"Won't need to wait anymore."

Almost seems like the perfect day.

The sky is dim from clouded, burning rain, and the musty smell of freedom perfumes the air. It's a Friday, and the two-day period of unprecedented freedom and limited restriction is ready to splice its rusty anchor by the harbor.

But something coils underneath the cold water.

A perfidious beast, in sudden succession, broils the water. It lunges in the open air, its ravishing jaws impressively revealing clustered teeth, like daggers. Such poise, such swagger, such heart-stopping fear.

But this blood-curdling monster is not here to attack--he is here for news.

A stake is piercing his gills of plush meat and adipose tissue, you take novice. Slowly prying it out, the stake is your prize. But it was after all, the stake that gave you the shark.

As a metaphor, that would be my best description of the prize I have.

The seas boil with alarms and surprises--like the world does. You have no idea who will surprise you, and you have no idea which shark will come with a stake in his hands as the most minimalistic treasure you'll keep for a lifetime.

The world of comics drones with silent but rewarding surprises. The ships of reality's harbor only carries them. But when an actual shark comes along to grab you off your seat, you are just swelled with pride. Not bashful pride, but in thankfulness and in gratitude.

Scott Allie became the shark with the stake. I don't know what dragged him here, but as the stake dragged the shark to my free ship, Scott Allie was moved with something. Moved with something... when he decided to post my letter to The Umbrella Academy.

In this inevitable sea of how the world goes around, there's not much a chance to be understood, heard, and known as a fan by the shark of your life. Being a comic fan for near years now, I've always wanted to be a fan that would be heard. I always knew, "Someday you'll get to say what you have been speaking in your mind and the world will know it. And someday, you'll get to feel what it's like having someone listen to you and understand you."

And Scott Allie did. Even if it was just a mere excerpt of what I meant to write. Even if it came from a very stupid, immature letter. Whatever he was thinking, I don't know. He could have been bothered, annoyed, stupified, I don't know.

But if he thought it was special enough for him to put it up for the world to see--it's just good enough for me. Now I know what it's like to be heard by the best I could get my questions from. I don't know if it was fate that impaled him inside, or if somebody watched over each letter I made. But God definitely had something to do with it. If it weren't for Him watching over it, no other way would affirm itself over it.

Gerard would be really proud.

"Watching over you."

"Confident" is just not my middle name. It used to exist in my birth certificate, written in print, and shot with a melted candle sticker, but then my Confident blood fell and dropped in love with Sir Insecure. My wilting bravery is just not patching up and entertwining in well-embroidered threads. I could run, I could bend, I could rock until the end. But make it known--even mere assonances and alliterations could not boost who I am as the watcher of the world. But I wouldn't care being the watchman, as long as for me to watch over the doer of my dreams.

Because there would be a Campus devo today (and Mr. Special Somebody would be there again), my dad and I went together to his office until the devotional would take place. Before that though, we took a pit-stop to the Fine Arts Building of UP, and applied for their summer art classes. It was like stepping into a magnificent Kingdom Come for me.

Sculptures of fish made from scrap metal had their own glass-glow gallery beside a classroom of painters splashing and spraying paint on wooden canvasses, sculptures and crashed busts hung everywhere and artsy wooden benches would lie around lounging and welcoming the artistic eye to take a dunk in its comfort. I could stay there forever, truly. I'd love to stay there forever and live in art as my own.

I also found out the mom of a friend of mine, Gabbi, worked in that wonderful palace of dreams and imagination come true. She looked impressively young, and I loved her quirky, welcoming personality. I mean, just looking at her desk, she seemed like a fun person--you can't deny Neo and Joker puppets made out of foam and standing three feet tall stranding around among papers and paraphernalia all decorated with stripes, checkers, and butterflies.

After tiptoeing through the wonderful stepping stones of the beautiful art school, dad and I went to get ice cream. He had Pistachio and Mango, I had Rocky Road and Raspberry. And they didn't give me massive brain freeze, huzzah.

We went back to dad's office where I aimlessly drew stuff while waiting for the hours to end and to get to the devo at 6 o' clock, looking at American Idol reviews while the long minutes turned into consequential hours. Apparently Adam and Danny flopped, mainly because Adam was not at all a country guy and Danny though his vocals were brilliant was ranted on for his white polar expeditionist's parka.

