Prophecies and omens are tricky bastards, they could have more than one meaning or none at all. No matter how I wish it was that simple, life just never is. So here’s a prose that I will file under ‘Poetry’ just because I can.
Rhesus monkeys having a good time
It was winter and there was an unfamiliar chill in the air; it was also that same winter when I felt an unfamiliar chill in my heart. It was the chill that would be the omen of things that will end and the prophecy of things to come.
My blood curdled; it ran cold.
For the omen, it spoke, first of all, of the faithless lover and wayward daughter. It spoke of lost passports and lost friendships, of soul-stealing executive offers and plunging stock prices. It also spoke of married women cooking sisig out of male chauvinistic pigs, and of a midnight tryst and unlimited texting.
The beginning of bad blood, among others, that’s how it appeared to me.
For the prophecy, it spoke of food and sustenance, of gold and frankincense and myrrh. It spoke of shiny faces and double phases, of curtain-less windows and A-cup bosoms, of hosting gigs and airplane tickets, of authentic paella meals and ethnic balut vendors, of newfound talents and supportive groupies, of underwater adventures and sexytym techniques.
Blood may slow you down, but it should never stop you. Never mind the siege against your olfactory glands, although I still believe that there’s nothing like the smell of pH Care™.
What do you think?
