I once believed privilege was something you earned. titles before your name, degrees framed on walls, watching numbers grow inside a bank account.

I thought reaching the top meant finally becoming free.

But the longer I watch the world, the more I see that freedom was ours from our conception and somewhere along the way, many of us are slowly stripped of it. by systems we did not build, expectations we learned too early, by poverty that teaches survival, and life rewards only the endless trial.

I see it in the garbage collector on a stopover, nails thick with the stench of garbage hauled from stores, shirts heavy with sweat and grease. He stopped at a drive-thru for a take-out. most probably heading to his family. But I imagine that to his children, he smelled only of the cologne they had come to associate with being home.

I see it in those selling candies and cigarettes on sidewalks, in those selling towels and wiping windshields in a traffic jam, in exchange for a mere loose change that barely clinks in their palms, under a scorching sun, trading hours of their lives.

I see it in a son who does hard labor, calloused hands from construction work, back bent from carrying cement and steel all so he can buy medicine for his mother quietly battling chronic illness.

In a father pedaling his pedicab, carrying the weight of passengers and his family’s future.

In long commutes beside a stranger unknowingly asleep on my shoulder coming from endless shifts, in a toxic job, for a minimum wage.

Does God scatter blessings unevenly? if some are forgotten in the rush of creation.
why some thrive while others suffer?

In the way I chose to live,

I have come to believe that the greatest privilege is compassion, it is having just enough and still finding a way to give. it is not having more, but having less and still offering kindness.

and compassion begins with perception. a sonder—to see lives not my own.

and to be reminded that every person we pass is living a life as vivid, complicated, and significant as ours.

You, how do you choose to live?

photo source: pinterest.

When we are young, we do not understand that our mothers can die. We understand monsters. We understand ghosts. We understand that bad things happen to people in stories.

But our mothers?

Never.

A mother belongs to the category of things we believe are permanent. The same way we believe the sun will rise tomorrow, that home will still be there when we return, that morning will come after every night—we believe our mothers will always exist somewhere in the world.

When we were young, home was not a place. It was a person.

It was the woman who made the house feel like the world could never reach you. When we came home from school, we would drop our bags , kick off our shoes, strip off our uniforms and toss them wherever, anywhere but the laundry basket, and before anything else, ask,

“Nasaan si Mama?”

Not because we necessarily needed anything. We simply needed to know she was there. Then came the next question:

“Ma, anong ulam?” And somehow, that was enough.

There was something comforting about rainy holidays when classes are suspended. the kind of mornings that felt like a gift from childhood . You would curl up beneath a blanket, watching your favorite cartoons aired on television, while the familiar smell of whatever Mama was cooking slowly filled the house. There was nowhere to rush to, no school to worry about, no reason to get out of bed. just none.

There was also something magical about golden hour back then, too. You would be outside with other children, playing the famous games, hide and seek and tumbang preso. running through streets until the sunlight turned everything amber, as if the whole world painted a different color just for you. Your knees might be dusty, clothes a little dirty but you are happy. then, from somewhere in distance, you would hear Mama calling your name because dinner was ready. that voice always reminds you that it’s time to go back home.

Childhood was light because we had not yet learned how heavy the world could become. When Mama was there, we did not have to know about everything that could go wrong. We could sleep without wondering whether tomorrow would take something from us. We could go to school believing that the worst thing that could happen was forgetting our assignment. Somewhere in the back of our minds was a quiet certainty: if something happens, Mama will be there. She was our first definition of safety. The dangers outside seem to belong to another universe. Bills, illness, loneliness, disappointment, death—these are adult problems, and you are still a child. You can afford to be afraid of ghosts because you have not yet learned to be afraid of losing people.

A mother’s presence is a roof you do not notice until you are standing beneath the rain.

Remember that first day? The first time you had to stay somewhere without her? You were probably too young to understand what was happening. You only knew that she was leaving. She told you she would come back. She promised.

And then, eventually, you learned. She always came back. You learned that her leaving was temporary, that the world could take her away for a few hours and still return her to you. You grew up. You stopped crying at the daycare door. You went to school alone, then college, then work.

