas encore perdu, y me reste du souffle en masse. J’ai les deux genoux ouverts à force de tomber par terre. Mais j’suis encore debout. J’suis encore là. J’suis encore vivant, que la mort me chuchote dans l’oreille ou pas. J’suis encore debout, pis je vais mourir de même, debout. Pas question que je m’en aille comme toi. Ma dernière ride de char, je la ferai ben vieux, avec plus un poil sur la tête. Ma dernière ride de char, je la ferai en tenant la main d’une fille que je vais avoir aimé comme du monde longtemps, que j’aurai pas abandonnée. Ma dernière ride de char, je la ferai avec une main ridée posée sur le volant, en me disant que j’aurai jamais laissé tombé l’espoir. Que j’aurai empêché la mort de gagner le plus longtemps possible.

Photo by Rene Padillo on Unsplash

I am typing this on my cellphone with my left hand only. My right hand is of no use right now, stranded in an arm sling along with the rest of my arm.

Five days ago I had a serious motorbike accident. A stupid mistake for which I can only blame my reckless self. Long story short, I lost control during a night ride, a dusty curve got the best of my limited driving skills, and I crashed into a small ditch.

A good Samaritan (or should I say good Filipino?) came out of his house when he heard the crash. He located me using my pleas for help and found me lying with my back against the bottom of the ditch and my motorbike on top of me. He and another neighbor got me out of there and back to Dominic's place. From there, Dom, his wife and my friend Sam called the ambulance and escorted me to the nearest shitty hospital, in Dapa.

The following morning was one of the worst I've experienced in my entire life. I opened my eyes and felt my whole head aching, pounding. I anxiously and slowly passed my left hand through my hair, feeling a few cuts closed with some dry blood. Noticing the pulsating pain in my right arm, I used the other one to sit myself up on my hospital bed. A small layer of my back's torn skin stayed on the mattress behind me. I winced. My friend Sam was sleeping on a thin mattress on the floor right beside my bed (thanks again for everything brother).

We woke up, I got into a wheelchair and was rolled into the x-ray room. Standing in front of the machine with my body half broken once again, I had intense flashbacks from my fractured vertebrae episode in Colorado, last fall. This time, however, my back was fine. It was my right collar bone that was broken in two clean parts. The local doctor advised immediate surgery in one of the nearest cities, either Cebu or Surigao. The Siargao District hospital wasn't equipped to proceed with medical interventions such as surgery. I told them I'd have to think about it and talk with my mother and insurance company first.

Since there was no taxi or shuttle available to go back to Cloud 9 from Dapa, I had to pay the ambulance and the gas needed to drive us back home, at Dom's. Bumpiest ambulance ride ever.

I spoke with my mother as soon as I arrived via Skype, and she soon informed me that the insurance company wouldn't let me fly back home to get treated since immediate surgery was advised. According to them, flying might cause my fracture to get worst. This meant I couldn't fly to Cebu. My only option was to take a boat to get surgery in Surigao. My friends had referred to this city as "The Gates of Hell" a few times already. The idea of getting surgery in hell from a Filipino doctor barely speaking English ranked high on my list of anxiety-inducing things.

Alex and Sam agreed to come with me; they had to go to Surigao to get their visa extended anyway. The next morning, the three of us boarded a medium-sized boat going from Dapa to Surigao, at 5 am. The boat's interior, where the actual seats were, was already jam-packed with locals. We sat on the floor of the side deck, our backs resting on the main cabin's exterior walls. Alex, who had been partying the night before, immediately went to sleep, legs crossed with a shirt covering his head. Sam opened a book and started reading. I just stood there, uncomfortable, tired and hurting from the fracture and the cuts. People kept passing back and forth over our legs to get to the toilet, a few steps away from us. At one point, it started raining on us. For a second I really thought I might as well jump in the ocean and be done with all this shit.

Two and a half hours later, we arrived in Surigao. We first pulled through an army of tricycle taxi drivers who yelled and waved at us, calling us "friends". They were hoping to take our asses somewhere in town and put our tourist pesos in their pockets. A hellish sun burned our skin as we made our way to a nearby luxurious hotel. We gratefully used their clean bathroom and left.

