February 29th
From the desk of Alexis

She has always had cautious eyes. On the times when she thinks nobody’s looking she still has a guarded look, not like as if anybody is posing to strike, but as if someone might hurt her. That’s the distinction, I suppose. While other people’s guarded looks are out of distance provided to help them cope, hers were more of a simple wary look, almost pleading without exactly voicing, please, don’t hurt me. I have had enough.

I have always been a slave of being misled in translating such facade from different people, but hers is by far the most interesting. While other people have obvious happiness or sadness, hers always had a tinge of sadness on both—a little unsure whether she’s allowed to be happy, a little hesitant whether she’s allowed to be sad. She was trained to observe. What she doesn’t know is that I’m noticing. And despite the soft blush on her face, the perfect lips, and the sharp eyes, even that precautious smile—all of them lead to only one hope for those who does translate accurately: that she finds that one person who does make her happy genuinely.

Sadly, despite all my perception and science of her, I wouldn’t be that character.

—–

In 1989 I would be found tying a thread on a balloon which I would try to fly across the clouds. It wasn’t vain, but it didn’t fly very high. I would recount that it was because I was planning to fly it like a kite, but was later on distracted when an airplane came transversely through my peripheral vision, and having a very short attention span, I would point out to the sky, and at such a young age, I had the ambition to fly to meet my grandmother who was then situated overseas. A brother’s friend would approach me and ask what I was pointing at, and we would both coo, bye, bye, airplane while waving at it. I resumed to flying the balloon, this time with the desire of making the balloon reach the gargantuan steel beast to bring to my grandma.

I would recount this same story to someone late this year after he asks me for the earliest childhood story I have. It came next after the question what was my passion, which was revised to become who was my passion.

It would take me some days to realize that it was not an extremely different question. That while I was a kid back in 1989 I would have the ardour to fly a plane to reach my grandmother, while today, in my twenties when I’m capable and older, I would sit and deny myself of running towards the person I would want to convince. And all it would take is one cab ride.

—–

Leap years were created by the scholars for the romantics (or irrational). You cannot deny yourself that fact.

See, it must have been foresight that, out of a human’s struggle to live foolishly and create an elaborate drama to forget, there would be one year which would spare you all the drama of remembering after maybe four years after, when someone has somehow—if not fully—healed. So if you create something that you would want to hurt you less, better have it experienced on a Leap year and wait for February 29th four years after—that way, you live and forget.

Isn’t it convenient? You grab a random romantic (or irrational) and make him pine over someone, weep his self silly, write poignant poetry and if skill allows it, create a song or an ambiguous film about the hurt, wrap it up in gold cellophane and couple him with unfounded moments—all in one day: February 29th. The key though is to ensure he would not repeat the same events so as not to prolong the drama, then, mark it as the one day memorial. The next year, he won’t be able to celebrate anything. Nor the year after that. It’s simple, it’s romantic (or irrational), it’s genius.

So, that being said, I’ll see you in four years.

(written sometime mid-Feb. I just didn’t get to post this)