Summer has passed me by once again, but it was not the same as last year — when my toes curled, digging my feet into granular, gritty sand, waiting for the unforgiving waves of the ocean to wash my feet away. Or when I bathed myself with sweat from staying for hours under the sun.

Maybe it was the simpler days that I could not seem to have found myself doing: lying my back on what seemed to be a thousand feathers for hours, unmoving, in thoughts of having no thoughts.

This year, it was the same season, but it was not.

I now fill my body with trails of shadows. Faces of strangers lie behind my shoulders, with voices that pry on my mind, rustling up the light in my eyes. In a cloud, I often ponder: lost in thought, after thought, after thought.

I tuck both my feet inwardly, sullen from the sound of champagne corks popping. The unforgiving waves of the ocean no longer just wash my feet; it drowns me down six feet deep.

The simpler days have gone, and I am idle. Lying my back on the brutal concrete that I have built with my own two hands. Crestfallen with the never-ending farewells to innocence.

Or maybe that was it, it was just me, still, in the same spot I had been in the summer of my past years. A good-for-nothing in the mind of a seven-year-old, mourning on the days of summer that I allowed to just pass by.

Forced to witness the illusion of another season’s moonrise.

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There is one thing about dreaming that makes waking up in the morning the hardest thing to do.

How can someone possibly give the morning sun a chance when another day goes by in an attempt to escape a long-pushed-aside dream?

Three weeks ago, it was just a random thought that came to mind. Something I never dwelled on because I knew we could not afford it – I could not afford it. Then one day you meet people, and they ask you one silly question, and you realize it was never just one random thought, but a dream forcibly pushed away, unacknowledged, because it is, at the moment, unreachable.

I’ve never truly given deep thought to it. Every time the question was raised, I would simply say, “no, it’s just peer pressure.” The same excuse I gave when every girl in elementary studied ballet, and when everyone in class had a princess-themed pencil case with a built-in compass and sharpener. Every time I was asked why I didn’t do this and that, I would just say, “because I don’t want it like them,” when I’ve always wanted it, too.

I wanted to do a pirouette, a split, and wear ballet shoes.

I wanted to play the violin and join a local orchestra.

I wanted to be one of the theater kids and get on the stage of the Cultural Center of the Philippines.

I wanted to play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the piano.

I wanted to own books and not just borrow them from someone else.

I wanted to study at Kumon and maybe learn to love math.

I wanted to study at an international university after I passed in one.

I wanted to do many things, and I knew I had always been capable of doing them…

We just couldn’t afford it.

No one is born into this world lacking potential, and I’ve always believed anyone, and everyone, is capable of doing anything and everything– but the world in all its complexities is simply unfair.

Out of many dreams I could have, how could I wish for something that is far from me to reach? Why does my heart whisper, “This one,” when I already know where it would lead?

“Libre lang mangarap,” a quote I found beautiful yet heartbreaking. To have a dream is the most beautiful thing that a person could have for themself, but to me, to dream of being everything would leave me with nothing. And sometimes, I wish I never dreamed at all.

But who am I …

Who are we …

If not dreamers who dream of becoming?

Sana nga libre nalang ang mangarap, at sana nga mapapakain ako ng lintik na pangarap na ‘to.

“Pero ano ba talaga ang gusto mo maging?” tanong ng alt tiktoker na napadaan sa for-you-page ko maga-alas diyes ng gabi:

Gusto ko mag-doktor.

Gusto ko pa rin maging doktor.

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All of the women in my family have mastered the terrible art of quietness, not in a gentle way, but in a way that keeps all of the letters of the alphabet in various languages in their stomachs, aching to be set free. As a child, I had always wondered why they chose to swallow their words and smile as if nothing had happened.

As if the wolf had not just consumed their soul.

As if they had no minds of their own.

In my great-grandmother's final days on Earth, I recall her attempting to express, for the first time in her short life, all of the love and anger she had silently carried in the baggage of her heart, which, despite her eager attempts, remains a quiet mystery to this day.

She died while trying, and all we could do was bury her six feet under, where the soil would slowly swallow her and her tongue, preventing her from telling anyone what she had intended to say, and no one would ever truly know.

I asked my mother, aunties, and grandmothers out of curiosity, thinking they might know something I would never fully understand, but all I received was the same, practiced, and unchanging smile.


“As long as she’s in the hands of God.”


But how would they know where she was?

Is there even an existence of a paradise beyond the unknown mystery of death?

Is there even an in-between for the lost ones?

I doubt they would know.

They wouldn’t know, not even if it was the recipe for her infamous bistek tagalog.

