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If things were different I would be driving home from a hard night’s partying, being wednesday and all, negotiating the spiritual emptiness that is manila with nothing more than the alcoholic buzz of too many san mig lites to sustain me.

But things are not different. The log fire crackling in front of me, a night of conversation with Brian behind, and everything in between. Tonight, as I negotiate another lonely night without Van here in Weybridge, ten million miles west of home. The clock strikes the penultimate hour before midnight. I am alone and lonely as usual, as I carry on moving my life further away from friends and loved ones.

Today I feel like so many pieces of me are surfacing, debris from other lives. A piece of me from college; a scrap from the early unsure days of high school. An unremarked teardrop in the ocean of the present reminds me of the earliest days, when I would make airplane shapes with my hands as I lay in enforced afternoon naps, reenacting scenes from the Transformers.

I have probably discovered more about myself in the past month than I have in the three years living a delusion of success in P&G. No, check that: rediscovered, in the sense that the things I’ve kept below the surface have finally come back to remind me of who I really am.

The sky is HUGE here. It stretches off into forever.

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