We had this descriptive/narrative essay writing sort of quiz in Comm I (read: recorded). And lovely Pacita gave me a one-point-zero for this… this mini-allusion to her.
She sits on her throne with that sophisticated European touch, though the way she lays herself on the cold stone makes her seem unaware of the countless people who have passed her by all day. Without so much as a flick of an eyelid, she lifts herself up and jumps off her throne, only to roll across the pebbled pavement in a seemingly playful manner so unlike royalty.
I take it that she has called her maids and ladies-in-waiting, as I stand a couple of meters behind her, mesmerized by the gathering at hand. She then leads the way, strutting with just the right amount of grace and power; her ladies follow suit, like the penitent and faithful in solemn procession to the church on Good Friday. Entranced and enthralled by this rather mystical parade of fur coats, I follow them.
When they reach the far end of the pathway, where the imposing Rizal Hall stands, they stop. Somehow, they have become aware of my presence (though I try my all to exude an uncanny friendliness). In a silent command, she tells her servants to disperse; obediently, they scatter with nary a whisper. One by one, they take up their places – beside a shrub, amongst the fallen leaves – and go about their business.
It is then that I realize that the queen has called for me. Sitting directly ahead of me, she looks me straight into the eyes, piercing my soul with her gaze. She scours through my thoughts, searching through every nook and cranny, perhaps judging whether my knowledge of the world is worthy to stand before her presence. I walk away from her towards the main entrance of Rizal Hall, but I can still feel her inside me. The soft melody – the harmonized purring of her servants – fails to distract me, or lead me into believing that my mind is still my own. Somehow, I can hear her in my head, calling to me, telling me to bow down before her and make her my goddess.
Then, I step inside Rizal Hall – and she promptly leaves my mind. I turn around, looking through the glass panes of the door. The ladies are still absorbed in singing with the trees and shrubs; she, however, seems dazed, as if something else more interesting and complex than my mind has caught her attention. Then, I realize that she is just snapping out of her psychic adventure into human thought.
She turns around, catches my eye, and smiles at me.
She sits on her throne with that sophisticated European touch, though the way she lays herself on the cold stone makes her seem unaware of the countless people who have passed her by all day. Without so much as a flick of an eyelid, she lifts herself up and jumps off her throne, only to roll across the pebbled pavement in a seemingly playful manner so unlike royalty.
I take it that she has called her maids and ladies-in-waiting, as I stand a couple of meters behind her, mesmerized by the gathering at hand. She then leads the way, strutting with just the right amount of grace and power; her ladies follow suit, like the penitent and faithful in solemn procession to the church on Good Friday. Entranced and enthralled by this rather mystical parade of fur coats, I follow them.
When they reach the far end of the pathway, where the imposing Rizal Hall stands, they stop. Somehow, they have become aware of my presence (though I try my all to exude an uncanny friendliness). In a silent command, she tells her servants to disperse; obediently, they scatter with nary a whisper. One by one, they take up their places – beside a shrub, amongst the fallen leaves – and go about their business.
It is then that I realize that the queen has called for me. Sitting directly ahead of me, she looks me straight into the eyes, piercing my soul with her gaze. She scours through my thoughts, searching through every nook and cranny, perhaps judging whether my knowledge of the world is worthy to stand before her presence. I walk away from her towards the main entrance of Rizal Hall, but I can still feel her inside me. The soft melody – the harmonized purring of her servants – fails to distract me, or lead me into believing that my mind is still my own. Somehow, I can hear her in my head, calling to me, telling me to bow down before her and make her my goddess.
Then, I step inside Rizal Hall – and she promptly leaves my mind. I turn around, looking through the glass panes of the door. The ladies are still absorbed in singing with the trees and shrubs; she, however, seems dazed, as if something else more interesting and complex than my mind has caught her attention. Then, I realize that she is just snapping out of her psychic adventure into human thought.
She turns around, catches my eye, and smiles at me.
