And just like that, I decided to travel to Marinduque two nights ago. I was buying myself (read: shopping) some clothes at Glorietta in the afternoon of Friday and even managed to meet briefly with a friend and his brother early evening when I set my thoughts to the quiet waters of Marinduque at around 9PM. I left Manila by bus two hours later for the three-hour ride to Lucena in Quezon province where I took the 4AM ferry for another three hours to get to my destination. I'm thankful I got to Boac, the capital of Marinduque, in one piece despite the gusty winds the whole time during the trip wrought by a typhoon.

On one hand, I'm happy I'm here because I visited some sites I missed during my last trip here. On another hand, I wish I just stayed home and memorized Webster's instead. The cold weather here is cutting through me. I'm on my blue mufflers all the time with my blue windjacket. It must be my unconscious in the works but somehow, they reinforce the blue feeling I have. The only thing reminding me that I should stay on is the red sleeveless shirt I have beneath.

The worst thing is I'm alone in my hotel bed tonight. Maybe I should request for additional blankets. I will definitely open the red wine I brought along while I'm curled up in bed. Or maybe I should stay in the hot shower the whole night.

I just had dinner in one of the restaurants near my hotel. Of course alone. The vegetables were good. They make me want to go right up my room and down the wine. I was walking leisurely on my way back when I chanced upon an internet shop. I thought maybe some people out there might want to be updated.

Anyway, I gotta run. It will take a while for me to use the cork remover. And I have to wake up early to get to the airport. I'm on waitlist for this 19-seater plane for my travel back to Manila. It just occured to me now, and I don't believe it will cost me around 21 times more than the ferry ride I took. But anyway, in half an hour, I'm back to the maddening city again.

Catch you all later!

It's been a week exactly. I didn't know I was going to miss writing that much. There have been times I was itching to go online and write something. I didn't have anything in mind to write about, but I just had this urge to weave letters and blabber. Somehow, I managed to keep myself from turning towards my computer at home and instead glue my sight to the TV or my walls which I have long wanted to paint.

However, most of the time, I found myself outside the building where I live. Not just outside-outside, but some kilometers away, far enough for my cordless phone not to work. I would walk aimlessly, look far out aimlessly, and just be in the mood to do aimless things. I guess you could say I was in a senti mood, as my friend A. carefully put it. I don't know what got into me, but just for one time, I was in love with the feeling of being melancholic and abandoned.

So while everyone else was exchanging lavish gifts and feasting on fattening food, I was home watching Tom and Jerry which I would switch to National Geographic every now and then. I let my help take the day off to be with her sisters so she doesn't succumb to the same crude feeling I was drowning myself into. I said, she can be off till after christmas. And so, I was alone in my flat. I had to switch on the TV and the radio to give the illusion that there are other people in the room. But I didn't go to the extent of kissing people on the latenight TV show or worse, to stay up late just to hear the newsreader say goodnight or merry christmas to me. I was conscious I shouldn't reach that far. Otherwise, it was better off to just slice my wrist. Fortunately, I don't have suicidal tendencies.

Anyway, I guess I let myself go through that episode to make me more human,. There have been lots of times recently when I would stay up there in the flighty orgasm of good times that rolled for days and more days. I missed crying. I missed seeing myself portray those heavy martyr roles on local movies that I would catch on cable TV.

And besides, I needed to affirm that I am, after all, a really good actor. Christmas comes but once every year so there's not much other better time to perfectly execute crying roles.

When the maid and I finished gathering all my things, I didn't realize we had formed a small mountain on our big bed. My work clothes mixed with my biking gears, small books stacked on bigger books, and my toiletries stuffed snugly inside my shoes. I stared at them coldly. I refused to be emotional. I couldn't afford to be emotional. By then, it was around 9pm already and I was truly exhausted. But I wasn't a bit bothered. I just wanted to save myself from the misery of having to sleep one more night on that bed. Even the maid's constant pleading that I stayed saying things will be patched up the following day didn't make a difference.

It was too late already when I found out I didn't have any luggage nor a big bag to stuff my things. I brought in my things one at a time in small backpacks from my apartment which I was sharing with some other people. I didn't notice I have moved a lot of things already. I had no choice but rush to the kitchen to where our large black plastic trash bags were kept. I got five.

Seeing all that I owned jammed and squeezed inside those trash bags were too much for me. That's when I started to sob again. I felt homeless. I felt forsaken. I felt dreadfully sad, that kind that makes you sigh deeply yet bereft of any depth and profundity. I mean, how unfair can things get? You work so hard on issues that value and preserve your relationship and you're not even granted a chance to air your side.