We leave home and know well we can return. we get busy and assume there will be another phone call. we postpone visits. we say, I’ll come next time. we hang up without saying I love you because there will be another conversation. there is always another birthday, another Christmas, another year. we learned how to travel without her, how to make decisions without her. we thought we had outgrown the child who needed her.

And on one random afternoon, she’s simply gone.

We return to that small, frightened version of ourselves that once stood at the doorway of a daycare classroom. Only this time, we watch her leave knowing she’s not coming back.
The same house becomes unfamiliar. The kitchen becomes a museum of ordinary things. The same streets look different. The sunset still paints beautiful colors, but there will be no voice calling you to go back home. the magic is gone.

We would spend a lifetime hungry, forever craving the meals only Mama knew how to make. And the question we have asked since childhood “Nasaan si Mama?”—becomes a question the world can no longer answer.

The very things we once found annoying, the very moments we once wished would end sooner. Now, we would trade heaven for one more morning, one more bowl of her cooking, one more time being scolding, one more “Nak, anong oras ka uuwi?”

We can come knocking on God’s door, questions everything. be angry. but he would only greet us with grief.

Because what we are really grieving is not only the person who is gone, but the conversations that will never happen, the questions that will remain unanswered, the apologies that will never be heard, and the grandchildren she might have held.

We grieve all the tomorrows that died with her.

I used to buy candles, in different colors, each representing my desires, and have them light in shrines. I used to be so selfish. I used to pray like I’m chanting an incantation. hoping it will reach him faster than other people’s. Maybe he is kind enough to trace the ink on my pages.

I didn’t even know if it was true faith or just out of desperation.

I have always had a thing for igniting sparks, all at once, but never for keeping the flame. That is how my life has always been—always starting again, many chapters, all prologues.

You could think of it as picking up new hobbies in the same day. I begin with all the excitement of someone who believes to be consistent, only to let it burn out a week or two later.

I have always been better at beginnings than staying.

Like a friendship bracelet that was thrown away before it ever reached the wrist it was meant for, only to be taken back in a change of heart, and remain without a hand to call its own. It was just there, but it never belonged to someone. a painful reminder of a bond that was never tied.

That is why surrender came to feel less like losing and more like learning.

And, by surrendering myself to time, I have learned to let go of the things I wish would stay and leave the places I had begun to love. But the universe must know that I’m keeping my oath in loving it from far away. I’m not selfish anymore. I could only pray for it every night but never actually asking for it to be mine.

p.s. I still have the bracelet, but I don’t burn candles anymore.

Photosource: pinterest.

“saan sumisilong ang walang mga tirahan pag sumapit ang Ulan?” yung mga natutulog sa gilid ng kalsada, ni walang kumot o unan, swerte nalang kung may kartong nakalatag.
”yung mga matatandang naglalakad dala-dala ang kanilang paninda, hindi ba dapat na sa edad nila ay nagpapahinga nalang sila?” sobrang sakit isipin na kailangan pa nilang makipagkarera sa laban ng buhay, para lang mabuhay.
Ang daming perwisyo ang binigay ng Flood control issues, ang daming naungkat na anomalya ngunit sobrang bagal ng aksyon ang isinagawa.

Tapos ang sasabihin ng iba :

“it takes two to tango”
”maglinis rin kasi kayo para hindi magclog ang drainage system”

NO.
Hanggang kailan tayo magpakaalipin ng mindset na yan? hanggang kailan natin gamiting yung card na “Filipino resiliency?”
bulok na nga ang sistema, bulok pa ang mindset. kaya hindi tayo umuunlad.

eto pa, kahit saang social platform, napaka accessible ng Online sugal. nakikita ng kabataan, nakikita ng mga taong nasa laylayan na madaling makumbinsi sa pamamagitan ng advertisement. kahit na sabihin nating legal at regulated ng PAGCOR, ang pagpromote ng sugal ay mapanganib.
bakit pinayagan?
malamang sa malamang, meron at merong susubok niyan.

pangkain,

pambili ng gamot

pambayad ng utang, tuition, at kung ano pa.

tapos rerebat lang, “hindi naman hawak ng PAGCOR ang utak ng tao”, “ desisyon naman nila yan” the hell? putangina niyo. you’re taking advantage of people’s social economic status tapos sasabihin niyo lang yan. kayo ang tunay na salot ng Lipunan.

