Ayoko na, quit na ‘ko.
Alam ko, may anim na buwan pa ‘ko. Pero ayoko na, quit na ‘ko.
Ang hirap naman kasi. Masyado kang mayabang. Ako rin. Akala ko kaya ko, hindi pala. Naaliw lang ata ako sa mga narinig kong kwento. Kaso mukha namang kwento lang yung mga ‘yon. Drawing. Masyado ko nang pinapahirapan ang sarili ko. May easy way out naman. Dun na lang ako.
Quitters never win. So what? Baka naman ayoko talagang manalo.
Kaya ayoko na, quit na ‘ko.
For seven years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my mind — her. Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to her we would all be Jesus Christs today. Day and night I thought of her, even when I was deceiving her. And now sometimes, in the very midst of things, sometimes when I feel that I am absolutely free of it all, suddenly, in rounding a corner perhaps, there will bob up a little square, a few trees and a bench, a deserted spot where we stood and had it out, where we drove each other crazy with bitter, jealous scenes. Always some deserted spot, like the Place de l’Estrapade, for example, or those dingy, mournful streets off the Mosque or along that open tomb of an Avenue de Breteuil which at ten o’clock in the evening is so silent, so dead, that it makes one think of murder or suicide, anything that might create a vestige of human drama. When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; it is the abyss into which Satan was plunged. There is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand.
Henry Miller. Tropic of Cancer
Wawa Dam, Rodriguez, Rizal
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