I want to read a happy book

As happy as when I was a little kid and waited for Papa to come home and bring his pasalubong - Chippy, or a bar of Cloud Nine, sometimes ampaw, he was at that time, I guess assigned somewhere in the far side of the province, Bogo maybe. He would call me bogay and I would sit in his lap and play with his lips and place it in a pout. These memories fade, sometimes as fast as the times when you race with so much things to do and think about. I hate this fading of memories, why can't people keep constant hold of their childhood, a video camera somewhere in the recesses of the mind where happiness can be replayed over and over again, where smiles do not fade as fast as adult trivialities invade your days.
This morning I wanted to hide under the bed, compress myself into a little slump of flesh, like a fetus maybe, hands and feet close together in the chest, hugging it tight, as bursts of tears flow out even in the tubes of the heart itself. He was snatched away. Snatched away. That's what I'd like to say. As unexpected as the sun sinking suddenly even at 5pm. Work took him away. Or something else. Sometimes you don't think anymore of why or how. All there is is what. What is happening, right before your still sleepy eyes, right before the eyes that slept too late because of crying because of a silly little rebellious act last night, that stupid thing you do when you don't know what else to do, when you just walk right away even if he was still calling you to come back, it's cowardice at the highest level, no, at the shameful level; they were fighting, and you had to go out because you are now big and suddenly you find yourself with work even at night, and they call you because, diri ra pangayo nako, papa, basta allowance nimo, mama. Oh but it's trivial really, all this thing about money, it takes you where you need to go, makes you buy food and that green blouse you wanted, but it's trivial, really. Why would they want to insert that stupid triviality in their argument, ah, a happy diversion from the weight of what they were arguing about. So you get angry and confused all at once, like eating sour and bitter ice cream, or too white, too cold carbonara. And you run, no, walk fast, back very straight, just like that. You thought you could escape just like that, but you couldn't really. you were crying all the way, head bent, tears streaming, never mind the neighbors, never mind them all, never mind the night, never mind the lights that used to hug you with mystery and absurd peace.
I resent having to write in this blog. Another useless square. I resent having people read this. It is the first time I felt this. Ah, so that's the use of the settings option --Select which blogs to display. But does it matter? I wish there are settings in the past or in memories that you can check or uncheck. It might be useful. THAT would be useful.
So I will make another story. Here is what happens.
Nothing is wrong, and nothing is dark and sad. The world is still as happy as I knew it before, a large room I need to explore, places to see, people to meet, new things to discover. If they tell me to dance or sing or recite a poem to a crowd in my long, dotted blue dress, I would prepare for it with excitement, and my heart would not beat fast as the day of the performance comes; I finish with it with extreme satisfaction, I don't bother myself with questions, did they like it? what was that about? was i wonderful? do i have to dress up more appropriately? was the blue ok; I would be as happy as anyone can get because I was happy with what I did. I don't conclude that the world is a cheat.

I want to read a happy book.