High

Scene: Funeral Mass

We are here today to remember our friend, our classmate, and most of all, a person very dear to us, Raymond. In my eulogy today, I don't want to highlight his death, I would rather talk more about his life, reminiscing about when he was still in our midst, breathing the same air we are all thriving on, standing firm among us. Now I would like you to create a mental picture that I am he, and that he is talking to you.

"And the winner of the Palanca Award is...Mr. Raymond Faustino!"

Raymond Faustino.

I like the sound of that name; the sweet music of my 5-syllable name...and most of all, the prestige that has come with it. Now, sitting in the back in this old cinema chair, with everyone showing their approval with their applause as I take my bow, only one thought runs through my mind. Yes. I got the recognition that my hard work deserves.

I've been a writer for two years now and I am proud to have already written scripts for three movies, authored six books and am currently writing a daily column for a local tabloid. My colleagues say I am a literary genius. I owe it all to my mind, frivolous and vulnerable, yet firm in purpose. It is much like a factory, where raw resources enter, are quickly processed piece by piece and... Presto! A vivid idea, commonplace yet innovative.

Writing is my passion- it is an intoxicating drug to me, like a stimulant that arouses my creative mind, like a depressant that represses my true feelings, like a laxative which purges the ideas out of me, like an analgesic that numbs my physical pains. Like a drug, it gives me a feeling of being "high", an intense feeling of satisfaction given by the melody of words and the lullaby of thoughts. Words are indeed as powerful as they are captivating. But alas! With all these mind-made experiences, I am not satisfied. Somehow, I long for more...I thirst for more...

With all my heart put into paper, I sense that my brain is left drained. Whenever an idea takes shape, it makes a quick exit as soon as the legible blots of ink pervade the subtlenessof my paper. I recognize that my mind only does one thing: processing. Period. Nothing gained, nothing retained.

It's a form of delirium. I begin to see the characters I had written about, even some by other authors as well. I see them personified. Maybe it is just me seeing the persona of my characters in other people or maybe just a product of my imagination, delusions of uncertain origin. My mind goes completely astray. I have difficulty discerning fact from fiction. Seeing fierce-looking harpies and lovely angels, I think that it is all just bliss, something that would fade in time.

Soon, those delusions become more and more frequent. I start seeing more and more of the made-up world- much like stepping into a storybook but one with some clear connection to the headlines in your daily newspaper. A window has opened to the unknown, to the bizarre. I see dwarfs among my kitchen canisters, an opening to Dante Alighieri's version of hell in my own office, and lastly, suddenly, there she is: the perfect woman that I myself had created. She had ended up as one of those crumpled papers-a rejected idea that has remained forgotten until now.

I tried to convince myself that it is just one of those delusions that I frequently have, but it is really her I see standing a few feet away from the jump-off point in our building, standing in melancholic contemplation, with her face turned back, her long black hair dancing with the wind, crying in despair. And I, a hopeless romantic, have only one thing in my mind: to end all her misery, for I cannot bear to see the sadness of my creation. I come close to her… she stands still. I envelop her with my arms, thinking of giving in and reaching out to the dark abyss. I surrender. This is a feeling I can’t write with words alone-grammar was too constricting to let me express it- and if given the chance to write down what I feel, it will surely end up like a crossword puzzle, from which ideas are hard to discern. I am lost in my thoughts. All I sense now is the crisp gust of wind and the fading street lights as we join in this sweet surrender...

The lights fade.

It blacks out… and I have no one to blame except a mad literary genius’s mind.

This story is written by Raymond John Naguit.