Bittersweets

Warm sunshine filled the little amber bedroom. The sheets never felt better against his calloused, worn out skin. He lifted his comforter up a bit, to shield his eyes from the intense rays and the revelations of his reality. But he couldn't deny what is; it bites, but there was nothing else he could do. Right now, his only option is to get up and face the painful motions of the sunlit day.



The long walk to where he worked was filled with all sorts of awful. Canals filled to the brim with fetid spoiling refuses of society, pockmarked roads that rival his own downtrodden pimpled face; it makes his long walk a journey, and an unpleasant one at that. Jeepneys ply the roads, their drivers yelling their lungs out for their family's next meal; he could take them sure, but it would be a waste of his hard-earned money. They say life is a battle, thrift would be his battleaxe.

It wasn't even exactly morning yet on everybody's agenda, but to him, it might as well be night, when he could finally feel the warm embrace of his old, beaten comforter. If only the day would end right there and then, no, if only his life would end right there and then, so he can finally receive his promised eternal bliss with the Maker. He never cursed Him in his twenty-five year life, but if there would be one thing he'd curse about it, it'd be his life itself.

His coworkers greeted him with warm smiles, as warm as a bonfire in the Antarctic. Everyone was abuzz with the day's work, and no sooner had he entered the building, he was abuzz along with them. Papers rustled everywhere, pens blazed mad against the crisp morning breeze. The old fan in the middle of their shared office space hadn't worked in years, yet the December gale was enough to chill their coffees before they could even finish them. They won't throw them away though, that'd be a waste - they wouldn't even throw away the cups they used, at least until the end of the day.

There was no water in the dispenser, as it was every week of the month except the first; tap water would have to suffice. He'd need every help he could get, even if it meant risking ulcer, diarrhea, amoebiasis, leptospirosis or colon cancer.  He'd welcome them if he could; his intestines have grown a level of immunity against such malefactors. Well, that or burning his throat out, and that'd add a level of misery to his already sad life - at least death would take him faster.

He knows his friends don't look down on him, but he can't help feeling like he's at the bottom rung of the proverbial ladder. They may not look down on him, but being as low as he thinks he is, it's not so difficult to look down on himself. And if he could look down on himself, what more other people, which is especially true about his family. Threatened out of his house, he bit the bullet anyways. His naivete got the better of him, youth and idealism is a cruel and deadly combination. He finds joy in what he do, sure, but that's what he says when he wants to convince himself to continue living whatever life he's living.

And what a life it is. What a life indeed.

The door gently groaned ajar. It would be what, the thousandth time now that the door has opened? It's a miracle its tattered face and loose hinges had managed to hold it in place for that long; it might have even exceeded the number of times it was tested to open and close. Sooner or later though, it would crumble, and he knew it with a degree of certainty equivalent to how certainly disdainful his day was going to be.

"Good morning sir! Kamusta po kayo?" smiled a little girl.

"Oy ser!" laughed a young boy.

"Sir!" beamed yet another.

Suddenly, he lost the urge to go back to bed just yet.