Random Rye

There are moments when reality surpasses the absurdity of fiction.

Perhaps it is why, in fiction, credibility can easily be called into question and become the deciding factor of whether the work is “good” or not. On better days, one can settle for minute details (mostly, dealing with personal preference) which somehow lessen the value of the written work:

“Oh, it’s a horrible novel. It’s not realistic at all!”

“I couldn’t get past the flowery language! How could you imagine a character who’s supposed to be poor to speak like that anyway?”


But hardly can be said when the same happens in reality.

And oftentimes, we hardly have time to pause and reflect on what must be done, what should have been done— the convenient reprieve allowed by fiction— simply because we are in a stupor of how “unbelievable” it all is.


Until now, I still wonder what drove that bomber to throw the bomb on those unsuspecting law students. What possible reason is there to justify the physical and emotional pain dealt by that explosion?

There is no excuse.

And, as they say, justice delayed is justice denied. How many times have many of our people lost that reassurance; for how long will they have to live with the fact that somewhere out there is the criminal, free to roam the streets just like any other citizen?

Sometimes, one comes to think that because of the value of interpersonal relationships (politico-socio relationships, even), justice cannot take its due course. There is too much sympathy, too much empathy, that we are either blinded or forced to look the other way.

And, there is also that unsaid reality— the option of simply silencing the noise-maker. 

I still look forward to that brighter tomorrow… when WE finally decide to make the bureaucracy truly for the people and by the people, rather than to benefit individuals and their families…

and their family’s friends…

and their friends’ friends…