Sometimes I wish my great-grandmother would visit me in my sleep so that I could finally put an end to the mystery of what was left unsaid. Unfortunately, only the dust in the wind would know, and even if it blew on my face, I would still never know.

I've always wondered why we held our tongues, and why it was even an option to simply remain silent when our hearts can only carry so much— just about the size of our fists.

What is it about silence, a Benedictine value, that can restore my ancestors' silenced throats?

The stories that should have been said.

The history that will forever be left unknown, much like the Library of Alexandria.

I would never know the recipe for her famous bistek tagalog. I would also never know it from her daughters, aunties, and not even from my own mother, whose silence and servitude to their husbands have been misinterpreted as fortitude and unwavering love.

Maybe there are things better left unsaid.

Maybe certain things should have been said.

Until then, my mother would despise me for vomiting rather than taking it in, but one day, just maybe, she will be glad.

So, is it better to speak or to die?

It depends, but definitely, I would rather not shut the fuck up.

In its own way, I am also living.

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In the abyss of an inexplicable agony, I am in still water. When the light shines upon me again, the world will know. For now, rot in my bed of kindness because the best I can give is forgiveness and never seeing me again.

I’ve learned to suppress many of my emotions since childhood; maybe that is the reason why my stomach hurts more than my heart. In spending most of my life underwater, I have forgotten what is important and only ever retained the agony of being my father’s daughter. After all, in the milieu of my becoming, I was always reminded of how much I am in his likeness.

Maybe that is why I remember so little.

When I was five, my mother told me a dreadful story about a man being swallowed whole by a shark. Maybe it was the height of Jaws, or maybe she was playing with my imagination, but in her story, that man was my father.

I told my friends then about his becoming — mere food for the waters, an absent being I would always remain unfamiliar with.

“He died a hero,” my mother would tell me.

I guess, for a five-year-old child, death was easier to comprehend than being left behind.

A year later, when I was six, I met my father for the first time. When I met him, I expected a glorious resurrection from the dead. After all, in my mother’s story, he was devoured by a great white shark, supposedly never to be seen again. Instead, I met a stranger inside National Bookstore, standing with his arms folded. I can’t remember his face or the sound of his voice, but I can remember my mother’s hand squeezing mine, encouraging me to take a step forward.

“It’s your dad, say hello.”

To this day, I can’t recall his face. In the muffled voices in my head, maybe the great white shark really took over his head.

I don’t remember anything at all.

When I was eight, the sea came for my hometown, swallowing the surroundings with water I could barely recognize—it was pitch black. The last I heard from the radio was that we were being devastated by the strongest typhoon to hit the Earth in the 21st century.

I thought I was going to die.

In the middle of the waters rising and my mother’s panic, all I could wonder about was how my dad would react if I drowned.

“Mama, do you think he’ll grieve my death?”

We survived.

2 months after the distress, he called.

That was the first time he ever called me, and I wanted to jump in glee, but I can barely remember the topic of the conversation or the sound of his voice. All I could remember was his phone number, which I still remember to this day.

My father and I never talked, but we would exchange formal conversations through email, Yahoo to be specific. I learned how to write at an early age, so I never had to ask for help when it came to starting up a conversation. At nine, I was flooding him with messages. He never replied.

When I was ten, I thought I was a professional. Somewhere between the lines of childhood and adolescence, I managed to become my father’s employee. Our emails were almost on par at the corporate level, and every reply of his seemed like a promotion. Funny, though, because I was his daughter, and at that time I never deemed it strange. I was just happy when he replied.

That same year, I took my chances and tried emailing him in a different tone of voice. It was the peak of emojis, and I wanted to talk to him like a normal human being — with the laugh-crying emoji everyone seemed to abuse on the internet — but he never responded.

Instead, I received a message from his mother, my grandmother, telling me that I only ever talked to him whenever I wanted something: money. Like the subordinate that I was, I actually believed my grandmother. After all, in a corporate setting, I am paid for being an employee.

But I never asked him for anything.

I only wanted his attention.

When I was thirteen, I learned to raise my walls. My emails turned more emotionless and mandatory, but within me, I continued to hope.

Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every New Year.

I waited.

The messages never came.

I was also thirteen when my father’s parents came into contact with me after my half-brother’s exile from the family. I felt bad for my brother, but I could not help but feel happy that I was called upon. I always knew it was because they didn’t have any other choice. They had to win me over to be their prized possession, and at the time, I craved nothing more than to be seen.

When I was sixteen, my grandfather died. He was the only person on my father’s side of the family from whom I felt genuine love; at least, that was how I understood it — how I felt.