A friend came by later to pick me up. It took a lot of prodding and a bit of raised voice to make the maid help me carry my things down to the garage. I quietly glanced at her on her way down and was surprised to see her crying. She loaded everything in the trunk except for the giant teddy stuff toy I got from W. She gave me that, and goodbye as she hugged me.

Inside the car, nobody spoke for at least ten minutes. My friend and I both stared far out the window as far as our eyes can see. And then all of a sudden, I broke down. My friend suddenly had a misfortune of having to console a friend and holding on the steering wheel at the same time. We finally reached the deserted breakwater along Manila Bay. It was there that I wanted to rest for a while. It was there too that another friend came to meet us and comfort me.

And it was there, in the stillness of the night, when the whole city was asleep, when only the dead stones and crashing waves were near, that I recounted to my friends what happened. I cried for the last time and prayed that the relentless waves will carry my hurt far out from me never to show up again.

After a few minutes of paralyzing silence, I stood and, without raising my voice, said no. I wanted to keep the ring. I didn't care if my reply was awkward and crude. At that time, it felt good to just let the heart rule your mind. I think W. understood why.

That ring that W. wanted back was the first ever that I had. That's why it meant so much and actually found it very difficult to part with it. I have faithfully worn it since that night at the coffee shop when W., during an animated conversation about vows and rings, suddenly took out something from an inside pocket, laid it on the table, and asked if I can wear it. My jaws dropped like I was dazed as I stared on the gold band, that kind usually worn during weddings. In between smirks and one-liner jokes, I took it and slid it on my left ring finger. It fit so perfectly. And just like that, I was taken. For W., deciding to wear somebody else's ring actually meant agreeing to partner with the one who gave it. I don't know where that came from and I don't even want to know if that makes sense. But it felt good.

Anyway, W. never asked for the ring back. I inquired how were we going to divide those things given us. I was told to bring all those I wanted and just leave the ones I didn't fancy. The whole time, W.'s back was facing me which was unbearable. When things became extremely uneasy for us inside the bedroom, W. turned for the door to leave. Just before reaching the door, with all sincerity, I requested for one last hug. We then held for a few seconds until W. broke free and rushed out of the house to the car weeping.

I sat on the bed sobbing after that. For how long, I don't quite remember. I sensed it must have been a while since the maid knocked on the door and asked if I was OK. I asked her to come in and fix all my clothes because I was leaving that night.

The most heartwrenching part was not actually leaving the house nor seeing your partner go. For me, it was undefined torture to go through each of the drawers in the closet we had and sorted everything --- from shirts, shorts, underwears, hankies, socks. I showed the maid how to arrange the clothes back. I then headed to the bathroom and got my shaver, shampoo, toothbrush, perfume. I also made sure that all my books were collected, including the coffee mug that I use. I didn't want to leave any trace there. What I wanted was leave the place as if I was never there.

to be continued

Somebody recently asked me which one, of all the radiant and picturesque moments in my life, would always be perfectly captured up to finest details even after a thousand narrations. It didn't take so long for me to decide. I knew exactly what it should be.

Since I sort of moved in the three-bedroom apartment that W. rented ten years ago with two other friends, my Saturdays were almost always predictable. I would bike around the village in the morning and spend the afternoon quietly lazing around the house to read or catch up on sleep. I would make sure to wake up before 6pm since I know W. will be arriving soon, and I didn't want to be caught snoring with my mouth agape and drooling. Upon arriving, W. usually heads straight to our bedroom, kiss me on the forehead, and head back to the dining room where the flowers would be arranged or instructions on what to prepare for dinner would be given to the maid.

That particular Saturday in April ten months into the relationship was going to be one that will live with me vividly forever. It was unusual for W. to be late. It was getting past 7pm already when the car pulled in the garage. When the engine died down, I was expecting the door to soon swing open and a loud "Hi! How was your day?" would thunder around the room. Nothing of that happened.

I rushed out of the bedroom wondering what happened. There, I found W. in the dining room tidying the flowers in absurd silence. I am sure he knew I came out of the room but he didn't care to look. Surprised, I muffled a quick hello and headed to answer a phonecall for me. Just before I hanged up, I saw W. head to our room, still ominously silent. I don't know if the maid and the driver sensed anything unusual, but I did. I followed W. inside.