Lubog na tayo pero patuloy parin tayong dinudurog,
kahit gustuhin nating umangat sa buhay , magsipag, gawin na lahat.
mas gugustuhin nilang makita tayong magdildil ng asin kasama ang buong pamilya.

mas gugustuhin nilang maghirap ka.

kasi pag mahirap ka, nasisilaw ka sa pera.

pag mahirap ka, pati dignidad mo ang daling ibenta.

para kanino ba talaga ang bansang ito?
para sa mamamayang pilipino? o sa mga sakim na politiko?

kayong mga walang malasakit sa kapwa, kayo ang tunay na banyaga!

photo source: Grazi sem Cauã 2

Isolation can become unhealthy, even destructive, when we use it to avoid every difficult conversation, or convince ourselves that they’re much better off without us.

But there is another kind of isolation. one that comes quietly, almost imperceptibly, when a person realizes that they are not in a condition to be around others without passing their pain along.

We often treat being alone as something that needs to be fixed.

Someone becomes quieter, stops going out, replies less frequently, and suddenly everyone wants to know what happened. We tell them to open up. We remind them that they do not have to go through things alone.

But sometimes a person does need to be alone. not because they don't need people, but because they need to learn how to exist without making their pain someone else's responsibility.

‘There are days when you know you are not yourself’

You are irritated by everything. A harmless question feels intrusive. A simple conversation exhausts you. Someone's kindness makes you want to cry because you have been holding yourself together for too long. People makes you impatient, and resentful of a world that continues moving while something inside you has stopped.

In moments like these, leaving can be kinder than staying.

You go home instead of going out. You put your phone on silent. You decline the invitation. You tell people you're tired, even when the truth is much more complicated than that.

There is a certain responsibility in knowing when you are incapable of giving someone the version of yourself they deserve.

As we have all experienced the aftermath of someone's unhealed wounds. Someone gets hurt, and instead of dealing with what is happening inside them, they make another person carry it. A partner becomes a therapist. A friend becomes an emotional dumping ground. A family member becomes the person who absorbs every frustration.

Oftentimes, we simply don't realize how much pain we are carrying until it begins spilling onto everyone around us.

That is why, for some people, isolation becomes an act of accountability.

When people tell you:

“Please stay away from me”

Listen to them.

There is love in that.

There is love in refusing to respond while angry.

There is love in taking a walk instead of starting an argument.

There is love in admitting, that you are too overwhelmed to be someone's safe place when you yourself is at risk. There is love in stepping away before resentment turns into cruelty.

Because if we don’t, we might say something we cannot take back. And that would haunt us forever.

Photo source: umain here from pinterest

she sits

a woman clothed in justice

But her eyes burn with rage.

The offended weep and the jury gossips

gazes were red and full of menace

I can hear them whispers, telling me I'm such a disgrace

I search for words to speak my side

Your honor, I'm not guilty!

hear my plea and set me free!

but my voice lies buried beneath the iron links,

suffocated by the grip of silence that binds my breath

She pounds the gavel,

hard and loud

the verdict cast, official and proud as the ponente writes,

my truth stays undisturbed and just like that,

I am judged, without being heard.

Hums and ryhthms of sad music give me life, but somehow melancholic.

You told me I'm the famous agent who chases evils and madness

but even my strength cannot protect me and I can't drive my own monsters away

Why did you beg for an end when we did not even begin?

All that's left in me is wondering

'what we could've been'.

While the phantoms in silence begin to wail

the truths whisper sharp like a midnight gale and the monsters took you, tore you astray

gone like a tempest that shatters the day.

