Deja vu

by Paolo Soriano

I met memory's twin today

I didn't know yesterday had a sister.

Strangely enough, they were familiar

with the same weapons

as it seemed for she wielded

her smile like a battleax

her glance like a pike

Making me wonder if

she rides veni vidi vici style.

Slip

by Paolo Soriano

Jonas slipped, and in a matter of seconds, as he accelerates 9.8 meters a second per second, he would be dead, a red stain of regret on the causeways and by-ways of life in Metro Manila.

He would be dead, and at this point, there was not much to think about.

Truthfully, there really isn?t much to think about when you have ten seconds to think about how you lived your life. No slide show on steroids featuring your family and friends. No profound insights on any problem of any weight or gravity. No miraculous revelation pertaining to the meaning of life. In ten seconds, there just wasn?t any time.

In Jonas' case, there was just this little voice, shrouded in panic and confusion growing louder and louder, reaching an almost orgasmic crescendo, than fainter and fainter, close to silence, saying one little word. One word that, in a very unusual way, captures the emotion of slipping to one's death.

A little voice, saying just one word.

A little voice, saying "shit."

Over and over again.



It has been said many times over that life is all a matter of perspective, an angle, a vantage point by which you see things.

It makes sense. For example, when you look an object, for example dead on, you wouldn't see what lies behind it, or if it has other dimensions. You wouldn't see if there are other sides; if there are other stories.

This idea may have given birth to the concept of superficiality and a plethora of other words referring to a one-sided take on things, literally or otherwise.

However, if you take another angle, for example, you move up 45 degrees and maybe 30 degrees to the left, you are able to take in the other dimensions of an object, and you appreciate and scrutinize this added information. When you take in all the sides, you let the light reveal more, and at the same time, you let it cast shadows.

It's actually a simple logic, a straightforward manner of thinking; one that could possibly explain Jonas' love for heights.

Height gives one the advantage of seeing more, and the higher you go, the more you see; the broader your horizon. Bird's eye view, the bigger picture, you get the idea.

And, as you may have already realized, is capable of casting its own shadows.



Thirty-eight stories up, the world was a much smaller place. It was like having the volume of life turned down; muffled to create a noise akin to silence. Not quite like the harsh growl of television static, it was much more like murmuring punctuated by the sudden beeps of car horns and the occasional low moan of a truck announcing its presence somewhere.

Thirty-eight stories up, problems seemed much smaller. They were distant, almost irrelevant, confined to lower strata. The voices of friends and foes alike were silent, muted.

Thirty-eight stories up is were Jonas sat down to smoke a cigarette, hanging his legs over the edge of the rooftop of another building he had conquered.

He was addicted to it, this strange form of quiet and the sheer excitement of altitude, of being on top of his world, with no one to contest his kingship. The height gave him the power to lay claim to vast expanses of city blocks, buildings and whatever he laid his eyes on.

By last count, he had claimed about fifteen McDonald?s branches, a couple of 711's and seven large houses he found to his liking. At least from up there anyway.

Jonas let a laugh escape through the window of his smile.

This was his peace.

A peace shattered by the progress of technology: his ringing cell phone.

Apparently, reality was still out there.

Jonas reluctantly reached for the nuisance.



All it takes is a single miscalculation.

You forget a number, you forget a turn.

You forget a date, you forget an answer.

You forget that you're up thirty-eight stories.

Jonas reached for nothing but air.



Jonas slipped, and in a matter of seconds, as he accelerates 9.8 meters a second per second, he would be dead.

He would be dead, and at this point, there was not much to think about.

The electronic ringing fades away.

Reality fades away.

Truthfully, there really isn't much to think about when you have ten seconds to think about how you lived your life.

No slide show on steroids.

No revelations.

No answers.

Just little voice, saying just one word.

A little voice, saying "shit."

Over and over again.

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