Now I'm 23 and I'm Jem Robert Bautista Talaroc.
Obscure composer in Manila who came for fame and fortune, victim to the hideous delusions of grandeur. Won praises and assurance from immensely magnanimous people of a charmingly small town, and had gone north to seek validation in the vast wolf-pit of Manila, a sheep. A young man whose wallet contains nothing but skills and hope.
Who saw the ambitious minds of his generation gainfully employed in dubious companies, and saw no humans but bricks on a wall of capitalism.
Who saw the red sunrise behind the hazy skyscrapers of Makati at 6 a.m. and saw absolute beauty when no one else did.
Who read the Lifestyle section of the newspaper and was simultaneously disgusted and envious at the superficial "success" of those younger than him.
Who stared for a minute at the invisible raindrops that is illuminated only by the yellow headlights among the nocturnal traffic, from the blissful edge of a jeepney, with a woman leaning on his shoulder, and was at that moment, genuinely happy.
Who once had friends but now has painfully parted ways and watch them drift about in the ocean of uncertainty.
Who now have learned to talk to people upon accepting the stupid fact that one has to blab the most trivial details of his experiences so as to sustain a friendly conversation.
Who thinks. Who writes. Who sings, in his mind. Not even in the bathroom. No. Who came. Who saw. And is yet to conquer. Himself.
Who refuses to live a life of mediocrity and had chosen the solitary path to immortality.
Who am I? I'm Spiderman. When I was 11. But now. I'm 23.