Photo source: debbie lisa on pinterest

Kung sa pag mulat ng mga mata, unang nasilayan, ang nakagapos kong kamay at paa

katawan koy puno ng saksak

Hindi na makagalaw

Pwede bang sumigaw?

Ayokong tumahan, gusto kong matunton, Humıhingı ng saklolo, ayoko pang sumuko.

Ang hapdi ng aking sugat tiyak ay wala ng lunas.

Kailan matatapos ang hamon na patuloy kong dinaranas?

ngunit bakit?

Para saan?

Para sa katunayang hindi mapapawi ng panahon?

O sa pusong lumalaban, sa bawat hakbang na walang takot na lumipad?

ang masayang buhay na pilit inaabot ng aking kamay

ay lalong lumalayo,

habang ako’y unti-unting nawawalay, naglalaho.

Wag sanang pagkaitan,

ang hinahanap  na tahanan

sa katulad kong walang ibang nais

kundi ang sumilong lamang.

Photo source: pinterest

tell me a story of auld lang syne

sing me a lullaby

Let me hold you the way roots hold what they cannot lose

I won't stitch up my wounds, I will carve your name in my bones

so even when I forget my own, my body remembers yours.

and If every drop of blood is the price of remembering you,

let the gods drink deeply,

let them know what devotion tastes like.

I dare not to forget your voice

for without it,

I cạn't hear you sing me a not so sad song anymore

No Lullaby to hush the howling void

the story falters

and auld lang syne goes untold.

To lose it would be to lose the last place where I am still at peace.

Photo souce: pinterest

Yet this unassuming prece can outmaneuver any on the board

Through strong coordination, pawns can outplay the best pieces.

Pawns in unity topple the mighty.

Maybe we are all pawns.

and what if those fellow pawns embody what we cherish most?

Our Family, friends, and loved ones, who needs us just as much as we need them.

And suddenly, quantity doesn't seem bad at all, doesn't seem so meaningless at all.

A pawn knows only one direction: forward.

No retreat. No detours.

None among the pieces knows this rebirth

None among the pieces goes through transformative process and becomes anything it has earned to be.

It could be a knight, a rook, a bishop or a Queen.

So perhaps it is not a flaw to begin as nothing.

Perhaps it is not shameful to be small, unnamed, one of many.

Because only a pawn learns the discipline of becoming.

And when it transforms,

its individuality carries the weight of every step taken, its versatility born from collective strength,

and its greatness shaped by those who stood beside it.

To be a pawn is not to be lesser, it is to be in motion.

It is a  proof that even the most ordinary beginning can earn an extraordinary ending.

You can be anything.

Photo source: pinterest

Deeds that mattered,

choices that left me whole rather than wanting

a life lived in alignment with what felt true.

I allowed myself to want, to choose without apology, yet never without discernment.

I could die today

carrying regrets and disappointments, and I think that would be all right.

because I walked my purpose with honest intention

because I tried to do no narm because I meant well even when I failed.

I could die today

and never arrive at tomorrow.

Perhaps that is not a tragedy.

What lies ahead was never promised, never owned, only a possibility.

I could die today

without answers fully formed,

without the world completely understood, without myself entirely resolved. and maybe that's okav.

Perhaps not everything demands an answer, some things ask only to be lived with.

Perhaps mystery is not a failure of understanding, but a form of peace.

Ctto: pinterest

What if this is all I am

What if this is all I can be

Constantly wondering

Constantly wandering

I’m so damn tired

always running from something I can’t name

what if I won’t figure it out?

what if I grow old like the rest of the people. Mad, sad, and restless.

what if the noise never quiets and the nights stay this loud?

with the thoughts pacing the room

like something caged that keeps rattling the bars

And one day, I wake up

with the same questions,

but older hands

and lesser time

still wondering

What it was I supposed to become.

Ctto: pinterest

You could be in a crowd—people you’ve known since early childhood, people you met in adulthood, maybe some of them you just met—and somehow,

there is this lingering, burgeoning emotion, a feeling of emptiness that has taken away your capability to be present, to appreciate everything.

