a.k.a. Jeepney Amnesia
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The world here is shielded
from the outside. Peace
between sighs are punctuated
by the promised calm of salvation
that is home.
Nobody complains about the bumpy ride.
After all, a drowsy drive is a national passion;
Grief, an easy abandon. You look around,
and there, you are not alone.
Amazingly, politics is never a passenger.
Everybody else looks out for each other;
The driver, your benevolent dictator sits
on a throne that nobody else desires.
How many generations have you waited for him?
And yet here he is,
guarding everybody's redemption.
Somehow the real meaning of community
is proper within these confines.
Funny how people will not steal
your cash nor your pride
when you hand-in the payment.
Nobody will blame you for a bad tie.
Besides, fatigue is everybody's addiction;
Work, work and work,
the expected predilection.
The economics therefore
is an efficient course of profitability.
In essence, when everybody sits in his place
the jeepney economy will never be in the red line.
Therefore this is most ideal.
When you pay respects
to the driver, however,
and you bid a determined goodbye
The ironic 'Para', hits you.
Suddenly it's over.
Fantasy stops, time scuttles.
Your descent is prophetic.
You alight with a sting of truth knowing
that the real plight is beyond these walls
It compounds you, yet you accept it.
You acquire Jeepney Amnesia
when your feet touch the ground
and somehow the only reminder
of a paradise lost
is your volatile existence.
The next day, and every day
thereafter, you dream
about the perfect journey
that does not exist.
You hail yet another jeepney,
bestow dictatorship on another driver,
and forget the lessons of the previous day.