I do not claim to be deserving of great things, but I do believe, in the silent and betraying hours of darkness, that I am meant for something else.
“Can I really live with myself knowing that I have wished harm and death upon my fellow man?”
“This is my 12th flight. And I am weighed down by the people that I have already killed.”
“I’m surprised that there we many of us who got out alive.”
More than half a century ago, I failed to die at this spot in Manila.
But most of the time, she stands, with her arm straining against the weight of her luggage, with her other hand on her waist, prepared to jump on board a vehicle, and prepared to take flight.
Yet, on most nights, when her tasks are finished, when there are no more emails to answer, when there are no more meetings to go to, when there are no more orders to give, when the fast-paced nature of work has abandoned her, she finds herself empty, desolate, as if her life, her work, what she has done, what she will do, and everything else, is irrelevant.
Have you ever had the feeling that someone is watching you?
Because they both took a risk.
I requisitioned a small notebook and tried to write down as many words of comfort I can use to those who are injured and bleeding.
He sings love songs. He sings songs of jubilation. He sings songs about loss, about death, about abandonment, about betrayal. He sings for hours. He sings even when his throat gets hoarse. He sings even when weariness begins to weigh upon his body.
I am writing to inform you that a man has asked me to marry him and I have said yes. While many may say that this is an occasion worthy of jubilation, I find myself anxious about what the future may hold for the both of us.