In reminiscing about childhood adversity, it only takes one memory, and every disappointment, failure, regret, and resentment you’ve been safekeeping, buried somewhere in your heart, inside a safe bubble, can easily be brought back by a single memory.

Every word from other people is a delight. BIG words. Family, friends, loved ones. For you, they are just things stuck in your throat, putting you in a chokehold.

You try to strip away their relevance when, deep down, you want to be seen, to be heard. To have a witness in everything that you do.

All those bricks you built around yourself, walls so high that you never realized you hadn’t seen the rays of the sun. And in your desperation to appear invincible, you forgot to leave a space to make a door, so even your thoughts couldn’t get out.

And with nothing inside your head but negativity, everything you do, think, and feel—they’re all just bouncing right back at you. You think you feel something new every day, but it’s just a recycled misconception of what it means to thrive. It’s just shuffled into a new form, but it won’t change the energy.

You became the prisoner.

Now, every word you say brings the sharpest pain. that’s why you go farther and farther. You gaslight yourself into believing that you thrive in isolation. And even your own self did not escape from your lies and manipulation. Such a pity

You can’t run from your own nemesis because they live inside your head.

All of this because you refuse to be vulnerable.

You seriously are one of the most genuinely unhappy people out there.

From: pinterest

I have been in rooms that were filled with other lives.

laughter stuck in curtains, their memories settled in couches,

that never learned my name.

I have borrowed warmth from strangers kitchens,

sat quietly at tables

where I was fed but never kept,

like a guest who stayed just a little too long.

Most often, I mistook presence for belonging.

I have been in people’s homes,

but I have never been to mine.

No one sends an invite

nobody knows where to find me,

Like a house with no address.

I guess nobody wants to try

no hello’s, no goodbyes, no one arriving, no one leaving

nothing that ever begins or ends.

maybe this is why I can’t make people stay.

The food I offer will never be a home cooked meal.

The chairs are always cold,

the rug on the door stays clean.

I let the door open, and still, no one came.

And everything’s made of glass that’s already broken.

Words cut through skin.

All the screaming and fighting.

The mess and grief.

It was never a home.

It was a rage room

I sometimes wonder if trees ever grow tired of standing.

We speak of them with admiration. We call them resilient

because they remain when everything else has moved on.

We photograph them in sunlight, sit beneath their shade,

and carve our names into their bark.

But we don’t talk enough of their aches.

The agony in being unable to move while watching everyone leave.

They can only wish to runaway, search for gentler soil,

and chase the wind after it tears their branches away.

And can only mourn parts of them they could not retrieve.

People can leave.

We can board a train, buy tickets go somewhere else, and begin again.

We can turn our backs on streets filled with memories that no longer serve us,

and leave behind the ghosts of everything we once were.

A tree has no such luxury.

and that is their tragedy.

For there is nothing noble in staying where you are constantly hurting,

when the only thing keeping you there is your inability to move.

I think of everything, but I almost feel none.

I know when someone is hurting,

so I reach for their hand

I respond to the world through reason

When to comfort, when to say “I’m here”

Even when there is nothing in me that feels the weight of those words

I listen. I worry. I offer help.

I say the right words at the right time.

am I only imitating the shape of a human being?

I miss the time  when did compassion wasn’t a calculation,

when concern was instinct, not obligation

And I like to cut my own skin

See what’s there, and if something’s beating,

I long to feel…

To feel warmth without having to convince myself that it was there.

I used to grow up in a country side with nothing but fields and animals. Tomorrows are uncertain, always wondering what food to put on a table.

In school,

I always borrow crayons from other pupils to fill my plain bond paper with colors.

During lunchtime, I often ate alone. I mean who would be confidently offer their fermented fish on top of cooked rice wrapped in wilted banana leaves. No child craved it, especially when its stench filling the entire room.

Sometimes, we spent entire days digging for sweet potatoes and after such a long hour of dehydration, the water tasted sweet because we’re thirsty. We also had no Television, I only peep through holes of our neighbor’s house because they refused to let the door open.