Alex hailed us a tricycle cab and the three of us squeezed in. After a nightmarish ride in the heart of the city's crazy traffic, we reached the Surigao Medical Center. We got in, and when I saw the old, rudimentary allure of the place, I shivered. Sick and injured locals were sitting by the dozens in the waiting areas. Was I really going to get opened up and operated on in this remote Filipino hospital? I breathed in and calmed myself.

Eventually, we managed to talk with a generalist doctor. Upon analyzing my x-rays, he confirmed that I needed an operation. I clenched my teeth. He offered me to get admitted immediately and wait for a specialist surgeon to come and see me. We asked for the estimated time of waiting before the surgery. He shrugged—it would depend on the surgeon's schedule. He suggested that we go talk to him directly at the Surigao Health Specialists Clinic. I nodded to Alex eagerly, seeing an opportunity to postpone my hospital admission and surgery. We thanked the doctor, paid him and left.

Across the street from the Medical Center, we had lunch in a street barbecue joint. We then hopped in another tricycle cab and got to the Surigao Health Specialists Clinic. Holding on tightly to the envelope containing my x-rays, I climbed the stairs leading to the surgeon's office. Like every office in that building, it was crowded with locals. I'm not sure why or how I managed to see the doctor in less than five minutes, but I was sure as hell happy about it.

The three of us got in and sat, silently looking at the surgeon. He was studying my x-rays in silence himself. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, he spoke in a confident tone:

- You don't need to get surgery right now. You can wait for the fracture to heal like this, or get surgery back home if you want to.

I can't even begin to explain how relieved I was to hear those words coming out of his mouth. My somber mood shifted immediately, and the icicle of doubt and fear stuck inside my chest melted almost instantly. I thanked him warmly and stepped out of his office.

The Gates of Hell's streets swallowed us for a few other minutes as we made our way towards our hotel for the night. After a good night of sleep, we were on a boat once again, heading back to Siargao's paradise island.

In the following days, however, Siargao didn't feel like paradise at all. The heavy, humid air and the heat made it hard for my scratches and cuts to heal properly. The pain and the arm sling made sleeping at night a challenge. The sun burned my bruised skin, and the wind was practically absent. I could barely use my computer, I couldn't surf, swim or ride my bike, and I had my fair share of insurance and flight tickets red tape to go through. On top of that, I depended on my friends to take care of things I would have done myself otherwise.

I became irritated and impatient. The whole accident episode had me disenchanted with the island. I was tired of the weird looks locals gave me when I passed by wearing my arm sling. I was tired of the heat, the sun and the pain. And most of all, I was tired myself. I stopped smiling to locals I encountered in shops or villages. I stopped looking at the ocean and the sky. I wanted to go home, to be home.

The day before I left, I went for a meal by myself in a restaurant near Dom's place. I was wearing my tired frown and didn't feel like talking to new people, so I just browsed my mobile phone for articles. I stumbled upon fragments of letters and stories from an author I didn't know. It made me smile, reading these heartfelt words, skillfully woven together. Somehow it made me miss my own writing intensely. It made me realize how busy and stressed over trivial things I had been for most of my trip. How I didn't took enough time to stare in awe at the island, to observe its people, to walk for no reason in its streets, to savor its spicy food, to swim in its clear waters, and to breathe its air.

I did have a hard time staying in that state of mind. That same kind of opened state of mind I was in when I went exploring the island on my own one day, with my bike and phone camera only. On that day I was wandering in Del Carmen's streets, looking for cool pictures to take, and looking at how the people lived their lives there. An old Filipino guy saw me and asked what I was looking for. I told him I was trying to find a nice photo spot in the city. He pointed at the tall electric metal tower nearby and said:

- How about this?

