Home is hope.

I really want to go home. For a student living away from home, I can see hope.

June is approaching. Time for vacation. Time for refreshment. Time for reflection. Time for rejuvenation. Truth be told, when I get back to the Philippines I don’t want to leave again. It may seem riotous in the Philippines nowadays because of the coming election, but I don’t care. I just want to go home, and be indulged with Filipino culture, tradition, and language again. I don’t want it, but I need it rather. I need to look back to the place where I belong. I need to meet the Filipino cuisine again, I need to be restored. I don’t know if you will truly understand me, but I currently live away from the Philippines and I feel so empty.

I feel so empty without my family.

I feel so empty hearing only few people speak Tagalog.

I feel so empty having to choose to study overseas, overwhelmed by my expectations.

I feel so empty, not knowing that I’m betraying home little by little.

Again, June is coming. Hope is coming. I’m coming HOME.


Thankfully Scarred

I thanked him for hurting me. I thanked him for making me attached. I thanked him for making me fall, especially into that pit. That pit full of promises and sincerity, – love in the making. Though he hurt me while I was hurting, I still thanked him. I don’t know why am I being emotionally thankful for the scars that he left.

Is it because we’re done playing? Is it because I was played again? Is it because another lesson was learned? Did I really learn something?  Is it because I am used to being left alone? Is it because I’ve experienced this so many times? Or maybe I just damaged my frontal lobe? 

I was scarred, but I couldn’t get angry. I just smiled as I utter my grateful speech.

I asked, how could I betray myself? How could I not love myself? How could I give more to him and spare less for myself? 

That night was bizarre. That was that night when I want to cling unto you but you didn’t want to. That was the night when I want to hold you for the last time but you refused. That was the night when we still confessed our mutual feelings, but we declined to be together. That was the night when we ended that thing with each other, even though it doesn’t exist yet. That was the night when we only stare at the dark, empty sky nourishing the presence of each other, knowing that it would be the last time. That was the night when you told me to stop hurting myself. That was the night when I realized that we’re just not enough for each other, but I still chose you. Unfortunately, you gave up too soon. Then, what am I supposed to do?

It’s so hard for me, as a woman. I don’t want to look so desperate. I don’t want to try too hard, so I chose being scarred instead.

It was oddly confusing, but I was thankfully scarred.


Why do writers write?

Inked Thoughts and Midnight Monologues


For us, writers, this is such a profound question of our existence. Writing for me, has always been a constant source of inspiration and sheer joy. The intensity and magnitude of exhilaration that writing gives can’t possibly be gauged. I, for one, cannot even find words to construct a coherent answer to define this feeling, this beautiful feeling that I experience when I write. Writers feel this way. But why do they?
Maybe it’s this uncanny ability of penning down something heartfelt that transmogrifies our complete state of being when the weight of our emotions gently get absorbed in long parchments and old diaries. Maybe it’s the written monologue that elevates our souls to a level of blissful equilibrium. Maybe it’s the effortless exercise of mind-cleansing that writing brings with itself. Maybe it’s the fact that writing is a medium of communion between the deepest corners of our minds and the strangest…

View original post 234 more words