The Terrible Writings of Quentin Montejo
Serial experiments on a fallen archangel who only wanted to regain just one wing back
Free of the World. Rain worshipper. Hermit. Tormented mind. Caged spirit. Defiant and eternal enemy of Destiny and Fate. Poet. Scientist. Artist. Daydreamer. He who laughs. Slacker. Sleeper. Romancer of wings and clouds. Fiercely independent. He who is ponderous. Games and anime junkie. Four eyes. Caveman. Nature-lover. He who doesn't think that hard. Non-smoker. Music-junkie. Counter of blessings. Guitar-hugger. He who simply wants what everybody else would like to be in this world and the next -- to be happy.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
An Open Letter to My Brother
I remembered the day when mom was carrying you in her womb. I would place my ears on her tummy and feel you kicking inside.
Yeah, you were our miracle waiting to happen.
And then you came out to the world. You were different from me in many ways, and up until now I kid you as to which one of us was the mistaken baby in the hospital basinet. Unlike me, who was born with sleepy eyes and taking away from mom all of her illnesses and sorrow, you were born with big, bright eyes while mom was in her best health.
You were blessed with everything good. And up until then, I was still a sickly, weak child.
When I was made to baby sit you, I did everything to stop you from crying or from looking for mom when she's not around. I was there when you crawled around the wooden floor and stopping you from putting things in your mouth. I protected my treasured little toys that your hands would freely pick up and throw away. Your baby face was not fit for too much crying.
I was the one who heard your first word.
I remembered us watching the blue beyond from a bed beside our wide, airy window on the second floor of our home. I vividly remembered how many clouds there were in the sky. And imagined them to be the robots and spaceships we see in TV.
One day I came home from school and found out that you finally learned to walk. I was proud. Now you can begin running after me on the patio, while riding the wheeled sofa chair much to mom's dismay.
I remembered the time when you learned in one night how to ride a bicycle on the rough, cemented roads in BF Pilar which I had to learn in a month. Then I discovered, I have a really bad sense of balance. Everytime I ride a bike, I always have some scratch or bruise to take home.
Then you followed my footsteps as an honor student in our little barrio in elementary. You gained more gold medals than I had in my time. I believed you were better than me in every way. I was proud. You have imitated everything I did but better.
And so began our adventures in the coffee plantations, catching spiders and cicadas. Me telling you my knowledge of everything. All from the encyclopedias I loved reading back home. You were there, my personal fan. Eyes bright about the wonders of this piece of land way behind our home.
We were to conquer the world at the age of 12 and 5. We will be kings, you and I. And our castles are but a magnificent testament to our genius.
When you had your first fight, I was cheering for you. I wanted you to win what I cannot on my own with the class bullies. I was weak, you were strong.
You were following my footsteps still. Mom and dad wanted you to. But I didn't want you to.
Throughout highschool and college, I was witness to you struggling to keep up with me. I think I was running a bit too fast. You couldn't catch up with me can you? There was something in those eyes that say that you were tired.
But I kept going forward.
One day you left early from our home. You left a note on the fridge telling mom you love her. And on my cellphone you were asking for my help.
You got a girl pregnant.
Mom was heartbroken. Dad was angry. I was disappointed. You were to go far, that we all wished. But then again, I also wished that you did not have to follow me. This was to be for the best as it turned out.
We can no longer conquer the world it seems. Yet in our age when we can think for our own, we were still Hector and Paris.
I kept the family through hard times when dad had no job. And you had to continue college.
One day you called my cellphone. You were crying.
Our dear beloved father has raised his hand on you in his drunken delusions, complaining why mom has left our home. And I was the one you turned to. I was furious ofcourse. I was ready to go home and exact revenge. But it seems, between the two of us, you were more compassionate to dad than I'll ever be.
Brother, you are now your own king. You have to completely learn to depend on yourself now. I know you can do yourself the things you ask me to do, because the day you see me step in the door of our home is the time I know that you can no longer take it.
Be strong. Stand fast. I am still proud of you.
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