My heart pounded so hard and it sank as I saw W. pull out our pictures neatly framed and arranged on top of the dresser. Those pictures chronicled happy moments over the months since we got together. W. then looked for our photo albums stacked by the TV rack and went through each of the pages pulling out every photo there is.

I could only manage a silent, "W., what's happening?" And without turning to face me, he replied, "Please give me back my ring." I froze. Just like that. I sat by the bed with my shoulders almost falling to my knees. It took a while before I could find my words.

to be continued

If you line up all my friends side by side, the world will be bewildered with a kaleidoscope of colorful people. It will be a sight to behold like a lake of fallen leaves in autumn. Sometimes, I give myself a pat on the back for having found a way to be part of the lives of these people --- some of whom are single-mothers, professionals, blue-collars, drop-outs, rich, poor, catholic, atheist, dark, fair, gay, straight, virile, frigid.

These friends have surrounded my life with stories as colorful as the lives they live. I have had the privilege of being the only ear to savor the juicy details of things illicit and allowed. I have been trusted with very personal information that can make or break a person. I have spent time drenching a friend's tears and at the same time trying my luck as a stand-up comic in my effort to lighten up things. I have been frequently dumbfounded with some facts that were shared to me in confidence. And I have probably drank hundred liters of coffee by now listening to all my friend's pains and anguish. There are times that I start to ponder, this may have been my life's calling or vocation: To make a difference in other people's lives.

Tomorrow, I will travel three hours up north with another friend to be at funeral of our friend E.'s mother, who succumbed the other day to renal failure. We will be there because we deeply feel occasions of loss like this. We will be there because that's probably where we should be of most help. We will be there because we believe friends should never be allowed to go through painful moments alone. We will be there, not because a favor has to be repaid, but more because we try to be our friend's friend.

I don't know what words can offer comfort to my friend E. who may be in deep sorrow as I write this. I don't even know if they are ever within my realm of ability to feel and provide. But this one I know, that I have to be there as my modest gesture to prove how friendship works.

In less than two weeks, it'll be christmas. I'm slowly becoming frantic since I have yet to finalize my plans. I have been working on this for the last month or so and I'm still having a hard time deciding where to go. The what-to-do part is easy. I certainly want a firm bed for my back and all the time there is to read books to keep my mind off some things. I have initially shortlisted three possible spots perfect for how I planned to spend my holidays. But I have yet to make up my mind if I really wanted to do mountain or water or aging gays.

A place called Batad in far north Banaue topped my list. I have been there several times already, about ten I think. The place is about 16 kilometers from the main town (Banaue), a good one-hour jeep ride to a junction road from where you start hiking for two hours to reach the village. At this time of the year, I bet I will have to bring my fleece and mufflers because of the cold weather up there. Electricity hasn't reached the village and worse, cellular phone signal is non-existent. This means that I would be completely isolated from everyone, a time I hoped would be spent sleeping with Buble and Groban, reading Dalai Lama books, downing bottles of red wine, perfecting my three-set-100-rep crunches, dipping in the waterfalls, or just staring out to the terraces as far as my eyes can see.

I may also opt to hide in far away Gasan in Marinduque, a town by the beach in an island off Manila. I will likely stay in a resort fronting the beach and allow the crashing waves to lull me to sleep, day in , day out. If I don't forget my sunblock, I may decide to wander around the beach during early morning and ask the waiter to serve my breakfast there. The feel of the earth beneath your feet during early mornings is infinitely refreshing. When the sun starts to sting, I'll head back to my room and cool off in the tub. The bubbles will surely put me to sleep. When night falls, I'll set out to the garden and enjoy red wine while I will forcefully try to entertain myself with karaoke. I'll watch out for a local singing contest and just might join one for the kicks of it. That is, if I'm not too drunk yet.

And finally, I may just wake up one day and decide that all that holiday traveling fuss will only tire me and make me remember my home. So there's a good possibility that I may just stay in the city but, on christmas day and probably a few days after that, be in this place in Pasay housing old and some homeless gays. I thought it may be a good idea to spend christmas with courageous people who have led many years ago the battle for respect and affirmation. I will do this to honor them and all their spirit. I will also make sure I will pay tribute to all their warm and heart-wrenching stories of love and loss. I think a whole day spent in a bubbly exchange of funny and titillating stories with them would be so humbling and good for the soul. I hope a few hours spent in sincere friendship and reverence with them will make me kinder, more thankful, and compassionate.