To momentarily make a leap in the time elapse coordinates dating after the devo, the actual performances were much better and much worse than what the numerous reviews said. In instance, Micheal Sarver though one of my favorites flopped today, becoming worse than as described in the reviews. Unscrupulously, also Adam was worse than in the reviews. He was more trying to bring my dead snake Hazel back to life and seducing a fox than actually performing. Still sexy, but horrible in terms of vocals.

Danny was also worse than reviews could explain. Not only was his parka a disturbing addition, but the song wasn't an outstanding choice. Anoop, Lil, Megan, Matt and Allison all did well for me. They are shoo-ins for the Top 10. I just DESPISE of Kris. Nothing he's doing is making me change my mind about him--he is JUST PLAIN BORING. And he's not a good singer either, seriously. Scott as the blind boy scout of the trooper herd might have played it safe, but I believe he can do better. Alexis just isn't the kind of person I'd like to hear Jolene from. I love the song, actually, but the entire arrangement was something I wouldn't love.

Anyway, bouncing back to the real world and not ranting on television primetime specials, the devo was quite pleasant. Though, having to sit in a little room screaming with ugly orange deafening the walls, I had the pleasure of sitting with my friend Joy and rant with her about Watchmen. I had trouble getting through the room's door because I had no keys. Luckily Carl came with keys of his own and then succeedingly Mike, Joseph, Micheal (Mike and Micheal are different people), Paulo, Jasi, Arnie, Pate, Pam, Mikka, Sir Erwin and his Astroboy t-shirt, and everyone else started crowding in.

I absolutely love Mikka. Also other than ranting with Joy, I also told Mikka about the Watchmen plot, and ranted with her about Watchmen. Dad gave the epic message of the night analyzing the reasons why Potiphar appointed Joseph as guard of all of his possessions. It was mainly because Potiphar, even as ungodly as he was, admired Joseph because he saw God in him spiritually and how he acted toward others in wisdom.

Mr. Special Somebody. He may never find out and he may never know that someone out there is watching over him, and will watch over him until the day he goes away. I'll be the watchmen of his life. And he may never know it.

"Would like to dedicate this to Matt," or Good luck being old.

Today, we celebrate the commemoration of a trillion and-one things.

First, we celebrate the 37-year longevity of Billie Joe Armstrong as just a month ago, this lead singer of Green Day turned 37, and only three shots to 40. And we mean 40 like Bono does 40. Then we go to the epic patenting of the rubber band in 1845, the plane crash in Cebu which lead the death of Ramon Magsaysay in 1957 (yes, Dia, we mourn with you).

And let us never forget the reason to this epic blog: Matthew Samuel Reysio-Cruz, born on this very day, thirteen years ago.

Not knowing Matthew, I just suspected good old Matty boy to be quiet, simple, and serious. But after just fifteen minutes of talking about the Cigauan family tree and stories on Mibba, one of the shortest, but one of the strongest, instant friendships was spawned. Matt then started to burst in a rainbow of pooling colors, exploding, loosening up, and shrugging insecurity away like blowing on a muddle of dust before it hit the window sill.

Through obsessing together with the same music, TV shows (most exponentially of American Idol), senselessly ranting of hatred toward random people (which we have learned to forgive--I hope), and sharing tears from being separated by the ironies of graduation, I haven't missed Matt more than I do now. Not only Matt, but the entire Cigauan. I haven't been this far from so many loved ones, and I'm just glad that it's already summer where we can all get together and do stuff. Just like old times.

Unlike old times though, everyone saw each other everyday, and didn't care if they wouldn't see them the next day, because it was insured that they would come back another time. But this time, no one comes back, no one sees all the same faces they saw before. We just took that for granted I guess.

But I'd never take a farewell for granted.

Seemed like it was only last year how we all would gather together for Coke Zero and glazed doughnuts, laughing like old times and past pictures should be taken. Such a memory haunts me--everything seemed so perfect, so immensely choreographed as if every part us as Cigauan was just acted. But it had emotion. It had love. Everything Cigauan did was love.

And so Matt, live well and stick around for a 1,000th reunion.

If we will ever make it to that many.