Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | June 10, 2009

Will you still meet me in mornings for coffee?

(After having read this grief-laden link posted on this guy’s Facebook account)

Dear reader,

After all the special moments we had shared, I fear you are now close to completely forgetting me. Allow me to reintroduce myself.

I am the guy you waited for every morning to share coffee with. I’m also the same insignificant ass who spent the night before thinking you’d keep on waiting, as long as I keep coming up with those witty one-liners to intro how your favorite team creamed an opponent.

You must remember me. You once suffered how I’d spend the night slobbering with saliva and beer foam while launching into some pompous speech of self-importance, unmindful of the possibility that I’d be late for our breakfast rendezvous. I was cocky. I thought you’d wait anyway. That all I had to do was mindlessly hammer fingers on laptop keyboards and you’d rush to the newsstand early in the morning to take me home for breakfast.

I do not know when I started noticing that all there was left of these mornings were a cup of cold coffee and an empty table.

Truth is, I didn’t care at first.

You’d come back. I was sure.

I was wrong.

And heck, I miss you.

I miss how a smile would light up your face every time you’d come across a subjective wisecrack that I’d somehow slipped past my editor’s scrutinizing eyes.

I love how you’d spread out the broadsheet, creating a rustling sound that blends with your hushed voice as you whisper: “I love the smell of newsprint in the morning.”

Whatever happened to breakfast, coffee, you and me?

They say you’d grown old and word-weary; that hearing the news from the TV while seated on your favorite cushy armchair is a much more comfy alternative to rifling through broadsheets beside breakfast tables.

But what if you miss out on something you want to go over again? Not everyone can TiVo everything on TV. Sure, you can go the way the young ones go and read all you want from the impersonal glare of your computers. But, c’mon now. What if you really liked what you read? How can you snip it out and save it for later, when you can unfold a moment in history preserved in some special compartment in your wallet?

Yeah, I know. It’s my fault, too.

You used to find me entertaining. I used to amaze you with the depth by which I tackled subjects, situations. You would take deep breaths as you absorbed the drama I presented before you. You’d even react; you’d nod in agreement or hammer out a letter in protest.

In return, what’d I do? I fed you PR-polished stories. I conducted interviews in thoughtless barbershop fasion, submitting reports on controversial issues in installment—presenting you only one side today so I’d have something default to work on tomorrow. Because I became plain lazy to look for other worthy stories to share with you the next day. I even fraternized with my subjects; justifying their pricey gifts and refusing to see the free buffet, subsidized trips and the occasional envelope for what they really are: Bribes.

What the hell was I thinking?

I sold my soul, hoping you’d buy it back for me.

You who wouldn’t even bother to meet me in the morning for coffee anymore.

I’ve no right to complain, really. Not when you do show up for—and comment on—the rare blog post; the tweets and Facebook updates. Heck, even for the quickie nightcap; the bite-sized rundown of events and happenings before you sleep the world off.

But see, mornings over coffee are when we enjoy each other the most.

And yes, even if you had completely lost faith in me, I know I can make it up to you because I still have lots of stories to tell. I told a decent one recently; about kids from a community built on a garbage dumpsite finding redemption in a field of dreams. I even took pictures! Yeah, I learned that skill just for you.

Listen, I cross-my-heart-promise you that I’ll be good again. Better, even. I’ll swim through the murky stream of issues to find the heart of stories. Look what I’ve got lined up for you: The dark, unexplored side of the varsity scene; a mother who—upon finding out her son had a disorder—dropped everything in her life to found a clinic for kids like hers; football players in ragged clothes playing bare-footed against Nike-suited opponents with golden sneakers and badass spikes.

Don’t listen to people who tell you to ditch me because I’m old school and all that. I know people older than me who embrace this reinvention of journalism they call “new media” or some fancy label like that. So it isn’t really a matter of philosophy as it is a matter of choice.

So pick me. Pick me because for every time that Lance Armstrong tweets updates on his comeback, I’ll tell you about a local rider winning a race on a borrowed bike. Pick me because for every watered down quick-read about Manny Pacquiao’s triumphs, I’ll tell you the story of a hundred boxers who try to follow his path out of extreme poverty, only to find their faces welded to the canvas one too many times.

I promise to work my butt off to make your mornings meaningful again, to avoid completely falling into irrelevance. In this era of microwaveable meals, I promise to slow-cook your breakfast to perfection. I know that in these tough economic times, your financial priorities list will find me somewhere after automatic toothpaste dispensers. But I promise to do everything I can to make every penny you spend for me worth it.

Just, please, please, please and oh-on-my-knees please.

Say you’ll still meet me in mornings for coffee.

Love,

The Journalist

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Responses

  1. you’re baaack!

    i miss reading your witty posts.

  2. hehehehe.
    di ko rin na-realize na almost three months din pala ako wala. hehehehehe. busy baga.

    =)

  3. I sold my soul, hoping you’d buy it back for me.
    SOMEHOW YOU NEEEEEDED MEEEEEEEEEEEEeee…

    hay. amen on everything that has been said.


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