“I could not decide whether to pull over or to go on. I politely told the driver of a Jaro-CPU jeepney that I was getting off, and ran after that familiar face. Only to learn that he was not alone; he was not unhappy like I thought; and that in his universe that early evening, I was a mere accident. And accident I was.”
There are some stories that are not meant to be told, that are better off if they remain hidden in the repository of the dead.
Modernist writing focuses on the individual and the conflict between him and the social constructs where he is a member of. In modernist fiction the struggle for personal autonomy can be continued only through opposition to existing social institutions and conventions. This struggle necessarily involves individual alienation and often ends with mental dissolution (Waugh, 1984:10). But as is always the case, the power structures of contemporary society are more mystifying and complex than what is apparent leaving modernist thoughts at a lost for explanation. This leaves me with no other option but to tread the dangerous and unpredictable waters of postmodernism and metafiction. Here I find a solution by looking inwards to my medium of expression—language.
The story started with the writer just arriving from a convention with the deities of Anini-y. He was riding a Jaro-CPU jeepney on his way to the gym last night, when he saw a familiar face sullenly walking, he conjectured to be, alone on Iznart Street. During the few seconds between seeing that familiar face and the decision to politely tell the driver that he was getting off, a torrent of past events flooded him, though he’s all too aware that he has become an insignificant quantum in the memory of that familiar face, like how the owner of the face is in the writer’s life. But he felt, for reasons he couldn’t explain, that the ties that used to strongly attach him with the familiar face has been dissolved by the acrid feelings each has caused the other. The writer causing the most pain but ended up being the more bitter.
And there are some stories such as this one that escape understanding 1) because they are tasteless, 2) because they are boring, 3) because they are about a banality of an individual; stories that do not seem to contribute anything substantial and profound to mankind’s brief history.