I laughed, thinking he was joking. It turned out he was the supervisor of the electric tower. He invited me behind the locked gates, introduced me to his wife who was cooking in a small cabin, and told me to go ahead and climb. I felt like a child getting an extraordinary permission. I took in a few deep breaths, mustered my courage and started climbing. The small iron ladder was rough, dry and very, very long. I'd love to tell you I went straight to the top, but the truth is my balls only allowed me to reach the tiny halfway station. To my defense, it was especially high even at this point. The view I had from there was incredible. I could see all of Del Carmen's city and surrounding villages.

The white church, the docks, the boats, the locals... all basking in the golden, burning Filipino sun. How lucky I felt at this precise moment, standing on top of this small, red-hot world.

I have drifted away and brought you into a different story, haven't I? Where was I already?

Right, I was writing about my lack of openness. Following this tiny epiphany, I decided it was never too late to soak in a few moments before I left. I finished my copious meal and went for a walk. A slow, conscious walk. The kind of walk we should take more often. I stopped for a minute or two in front of a marvelous bay. Fishermen were preparing their boat, cracking jokes, laughing. The sun was beaming down on this tiny ocean corner. It was beautiful, simple and pure. After contemplating the bay for a short while, I hopped on the same road I had driven on numerous times in the last weeks. The half concrete/half dirt road passing through a small village just before Dom's place. One young girl was pushing her friend on an old school skateboard. Kids were playing with spare tires, making them roll by hitting them with small wooden sticks. An old man smiled at me with his toothless, wrinkled mouth. A young boy asked me for a thousand pesos. Other kids waved at me and smiled, asking me what my name was. This all lasted maybe five minutes, tops. But it felt good to be alive in Siargao for those five beautiful minutes. Real good. I was glad I had decided to watch the place with different eyes for a while. At last, I was inspired.

***

So why am I writing all of this? I guess I'm writing this to remember the whole experience. I'm writing this so I can read it later on and have vivid recollections of the episode. I'm also writing this because I want to remember to be careful in my future travels. But most of all, I'm writing this because I'm a writer and a storyteller. And I tend to forget it sometimes.

Photo by Hello I'm Nik 🇬🇧 on Unsplash

Listen, I know it ain’t easy.

I know the tears come more often than we’d like them to. And I won’t lie to you: it won’t get any easier. It never will. But it’s alright. The heartbreaks, the pain, the anxiety, the struggles… it’s all alright. Wipe those tears from your beautiful face and look at me. We’re stronger than all that shit, you hear me? I swear to God; we are. We can handle suffering. I mean, it’s our job, you know? We gotta take it all in and find some crazy way to turn it into something meaningful. We gotta show life we’re able to fight back; to rebel against our seemingly uncontrollable fate. Because that’s all we can do, really. Refuse to stay silent while we take the beatings; refuse to stay on the ground where we’re sent too often. We gotta stand up. We gotta keep growing and push ourselves against our tomorrows, armed to the teeth with hope and heart. And that’s all we really need: some heart, and a little hope. Sure, it feels like nothing makes sense sometimes. But when it does, it’s our job to step up and create our own sense, our own meaning. We can still choose to love, to create something, to help someone and to smile. We have to. This is the one secret weapon we humans have: choice. And today I’m asking you to choose to try. I don’t want you to win, because in the end, none of us can. But we can all try. Try to be better. Try to love with all of our broken hearts. Try to smile despite our teary eyes. Try to create and give even though we lose so much. Because when it’s all said and done, when our pains and our loves start to fade away, at least we’ll know we tried.

And when death arrives and smiles at us, we can smile back without hesitation, knowing at least we tried.

Photo by Alex Wolfe on Unsplash

It doesn't happen every night.

