When I am back in Manila I will live in an old dingy two-storied wooden apartment, with a boyfriend who doesn’t mind if I model clothes or make-up. We would have pets, maybe a dog or a goldfish and a turtle. On Sundays we’ll while away our time watering and talking to our plants, lying on the couch and feeling the warm air waft through our dusty windows. We will shut our laptops and tablets, hide them in the closet and take out dozens of books to read in the afternoon. We will light incense and bow to the universe, offer food to the gods and munch on them afterwards. We will live peacefully, mindless about the condemnation of self-righteous believers. We will smile, laugh and talk, maybe take a stroll in Diliman and buy pet food at the Student Center. We’d go home and make dinner, all of which would be fresh ingredients we got from the market, our garden, or the neighbour’s malunggay tree. “Look! Our tomatoes are ripe now, maybe we can make pasta with the basil plant!” we would be excited to cook our own homegrown meal, we will toil together in the kitchen and eat heartily in our cramped dining area. At night we will crawl into bed, and look up at our ceiling pasted with glow in the dark stars. We’ll talk about the day we had, laugh in agreement, argue light-heartedly, then drift off to sleep, lightly touching, slightly nudging, lullabied by the sounds of snoring, the whirring 3D fan and the distant blare of jeepney horns.
Or maybe I could get a small room, all for myself with just my plants, a fish and a turtle and do all these things alone.