Now that my parents are based abroad, I think of them more fondly now, something I wouldn't normally do when they were still here. Especially my Dad. But then, that's not entirely true. I would think of him too when he was still close by. It's just that, probably the idea that he would call on weekends anyway and we'd be in touch on the latest back home never really reinforced my missing him.

This time, it's different, a lot different. Almost always, the fond thoughts now easily move me to tears. Maybe the distance has a lot to do with it. Or maybe some very personal incident that happened recently. Or maybe my tear ducts are damaged beyond repair that they can't hold back tears anymore. But nevertheless, when I think of my Dad now, I smile. A few times, I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer for him. That should speak well about our relationship now. Truly, something really improves with age.

Having said all of these, I'm still overwhelmed about certain things I came to know about my Dad that makes him a cut above the rest.

A few weeks before I was born many years ago, my Dad received a letter from the US Department of Agriculture formally offering him a job that would take him to Maryland. It was said he set aside the letter right away. My Mom, an unmistakably brave woman, encouraged him to consider the offer saying the whole family was there for support anyway. She even bribed him with joyful thoughts of a growing baby following him soon in that new place. My Dad remain unperturbed. He decided to stay and be with my Mom as they waited for their first-born child spring to life. I found out about this story when I was growing up and I was asking my Mom how come my other cousins lived abroad and we stayed in a quiet and quiant town. I may never fully understand my Dad's decision, but his devotion as a father and husband will always warm my heart.

As a child growing up in a small town, it was not unusual knowing everybody's name in the community. But it was completely unthinkable for one to be greeted by everyone and spoken of highly by most people. However, my Dad, I'm proud to say, is this unusual man. For as long as I can remember, I rode with him at the back of his motorcycle and got distracted with people calling out his name or just plainly say hello as we pass by. To humor us, he would even sometimes say hello to cows and goats grazing the hills saying he was just returning their hellos! I sometimes think those rides with him shaped me to be so perceptive about things and people around me and how they move. My Dad gave me valuable lessons on being friendly with people and making efforts to touch their lives regardless of how big or small the difference you make.

I wish all fathers are like him. I wish all fathers are at the forefront on a campaign to lead their children into a world of good friends and good life.

I keep putting it off my mind, but somehow it manages to find its way back to me. The more I try to forget, the more it becomes so vivid. And I'm bothered. I think this is going to be my saddest christmas.

Not because I'm not surrounded by friends old and new nor is it because I won't be invited to wholesome and wild parties left and right. It's not even because there wouldn't be any lavish christmas dinner to be prepared with just me and the maid partaking of it assuming she decides not to take the day off. One friend suggested that it may be because I still don't have christmas tree and trimmings in my new place. I doubt it. I would have bought the fanciest decors and lined them up side by side from the building elevator to my entrance, and I'm sure I'd still feel heavy everytime I head home.

I have two theories:

One, maybe it's just the way it is when everything and everyone grows older. Things change, people change. Some stay, others move. You sometimes think about things and wonder at how strangely different they have become each year. This year will be one in the records for us. You see, I come from a really small family, one that normally considers christmas a time to cement relationships so everyone tries to be home. We're only four -- my younger sister and I, and our parents. Our folks are now living in far away Uwes-A and my sister is currently doing her graduate studies in Jakarta, Indonesia, and I'm here in Manila. Each of us will be where we are this holidays, an unthinkable situation especially for my parents who both are very sentimental.

Two, maybe I'm just old. Or maybe I'm bordering on depression. It's always the case when you live alone and certain occasions come to rock you off. You look at things differently once you reach 30. More often, you become more melancholic. You start recalling happy times in the past when everyone else was present. All of a sudden old and funny stories and private jokes become funnier and you start to laugh from the heart, and the ironic thing is no one else is there to laugh with. Everywhere you look at seem familiar. Their voices reverberate in the room. You know exactly how they say their greetings and how you answer.

Oh well, I may be one of one thing and a bit of another. But that shouldn't really be alarming. What's alarming is I have planned for some personal quiet time in some really quiet places outside Manila this christmas, and the northeast monsoon will suddenly unleash its fury and I would end up staying in my place. That's going to kill me. So in the meantime, while I'm still up, help me pray for good weather, good health, and some really good time.

A. is the acknowledged authority when talks start exploring the dark and unknown territories of sexual compulsiveness. He's not ashamed of it much less try to hide it. He doesn't openly volunteer talking about the subject but you expect him to go into the finer details to reinforce a point. Straight from the horse's mouth, he says. We had a good conversation yesterday about this over coffee.