I hated how the capitalism and elitism advertises life like it was some kind of fantasy.

“Oh hey it’s okay to fail, you don’t have to rush life. Everyone has their own timeline. You are going to be fine. You don’t have to figure it all out at 18”.

Bullshit. Enough with the toxic positivity.

I was young, I was hater but very much aware.

Because can we for once acknowledge the growing numbers of people who’s doing their best and still falling behind?

Life is a race. Period.

Because what do you mean Grandma never had a chance to try the Filipinos’ most famous chicken joy?

what do you mean she lived in a farm all her life tending animals and never got to see the beauty of city lights and luxurious restaurants?

What do you mean there are places she only saw in calendars hanging on wooden walls? Places that existed only in television screens she never owned.

How can an entire lifetime pass and still leave so many things unseen?

all because she never won and I was also behind.

I don’t blame my parents for not working hard enough.

I don’t blame the God for just watching.

I don’t blame myself either.

I just know I’m mad at something. And I don’t know what it is.

The passion you can no longer fulfill because it costs more than what you have. When you’re young, it requires money. And when you’re old and financially stable, it requires energy.

To the poor, life is a race.

To the daughters and sons, life is a race.

We are racing through life not because of our own convenience, of our own ambition, but for our loved ones who is yet to experience the life that they deserve.

For you, my dear reader, juggle through that life. Don’t wait for signs. Because life is a race and the collateral at stake is the people you love most.

Photo by: GMB AKASH, pinterest.

not in the grand moments

that stay longer than they should

We broke the rules

bent our principle

it was short-lived and we were unstoppable

But love is war

you pushed me away

I took the shot, you doges the bullet

changed your trajectory

Somewhere between courage and retreat

we became collateral

and I did not survive the attack

not the losing of you

but knowing that I once fit so well into a life that kept moving without me

You probably forgot about me

the way people forget sunsets

once night has settled in

the way chapters are closed when the story insists on moving forward

how my name once sounded when you said it without trying

Our late night talks

laws and politics

debates on current events

the world laid bare between sentences

while I keep rereading old conversations

like a book in a forgotten library

waiting to he reopened

I built legos

Little you and me

while every piece fit

even when we didn’t

I bet she doesn’t know

you got that  world’s eighth wonder

eyes so curious, whimsical, and raw

you probably bury your restless thoughts

along with favorite movies and books

forgetting that version of yourself

sharing morning, mediocre conversations with her

only to dig it up at midnight

And I could write hundreds of different proses

and preach it on to lonely poets

you brought out the best in me

but things are different now

i know you won’t come back

and I miss who I ever was

Have you ever learned to lose who you are

just to fit inside a circle

you once thought would welcome you?

We become gentler with strangers than with the people who hold our hearts. We offer patience to the world because the world can leave us at any moment.

We smile through exhaustion, swallow irritation, forgive inconveniences, endure disrespect with grace. We know how to behave where love is uncertain.

But home is different. Love is different.

With the people we love, we stop rehearsing kindness because we believe they will stay no matter what version of us arrives at the door.

So after absorbing the sharpness of everyone else, the condescending boss, the demanding friends, the endless disappointments we carry that poison back like secondhand smoke. And somehow, the safest people become the ones forced to breathe it in.

We hand strangers the polished version of ourselves and give our loved ones the aftermath.

that is the tragedy of familiarity, not that love disappears, but that comfort convinces us we no longer need to protect it. We forget that the people closest to us are still human beings, not emotional landfills for the damage the world leaves behind.

And often, the people who love the deepest are the ones who suffer the quietest. They understand your silences, excuse your moods, absorb your storms without protest. Until one day, they no longer recognize the difference between loving you and surviving you.

Love does not die from one act of cruelty. It erodes through accumulated carelessness. Through the assumption that forgiveness is infinite. Through the habit of giving everyone else our restraint and giving the people we love our unchecked pain.

Familiarity breeds contempt when gratitude is replaced by entitlement, when presence becomes so expected that tenderness feels optional.

We should stop making the people who love us pay for battles they never started.