redefining anonymous crowd

i have never been one for writing much. unlike most people who claim that adversity or ecstasy brings out the most profound in their literary meanderings, i am quite the opposite. i don't write under extreme conditions. i have always held human emotion with the sanctity of saints, and i would feel guilty of sacrilege if i try to commit the intensity of feeling to words. words will never be commensurate to actual experience.

here ends my excuse for not writing much.

i now have the luxury of sitting down and composing an entry because the santo niño procession is nowhere near its end. the office is dead center of the main thoroughfare, so unlucky me could only shoot pathetic glances at the throbbing throng of people funneling into our boulevard. an hour ago, in one decisive action, i kicked my four-inch heels into a dilapidated paper bag, wore the rubber bathroom slippers and gathered enough bravado to thread my way through the phalanx and cross towards the moving traffic lane. i got there with candle wax drippings and my freshly pedicured toenails in ruin, but i had my head up like some triumphant explorer. until all taxi cabs refused to take me to ayala center. i couldn't blame them. avenues in that general direction were all blocked. this sinulog was beginning to eat me alive. so after 30 minutes of aimless walking and waiting in vain, i let go of all hopes to escape this fishbowl and traced my way back to the office. as i prepared to take a deep lunge across the main path, i saw the procession's catalyst looming in the concrete horizon. the glass-encased antiquated santo niño of magellan fame. my face must have transformed from irritated to alarmed when i saw the disparate crowd from the sidelines, without warning, collect around my area, their hands up in reverence, with candles leaking hot wax onto innocent (pedicured) feet. i refused to be caught helpless, so with all my might, i sprinted in counterflow, incessantly yelling "excuse me" over the drone of latin prayers and finally hopped onto the sidewalk that leads back to our gate.

now i'm here. and there's a young french guy in ayala center wondering where the hell i am.