I’ve always had a certain fondness for empty streets. I think they’re beautiful, especially set against a vast expanse of black and whites.

By all means, I’m supposed to be  sleeping in my own bed, safe and sound at home, but I’m not. I’m not supposed to be walking in the middle of that street at midnight, but I am. I’m running away with something on that night, like I have every night before that. Where I should go, I honestly didn’t really know, or how I ended up there in the first place. There are no motorelas or jeepneys or people to call out anyone, or street vendors to ask if I wanted to buy whatever it is they sell. It’s just me, the ryhtmic sound of the beating of my own heart and the cold night.

At one stop, I associated with a group of friends waver into pavements, drunk with liquor and laughter. I might have even interallied with what they did. I had one act of first that moment I wish I could mention, but can’t. I snickered from all their stupid jokes and remember to tell a few of them to my friends back at home.

There’s was one stop, I knew was home to most of the people who wanted to leave everything off and just celebrate. There was always a reason to celebrate in that place, somewhere with neon lights, and loud music. I’d watch the aerial eruptions of lights shine off my fellow wanderer’s faces as they shifted to look on in nostalgia.

Another stop was the most rare among everything that happened on that journey. It was the kind that makes you expect to feel and just know all sorts of butterflies taking flight and making up for lost times. I continued to walk, but this time I wasn’t alone. I was with someone not very familiar—but still managed to picture out from the back of my head.

I continued to walk through. The silence of that street doesn’t change, but the lighting does. Dawn breaks. In the light, the street looked different—ordinary. Eventually, the vague beginnings of sunlight poured into the sky, and into that street. I looked around and everyone was just as tired as I am. Taking in what dimly-lit scenery we could to help stir some emotion and memory, but we are getting closer and closer to where the night began. I left that street and turn to look back at it, now smaller than it always seemed to be. It is no longer special, but something I would come back to in a few hours to pass on the way to school.

My journey that night goes like this. Some stops I barely take note of or consciously avoid remembering. Some, I wish had stayed longer. Like pictures flashing on a slideshow as I write this. There were so many of them. So many, that by the end of that journey, I am exhausted and ready to go home. I drifted in and out of consiousness on the way back to reality.

I didn’t know why I ended up on that rare and beautiful nocturnal journey, when I could be resting, as normality dictates. What I do know and very sure of is, whenever I rush to remember that night, I find that I wasn’t alone and that I felt more alive than ever. That, I think, is enough of a reason to look back at it with a smile.

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