Hoarder of Purpose and Dreams

Photo by Raymond Vince Manaloto/THE FLAME

I THINK my flesh attracts the small and discarded. I pity these lifeless things to wander here at the park, which I protected from their creators in my ways. 

I sat on the ground under the split power of the sun. The dancing leaves of mango trees protected me. As I picked up different plastics on the ground, the color blue and white atmosphere above hovered over my vulnerable state of optimism. 

Five years ago, I hoped to exhibit human experiences through oil on canvases at a gallery someday. Yet, today, I displayed compressed synthetic in containers placed in dark corners. Who was I to have a preference when I inherited the debts and despair from my parents? 

Reforming the plastics five days a week resulted in rough calluses on my fingers. Yet it ignited the dreams of my heart — that despite the agony of poverty, I had powers in my hand to create something of value.

There were more scraps to alter, but I was stubborn to stop. Like plastic, I also clung to my dream of changing something. 

When I no longer needed protection from the sun, I lied down in the middle of the grassland, where the unequal blades of the grass penetrated the fabric I wore. 

The sensation brought me back to reality — to pursue the dream I built when I could still afford it.

The bottle filled with triangle-shaped remnants lay on my chest while it followed the rhythm of my heave. My breath was the enchantment to transfigure it as an ornament of the rich. F

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