I could tell you it did, but I won't pretend to be tormented on a daily basis. Still, it happens at least once a month. Or twice. Or more. I'm not sure; I haven't kept track of them. Of all these dreams of you. You and I, crossing paths, exchanging looks, talking, kissing, having sex. It almost sounds nice when I put it this way, huh? But they're fucking nightmares. In each and every one of them, I'm viciously anxious: I want to shout at you, ignore you, seduce you, tell you how much I've missed you, make you laugh, turn you on, make you come, tell you I love you with all of my broken heart. I want to do all of that at the same time, and it's killing me, because I can't. All I can do is wake up and hurt from still wanting so much from you. And I know it's slowing me down; I get mad at myself every time I think about it. I guess these dreams keep reminding me how deep of a dent you made into my life, for better or worse. They leave me sad and sour for a few morning hours. They turn my head back, and command my feet to dance with ghosts from my past. They throw shade over the shining rays of "maybe" and "why not" life sends my way.

But they also give me a few minutes to stare at your beautiful face again, and kiss it with all of this vivid love I've got.

Wherever you are, I hope you wake up happier than I do.

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

There’s a guy standing at a busy crossroads.

He’s smoking a cigarette, oblivious to the cars and lights flashing past him. He can feel the northwestern evening breeze flowing over his naked toes. Except for the slow, robotic drag he takes off his cigarette, he’s perfectly still. His gaze is locked on the massive rocky mountain’s peak. Darkness is creeping in, but there’s a glowing ache in the young man’s eyes. It burns brighter than all the streetlights around him. Brighter than the smartphone screens of passersby. Brighter than the early, timid stars shining. The pain he’s been running from these last few weeks has caught up with him. And on this cold night, in Canada’s far West End, it’s finally caught fire. But he doesn’t mind: he knows the feeling. He knew this would happen, sooner than later. So he just stands there, letting the hurt and the harm fill his whole being. He focuses on the mountain’s summit. This distant, seemingly unattainable, peaceful place. Hundreds of questions begin raining down on him, drenching him in doubt. Will he get there one day? Will he find the strength to climb up his pile of woes, to clear a way through the sorrows, to leave all of the ghosts and the burning boats behind? And, inevitably, this whirlwind of question marks starts flipping through all of the bloody pages he’s been trying to turn. It lifts him up his feet, hurling him down a bumpy memory lane. He sees all of the love he’s stolen and given, all of the tears and the tradeoffs, all of the I love you’s and fuck off’s. And in the midst of it all, an unexpected feeling of bliss washes over him. He isn’t anxious or disconnected anymore. He tries as best as he can to hang on to the ephemeral smiles his memory has crystallized, before his here and now blows them to dust again. He smiles. The corner of his upper lip connects with the fresh tear coming down his cheek. He feels humbled, thankful to have experienced it all. And under this cold Canadian night sky, he remembers that being alive is enough. More than enough.

Lighting another cigarette, he walks home, fires up his laptop, and writes all of it down so he doesn’t forget, again.

