the car sped through half-lit lamplights through dark roads, almost by itself except for the usual working early birds. it was half past three in the morning and the usual morning traffic clutter could not be found. there were occasional varied lights from running jeepneys, trucks and fxs, but none of the bumper-to-bumper and the noise. he has traveled this route ever since his memory started recording images of his younger years, but this time, it felt different, carrying a stranger presence, seeming to offer him his other calm and solitary face, before he leaves, "yes, you never knew my penchant at reflecting what's in you. just as the floodway waters secretly spin a silky carpet from golden threads of tungsten lamplights, or the pasig river's choice to have flourescent white spun through its murky floor. yes, you never knew how much i can be you, how much you force to hold on and keep, and by daybreak where much of the effort would have been lost only to be re-spun again at nightfall."
it was the uncertainty he fears, and the same that excites him, that could make him, or, otherwise. he could recount the often times he had left but always with the expectation of returning and coming back. there were final destinations and round trips. now it seemed everything will have to move forward, a few occasional glances back but it was to move on and on. "yes," that something seemed to say, could be the still battling darkness from morning light, or the route, the river, the water, or the road, "yes, this is your walkabout."