It was a Friday. The wind barely blew. And the people crowding Ayala Avenue knew it was going to be another humid night. The sky was just beginning to swell into a purple hue. A sign that said you had better be going home now. As if on cue, mobs of commuters quicken their steps. All of them like puppets dancing to the unheard music of life. Discordant. No rhythm. Sometimes sweet. Often times melancholic. Nonetheless, there was music there. No doubt about it.
For one reason or another, everything seemed to stand still. The heavens did not go dark. It was as if the sky harbored a wound that refused to heal, retaining its violet glow. The clouds did not disappear into darkness. They hovered, not a wisp moving. And the wind refused even the slightest breeze.
But not the people. They had their own worries. They felt it though. Whatever it was. Some of them slowed down. Some people looked up, half-expecting the skies to crash down. A few wore a bewildered look, their foreheads creased with a split-second anxiety attack. All of a sudden everybody seemed unsure. A cabdriver checked his oil though he just inspected it himself this morning. He did not know what it was, but something was nagging at him. A policeman unholstered his gun. Something was happening, he said to himself. An old sidewalk vendor counted her money. She counted it again. And again. Bus passengers looked at each other, their eyes betraying their confusion. Even the prostitutes felt it. Helen, a thirty-year old hooker who was just having her first meal of the day, decided against going to work that night.
Nobody was afraid though. Whatever was happening, fear was not a part of it. There was only doubt.
And then it was gone. As abruptly as it started, whatever it was, was undone. The undoing was not as dramatic though. You just felt it leave. If it ever happened at all.
Babies were born that day. People died. Politicians and oil companies did not think twice about stealing our money. Husbands cheated on their wives while mothers made a home for their children. Priests said mass. Rape victims tried to recover, thinking that they could. People danced to the unheard music of life.
It was the day that God fell from grace.
For one reason or another, everything seemed to stand still. The heavens did not go dark. It was as if the sky harbored a wound that refused to heal, retaining its violet glow. The clouds did not disappear into darkness. They hovered, not a wisp moving. And the wind refused even the slightest breeze.
But not the people. They had their own worries. They felt it though. Whatever it was. Some of them slowed down. Some people looked up, half-expecting the skies to crash down. A few wore a bewildered look, their foreheads creased with a split-second anxiety attack. All of a sudden everybody seemed unsure. A cabdriver checked his oil though he just inspected it himself this morning. He did not know what it was, but something was nagging at him. A policeman unholstered his gun. Something was happening, he said to himself. An old sidewalk vendor counted her money. She counted it again. And again. Bus passengers looked at each other, their eyes betraying their confusion. Even the prostitutes felt it. Helen, a thirty-year old hooker who was just having her first meal of the day, decided against going to work that night.
Nobody was afraid though. Whatever was happening, fear was not a part of it. There was only doubt.
And then it was gone. As abruptly as it started, whatever it was, was undone. The undoing was not as dramatic though. You just felt it leave. If it ever happened at all.
Babies were born that day. People died. Politicians and oil companies did not think twice about stealing our money. Husbands cheated on their wives while mothers made a home for their children. Priests said mass. Rape victims tried to recover, thinking that they could. People danced to the unheard music of life.
It was the day that God fell from grace.
Pleaded by Appellant on Friday, March 17, 2006 @ 9:50 AM with 0 Objections