Photo by Lucas Ludwig on Unsplash

Now I’m dead

Tell them I made my own bed

And I’m sleeping in it forever

Tell them about my head

And how it only used to make things harder

Now I’m dead

Tell them about my heart

And how it forgot to play its part

Now I’m dead

Tell them I don’t know

If Heaven is much crowded

Tell them the sorrow

Made my eyes see red

Now I’m dead

Tell them no one

Should ever take the blame

Tell them how my soul

Used to dance before it was claimed

Now I’m dead

Tell them how much I’ve gazed

Into the Reaper’s empty eyes

Tell them the end of the maze

Is where true peace lies

Now I’m dead

Tell them I’m sorry

For cheating and lying

Tell them I was happy

Everytime I saw them laughing

Now I’m dead

Tell my kids I’ll miss them

Wherever it is I am going

Tell their mother, my lover

I never knew about the ending

Now I’m dead

Tell my son I know

He’ll kill the sorrow

It’ll be hard and slow

But tell him I know

He’ll kill the sorrow

Tell him to never let go

Tell him to let love grow

Now I’m dead

Tell him to write

The words I never said

Photo by João Ferreira on Unsplash

Je veux vous noyer sous un océan de mots

Et faire du langage une de vos seules vérités

Je veux vous faire plongeurs certifiés, vous voir explorer

Et à 20 000 lieues sous ma mer,

À travers le bleu de l'enfer et toutes les histoires coulées

Enfin, vous me trouverez

Photo by Riccardo Fissore on Unsplash

Lui? C’était pas vraiment ton âme soeur, ni ton amoureux. Ni ton chum, ni ton homme. Non. C’était plus comme ton paquet de cigarettes. Ton paquet de cigarettes magique, qui se remplissait tout seul quand y’en restait plus. Ta boucane éternelle. Oui, oui, je le sais que tu l’aimais un peu beaucoup énormément tout le temps. T’aimais ça, fumer. Qui peut te blâmer? Les futurs que tu soufflais dans des nuages de fumée avaient l’air si beaux, si proches. Dommage qu’y suffisait d’un coup de vent pour les éclipser.

« Si seulement y ventait moins, »  que tu te disais. Ah, puis y’a la lumière qui brillait au bout, chaque fois que tu en allumais une. La petite lumière orange, qui se rapprochait de ton nez retroussé, lentement, sûrement, éclairant tes yeux fatigués. La petite lumière orange, la seule luciole d’espoir que t’avais, qui finissait tout le temps par mourir sur un botch. Mais bon, tu continuais de t’en allumer, des clopes, parce que t’aimais ça, fumer. Qui peut te blâmer? Après tout, c’était un sacré beau paquet que t'avais là, bien enveloppé. En plus, pendant un bout, le monde te trouvait cool, avec ton pack. Mais un jour le monde se sont mis à te dire que c’était pas bon pour la santé. T’as vu une couple de docteurs, puis ils t’ont tous dit que t’étais trop jeune pour être aussi intoxiquée. Que tu devrais arrêter maintenant, pendant qu’il était encore temps. Que c’était pas bon pour ta santé. Comme si tu le savais pas déjà. Tu les avais lus, les avertissements sur le paquet. Tu l’avais vu, ce que ton paquet avait fait à d’autres avant toi. Tu le savais.

Un matin, tu t’es réveillée en toussant. Sans t’en soucier, t’as sorti une cigarette de ton paquet, puis tu l’as allumée. C’est à ce moment-là que tu t’en es rendu compte : t’aimais plus ça, fumer. Tu le faisais juste par habitude. Tu le faisais parce que c’était plus facile de faire un truc que t’avais fait 1000 fois, qu’un truc que t’avais jamais essayé. « Maudite routine, » que tu te disais.

Un autre matin, tu t’es réveillée, plus capable de respirer. Tes amies t’ont rentrée à l’urgence, dépassées. Après ta crise, quand on a fini par remettre un peu d’air dans tes petits poumons, t’as eu droit aux speechs des amies proches. Elles te l’ont dit, que ça avait plus de bon sens. Que tu devrais plus y toucher, à ton foutu paquet. T’as acquiescé. Comme si tu le savais pas déjà. Après t’avoir dit qu’elles t’aimaient, tes amies sont parties, te laissant seule avec ta mère. Et puis là, ta sainte de mère, elle t’a fait une confession : elle avait déjà fumé, elle aussi, quand elle était jeune. Pas mal. Pendant quelques années, avant de rencontrer ton père, elle avait traîné le même de genre paquet que toi dans sa sacoche de jeune fille. Elle a pleuré en te racontant ça. Pas pour le show, mais bien parce qu’elle avait de la vraie peine. Puis quand t’as vu ses vraies larmes couler sur ses joues, tu t’es dit que c’était fini. Que t’arrêtais de fumer. Que ça l’avait assez duré.

Quand t’es sortie de l’hôpital, t’as pris une grande inspiration et t’as pitché ton pack le plus loin possible. Y’est tombé par terre sans faire de bruit. Y’est habitué, d’être par terre. T’étais contente, donc t’as appelé tes amies pour célébrer. Pour boire et chanter; pour faire ce que le monde ont appris à faire quand ils sont censés être heureux. Après ton sixième apricot brandy, tu y pensais plus pantoute, à ton paquet. Lui, il est resté là où tu l’as jeté. Il est resté par terre, à attendre qu’une passante ait envie de fumer.