When the meaning of “home” deforms in slow-mo

“I despised to spend my holiday at home; instead, I had it in the city…”

City of struggle, Makati City. The tallest building at the center, the PBCom Tower, where our main office is located.

(Credits: Imageshack.com.)

…AND YES, I AM a qualified fugitive who fittingly said goodbye before leaving the house. So who cares?

Impetuously, I dashed to stash my stuffs inside my bag last Sunday to go back to Makati City. I know there were no offices on the following day because August 30 is a holiday. However, my untimely decision to depart from our house was unfaltering. My mother was asking me why I am leaving earlier than expected. I answered, “I just changed my mind!” Then I ended with a firm judgment left furtively hanging on a faceless identikit like that in novels…

Dette, my sister, and my mother always quarrel against each other at home. My mother has made it a tradition to pickle my sister’s faults just like daily desserts served after each meal to add a little sweetness that ends with a spice—my mother, informatively speaking, has a ranting voice. When she speaks, eardrums crack. Then, when my sister gets enough of it, she retorts—and yes, her voice quality “inherited” that of my mother. Both of them weren’t as worse as what they are right now. They are just slowly getting to the point of a “worst case scenario.”

Additionally, it has been two weeks by then—which means it’s already three weeks now—that our house’s interior is being overhauled. Raucous sounds of whatsoever construction materials glut the house, forming a pandemonium that is simply annoying! I know that it would lead to expediency someday, but I just can’t impede my nuisance. Perhaps, the presence of my conceited know-all father is a steadily affecting factor—that is, if my nuisance is an experiment, his presence is a constant while the others are all just variables. He has been a Smart Aleck ever since. I presume it started from the day he was born. Unfortunately, to write about the histrionic psychodrama between me and my father needs another article, or, perhaps, even a novel titled “Why I despise my father.” I suppose the story would end with a “legitimate raison d'être” as its finale!

Way back, I used to believe that there’s no place like home. That was when I trained at a company, the head office of which is located in Ortigas City, holding a position that I disliked. Sometimes, I conjecture if it was just because I disliked my job in Ortigas City, so, the aforementioned motto had become my tagline. Currently, I suppose changes are ensuing. Home, in my case, has a former precious meaning (hopefully speaking). Perhaps, it’s still true: there’s no place like home—yet there could be somewhere better, especially when the meaning of “home” is deforming in slow-mo.