Supposed 500

It definitely was their ceiling, she thought. The familiar ochre and rusty smell of it filled her nostrils. She blinked thrice. For some reason, she urgently begged her brain to ask logical questions but prayed for it to stay blank for a few more minutes at the same time. She can hear the frying pan in the kitchen next door, quickly eating the olive oil and fried rice. She drew a quick glance to the room: it was the master bedroom. The shelves contained her mother’s lotions and sanitizers from her kindergarten pupils as well as her father’s belts from Dubai and Baguio. She was lying on her parent’s bed like a 5 pointed star. She felt the pillow underneath her head, comfortably easing the arch of her nape. She felt the silky sheets, it was the one they used on her sister’s birthday.  She’s sensing that there’s something big that is happening or about to happen and it’s absolutely under their ceiling, in her parent’s bedroom, on their bed and would only be seen by her. Before she could finally processed what is on, her mind deduced an irrevocable concept; the one that she thought everybody in the world had normally experienced: she was alive and she’s aware of it.

Of course, it was fundamental. You are alive and you must be, in all aspects, be known to it. The glorious responsibility of breathing, interacting, reproducing, understanding…all of which is what makes you alive and conscious. She thought, in that Super Boink shirt and submarine pajamas, that she is she. The now is her now: the bed, the pillows, the room, the door, the creased forehead, the palpitating heart. She was so overwhelmed of this weirdly coherent enlightenment that she almost cried “That’s right Cosmos, I’m right here. I can totally hear and understand you now.” Just like that, she just knew, mimicking a Eureka moment, that she’s now a living part of the world. She stood up quite quickly. All at once, the information started gushing in her like a tsunami of memories, laughs, voices, mementos, names, dates…

Hi, I am Aice and I just woke up.

The mental quiz bee started whacking her head. It now occurred to her that she’s the eldest of three; that she likes neutral colors but deigned to neon nail paint. She’s very adept with paragraphs, storytelling, and spelling. She was also suddenly aware of the horror mathematics could bring. She was happy and fat. She was 8 years old and likes Renz Verano on Sundays. Concentrated grape juice was her favourite and she enjoys flying kite with her sisters. That she’s tan and she’s insecure about it – more insecure than being fat. She has an acute crush with one of her childhood friends that has been going on since they’re five. And as though, the cadence of information settled inside her, she began telling herself: it’s important to me to tell my story/ies because I’ll never know who might be listening.


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