From a little over than ten years since he started grazing the scene, he said, he's probably had partners running up to four digits. That means a thousand at the very least. My jaws fell when I heard him say that. Nothing normally shocks me, but this one was just startling. I asked him if that was something he was proud of, his head moved slightly embarrassed from side to side.

A.'s intelligent. He did physics in college and carries a masters degree in information technology. You could say he sort of did a self-check and diagnosed himself to be sexually compulsive after reading medical reference books one after another on the subject. He was prompted to do this after getting alarmed for his unusual appetite for sex. It was so bad, he revealed, that even if he didn't feel like it, he would be out there in the wild because he felt he needed it. That's how he became a fixture in bars, orgy parties, malls, and just about any other public place. He's had it in all imaginable places and time. There was even that late night that it took place right there on a dark busy sidewalk of a highway fronting a mall. That was the last straw. He sought medical help afterwards and began a drastic lifestyle change. He's done well so far, he said.

From his story, I realized that sexual compulsion lives like any of the other silent yet prevalent maladies in our midst. Like marital rape, incest, kleptomania. It lives among us and yet isn't one that's intelligently understood by most. For one, sexual compulsive people are frequently thought to be promiscuous creatures who would do it with any person anytime, anywhere completely erasing from the picture people who don't seek multiple partners but who would masterfully masturbate seven times a day, and are considered sexually compulsive as well.

What's the fuss with all these? Breaking myths.

Ten things inside my ref now:

1. Anchor fresh milk
2. Eggs
3. Strong Ice beer
4. Coke Light
5. SanMig Light
6. Brownies
7. Hersheys syrup
8. Quickmelt cheese
9. Jumbo hotdogs
10. Sweet ham

Ten things in my bathroom:

1. Cetaphil
2. Vaseline shampoo
3. Pantene shampoo
4. Scented candle
5. Palmolive bath gel
6. Shaving cream
7. Shaver
8. Footscrub gel
9. Aquafresh toothpaste
10. Ang pamatay, Kojic Acid soap

Ten things inside my badminton bag:
1. Yonex MP-100 racket
2. Carlton Powerflex racket
3. Wrist band
4. Towel
5. Reebok badminton shoes
6. Spare Yonex BG-68Ti gut
7. Bandage
8. Bengay
9. Facial wash
10. Coins

Ten things in my kitchen:

1. Microwave
2. Oven toaster
3. Coffee maker
4. Gas range + oven
5. Blender
6. Tabletop fountain
7. Refrigerator
8. Thermos
9. Ceramic plates
10. Ceramic mugs

Ten permament grocery items:

1. Button mushroom
2. Evaporated milk
3. Condensed cream
4. Sardines
5. All-purpose cream
6. Pineapple slices
7. Diet Pepsi
8. Nova chips
9. Chocnuts
10. Hopia

For once, I thought I was really invincible against simple colds and coughs. I've been climbing mountains seriously for the last two years or so in sometimes really harsh conditions of exhausting heat in the lowlands and blustering wind and rain up in the mountains, but I have never really gotten sick. I guess I must have been loved after all.

The worst was when I got my dose of high altitude sickness after pitching my tent on the designated campsite on Mt. Pulag, the highest mountain in Luzon. We recorded the temperature to be around 8 degrees Celsius during the night and it was so cold. I just slept afterwards. My climb buddy woke me up hours later with a steaming soup and few spoonfuls of our lovely dinner. He had to feed me literally at times since I was just to weak to coordinate my movements. But it was gone in the morning. I was able to wake up ahead of the others at 4am ready for our assault on the mountain's peak.

Yesterday, I took a leave from work because I had the worst-sounding coughs. It was so bad I thought I was meant to stay indoors for a day or two. Otherwise, I would end up miserable in a humiliating self-pity when I see people run for cover as soon as they hear a wheezing sound thinking it's some firecracker about to explode. You see, I feel that my lungs would burst everytime I cough. I sometimes have to hold my chest as I cough to partly relieve some discomfort. I am on antibiotics now so I hope I'd be fine soon.

Anyone who lives alone should never get sick. This has always been my prayer. And I mean it deeply. The despicable feeling of being alone is heightened when you get sick and there's just you in the room. The feeling is not for those with a weak heart. No matter how strong you project yourself to the world, when that time comes, you're practically reduced either to some cursing bitch trying to question things and order in this world, or you suddenly become meek and just tear-wet the pillows in deep sadness.

