Living is easy with your eyes closed

Sarah was asking me about video production class before my entire day in school started. She's still wearing dark shirts. I've never given a flying fudge about it anymore - just civilized, normal conversation. No insignificant hellos, no awkward gestures, no unwarranted I-miss-you-a-lots. Just her asking about how that class is going on, and then she mentioned having to climb up the fourth floor, where all the psychology students have been weirdly dumped.

Has it been that long? The last time I talked to her was during the elections. She was wearing what the party prescribed, waiting at one of the doors to Miguel, watching the polls drag on. Our conversations back then, if you'd even call them conversations, were shorter than what they used to be exactly a year to that date. At that time I was busier talking to her opponent Mica, or to one of her "babies" (I'm not sure about the adjective, but this is a wide presumption) Mara.

Up to now I still attribute the dark shirts to the results, although this is going to be terrible of me to presume. But in the many times I've seen her since I received that text message from Carlo saying who won and who didn't, the color palette has changed, and it has somehow stuck there. I guess that's the reason why that short chat before she went up the stairs was a little surprising. Or maybe I'm just not used to it anymore.

I somehow managed to spend most of my day with Naomi. From our only class, to the moment she went home at around four hours later, we've had lunch, photos, and wads of flimsy paper containing copies of handouts that we'd need many weeks from now. Otherwise today would have been drab, with me just walking out of the classroom, having lunch solo, maybe getting stuff done solo, and then I go home, inevitably, solo. I've long learned to warm up to Naomi despite the one-batch difference, but it's only now when I actually got what that is supposed to mean. It's been the second time this happened - nothing much, really.

It's a little feeling that you never have a handle for anything. Right now I still wonder as to why I'm not yet busy - I've been scaring the wits out of my parents and I'm damn close to being proven wrong. I've been simply waking up in the morning, sleeping late at night, maybe trying to tune the radio and keep it damn low to the point that nobody hears what's playing - and yet things just move along. But don't get me wrong - this isn't another essay on worrying, but rather is a thought bubble on how it just happens. It's the little things people fail to observe. And maybe we shouldn't have been observing them.

Somehow Issa can't send me anything earlier. So much for her having a broadband connection, because the errors come from her side of the world. And somehow I manage to handle the fact that you never own the conversations - circumstances do. The next thing I knew she's talking to George's sister, clueless about what to say next.

And I became Chexie's "├╝ber cool friend" who never managed to sense her presence in the DLSU vicinity. Or is it because philosophy class was a little bit more engaging than usual? Or is it because Sir Unson's handwriting is just, well, too scripted to mesmerize normally?

It's the little things that actually move us to places. Somehow, in that conversation with Issa, I ended up retelling the story of how I got involved in yet another half-romantic tussle, and I realized that, thanks to my strong recall, it's the little things that made it. Sure, there's one observation, one half-meant response, one truthful description, and the next thing you know you've blown it up again. So it's definitely something in Issa's PC that disables her scrobbling and ditches the file transfer, and it's definitely something in me that somehow managed to impress Chexie even if I didn't really try.

And it's definitely something in the way I left the drinking fountain and realized that Sarah was there. And we were talking about video production class. And I wasn't looking at her eyes, for somehow I got used to them. As usual, I was short of answers. What else could I do? I was talking to Sarah. It always happens.

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