I lost red ballpen

I lost my red ballpen.

I liked my red ball pen very much. It reminds me of red sunsets. It paints in my mind a red garden streaming with red roses. And red roses make me think of beauty; and thorns. And that beauty can make you bleed as much as thorns do, even more painful most of the time.

Pain makes me think of people. People feel pain although many are dead people walking. Like the rugged beggars wearing rugged rags. Or the sweating workers wearing sweat shirts. Or the soiled peasants wearing soiled clothes. They are all dead people walking. They are just waiting the hour when death would be more physical. Because long before they can rest with the sand, the gravemasters had already robbed them of life.

The gravemasters are those who enjoy the fruits of the trees they did not plant. They happily devour the food they did not prepare. They live in the luxury they did not toiled to have. Because the dead people walking are the ones who do all the things for them. Because if the dead people refuse, they would be buried alive.

When the dead people walking come back to their senses, the gravemasters are threatened. Alas, the zombies are starting to riot! That is their favorite line. Then their mercenaries would mass up to exterminate the walking dead. Thus Mendiola, Lupao, Hacienda Luisita, Sta. Filomena, Palo, Leyte and many more places became theaters of perfect massacres. Others were abducted as scientific specimens to determine whether dead people walking would respond to the stimuli of torture.

“There's red in your coffee,” Nestle workers exclaimed. "There's also red in your milk or your coffee mate." I wanted to write about these remarks that’s why I wish I'll find my red ballpen. I wished to write often about the situation (not life because they are dead) of the dead people walking.

But I lost my red ballpen.