In the few times that I reflected about life's humor, this came to me: The private confines of one's bedroom has this extraordinary privilege to invigorate and refresh and at the same time reduce any superman or superhero into one helpless creature.

No hero or no superman can survive the mighty and lethal powers of an abandoned room with just you, your thermoter, and your Kleenex.

When I turned 30, one of my friends asked me in a devilish kind of way how it felt to be finally hitting one-third of a century. I answered with just three words which captured fittingly how I really felt. I said nonchalantly,"I feel old!"

And just like that, I surrendered my thoughts and opted to be vulnerable. I realized I wasn't in control anymore, I didn't want to keep my thoughts to myself anymore. Normally, I would just shrug my shoulders and refuse to say anything that will give other people infinite joy of having probed my thoughts and feelings. This time, it was different.

Something really improves with age. Not just handwriting, but a whole lot of other things.

The most striking of all these changes is one nice surprise. Oftentimes, people equate getting old with being bumped into the fringes of the dating market. No matter how one masters the Lord's Prayer in asking for some divine intercession, some people still think they have been cursed to singledom and forever just be a guest or a sponsor in friend's weddings.

My friend says I shouldn't despair. The older one gets, the more he becomes in the market. Things have changed, he says. I asked for proof. My friend then started to list down names, presumably his friends and friends of friends, who have hooked it up with people a lot younger than them. I got some good rebuking. The last thing I remember hearing was some sort of encouraging words meant to push me ahead. He said younger people now ache to be with older men. That supposedly should appease me.

I stopped and thought for a while. In a few seconds, I was deluged by questions left and right, some with answers, a lot more with no certain replies. One of the most pressing thought I had was this: Do younger people genuinely prefer somebody older than them or are we older ones who get drawn to these younger set? Do they desire for stability brought forth by many living years or do we really relish youth and wish for the old days to come by?

My first brush with AIDS was in 1998 when I attended a Health, Interaction and Values (HIV) seminar along with 25 other young people sponsored by non-government health group. That Saturday afternoon, we were made to form a circle for an activity called Wildfire. What I initially thought was just an ordinary learning module turned out to be an unexpected reality check that hurt some of us really deeply and even made the most burly of us meek and rueful crybabies.

Wildfire illustrates the swiftness and betrayal of HIV transmission. The ten of us in my group were made to sit forming a circle. I was seated between a friend's partner to my right and a new friend to my left. The facilitator began the session by asking us to be mindful of our sexual history for any behavior or practice which might have put us in danger or in extreme risk. To cap the activity, he said, he would covertly infect one of us through a secret touch and then we were asked to mingle with everyone in the group with a handshake to simulate sexual contact. We were sternly instructed to be extra sensitive for that distinct kind of touch or handshake from any one we came in contact with. That signals we got the virus. Once infected, we can then decide to stop and get settled in our seats or go on connecting with more people.

The ensuing discussion was heartbreaking as it was enlightening. More than half in the group openly cried as they related their reactions upon getting infected. R. cried the most. He cried some more when he shared his life story and longings. He admits being a drug dependent and living in a condition where easy and careless sex has practically surrounded him. The sight of him shrinking in shame and regret crushed most of us. I'm normally the crybaby, but that afternoon, I ended up playing the mother earth role with two people resting their heavy heads on my two shoulders while I comforted them as they cried. The need to comfort somebody was just too immense that time so I completely became unmindful of my tears.

The next time I encountered AIDS was for real this time. I personally knew J. and, at some point, I even grew up seeing him every now and then.

As the eldest in a brood of probably eight or nine siblings, J. took on the responbilities as head of the family at such a young age of 16 when his father died of cancer many years ago. I knew him by name. That was not surprising. It turns out everyone in our place became familiar with his name and their family's tragic story. The old women in the village would weep with the mere sight of J. They would say, "But how frail are his shoulders. How can he endure all these?" And they would weep some more.

But my memories of J. will always be bright and cheery like himself. I have known J. to be a feared pitcher in the softball team. He would sometimes anchor his school's relay team in the annual athletic meet in the province. He was friendly and responsible. He left his town after high school to pursue college and find work in the city afterwards.

I don't know the life he lived during these times. He died around three years ago of AIDS. Although painful, some voice tells me it's reality Wildfire by itself. So his life becomes a living reminder for us. Let us be pragmatic. Don't ever make the mistake of thinking you're invincible when it comes to AIDS. The truth is, in its face, we are as naked as we first came into being in this world.

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Postscript: December 1 is World Aids Day. Hope you did your part today!