what i owed the sampaguita girl

She ambushed me. With her innocent eyes, she halted any thought of walking away from the ATM I just withdrew from. Feet placed squarely on the ground, her arm shot forward accusingly and fragile blossoms bobbed in the wind. She murmured something, but all I heard was the guilty thump of my heart and the incriminating rasp of the transaction slip I held in my hand.

The ATM laconically indicated in my receipt that I was a few hundred pesos away from flat-broke. When I read it, brief thoughts of shirts and shoes and pandas and paperbacks came to mind, along with that warm, giddy post-purchase feeling. An all-too-addictive feeling, I guiltily associate it with the reassuring weight of a hefty paper bag in hand and capitalism (partially) conquered.

It felt like I was making some headway in life, slowly purchasing the bits and pieces of my dreams. I was my own man, a functional member of society, a positive statistic foreign investors would read and smile about. Just a little more time, a bit more effort and a hefty ounce of optimism and I could be anyone I want to be.

It shocks me how truly potent our youth is. At odd moments, this insight burgeons in my head, waking me up and overwhelming me. We've got so much potential, so much time to do anything with, and it's scary and thrilling to have this knowledge.

Right here. Right now. The world is yours and mine to take.

I stood there, giddy with the surging power of my dreams, and pulled out some cash. Hoping to make a dent in the debt of happiness I owed the world, I told the girl to take the bill and keep the flowers.

She smiled, shrugged and proceeded with our transaction all the same. Having given back some of the happiness I owed the world, I walked away with a receipt of sampaguitas.