Oh, The Reddish Glare of Youth

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9 am early at a bar place in Makati. Me and my hs bffs tried to do something we don’t usually do: party. Youth, I guess, has a force both potent and pernicious, egging the susceptible–and almost always all of us are–to try; it whispers, “Go on. Try. Move. Speak. Live.” and the words flow and glow with reddish haze from its lips: and suddenly, magically, with hubris throbbing and lusting, the night can be ours, it is ours. But its power lies with the coming of dawn when the morning light gathers and makes us see that it was all an illusion that night can be owned, a moment’s ludicrous arrogance. We dismiss this. Illusion is a necessary interlude to the constancy of reality.

This almost didn’t happen because a few of our friends ditched us, and we spent the night with new people. I didn’t care. I just want a goddamn drink.

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