With grandpa, it was lighter. I did not have to beg to be seen, and I was constantly embraced with warmth. I was only a child, and he was the closest thing to a father I would ever have.

I was also sixteen when I got to call my father again, but this time it was through a video call. The same as always: I was his employee, and he was my boss. He never asked me how I was. He was just there, and somehow, that felt heavier than absence.

I wish he had not called at all.

At sixteen, my grandmother continued to criticize my choices and my sheer “lack of authenticity” to the family. I was pressured to change my surname to theirs — that I would never be part of anything if I did not. Funnily enough, this time, I hesitated. At that time, I was slowly beginning to realize how much I had already lost, and how little I remembered of my childhood that did not somehow revolve around them. When I think about it, even as I write this now, there are lapses in my memory, and I can only jump from one year to another.

I wish I could remember everything.

When I was seventeen, I already knew who I wanted to become. I wanted to write, and I wanted to immerse myself in nature.

My father was the one paying for my school fees, so naturally, I had to consult him first. Initially, he did not mind. He never really gave any input in my life. Again, he was never even present. On the same day, my grandmother also asked me what I planned to study in college. At that time, I had already decided, and I was already fixed on what I wanted. Then she delivered the final blow:

“No one is going to pay for your school fees if you do not take this degree.”

Clueless and terrified of becoming a burden, I abandoned all my resolve.

I stopped writing and forgot about the mountains I wanted to seek out. Out of fear and my own desire to finally be seen, I chose their bet and abandoned my own.

At eighteen, I was an empty shell. Admittedly, I was still young. I should have been doing what young people do.

Instead, I woke up every day, hoping for things to end with a snap of a finger. I was too tired to be envious, and too hopeless to dream.

And as I was sinking in the abyss, I was asked the same question:

“Do you want to change your surname?”

This time, it was my father asking.

This time, with everything I had left, I declined.

For the first time, I started to become conscious of my own mind, and I started to remember how it all began.

At nineteen and twenty, I barely visited my grandmother, and I barely messaged my dad, too. I did not care less if he replied or not.

Until one day, I was twenty-one, and he called my phone. I was six again, and I finally remembered what he looked like.

He was home after thirteen years.

Two days after my birthday, he was home.

But all I can remember is that he never even greeted me with a belated happy birthday.

I understood from there.

On my grandmother’s birthday, four days after he arrived, I intoxicated myself with alcohol just to keep my head together. Naive as I have always been, alcohol can never be the solution to anything, but I was glad I was drunk. The only thing I remember from that night is me saying straight to his face what I’ve been meaning to tell him for so long:

“Why do you treat me this way?”

I woke up the next day with my heart feeling lighter. I barely remember anything else. But I knew I said what I’ve been meaning to say.

Two days later, he left.

He promised he would return, but this time, I took his promises lightly. After all, not one of them had ever been fulfilled.

At twenty-two, four days before my graduation day, my grandmother called.

I haven’t visited in so long.

I avoided it. I avoided her. I avoided them.

She called to say that she would not attend my graduation ceremony. She also called to say I wasn’t part of their family. A part of me ached. Another part of me also felt relieved.

However, for the first time, I laughed so loudly she probably thought I was out of it.

On the same day, my dad also messaged me to say “Congratulations,” but maybe because I’ve been so detached that I wasn’t even fazed at all. If it were the 18-year-old me, I probably would have jumped for joy.

But I wasn’t eighteen anymore.

I was twenty-two.

Twenty-two years.

Twenty-two years of locking myself inside a cage simply because I could not forgive myself.

Twenty-two years of yearning for something that would never come.

Maybe my culture taught me to wait and to be patient. Maybe it taught me that no matter what happens, blood will always be thicker than water. Funny, though, because the viscosity of blood is always variable; it changes with pressure, so it’s never constant.

Sometimes I blame the culture I grew up in for teaching me to keep reaching— for teaching me that love is an obligation and that blood alone is enough reason to keep enduring.

I spent years trying to swim towards a non-existent island, not realizing I was always stuck in the middle — drowning. And maybe some stories should not end with reconciliation, but with the courage of finally letting go.

To the end, I still have a hard time trying to remember the years in between: the conversations that were said and the actions that were taken, but I also want to start remembering, and perhaps it starts with allowing myself to get out of my cage, which was never closed in the first place.

I remember writing in my journal at eighteen what I would do if I ever found the courage to move on.

And I remember answering myself:

forgiveness—

And never seeing me again.

There is a clock wedged between the ribs of your islands, counting down every second, one day, hoping, ever-waiting, for it all to stop. There are hands coming from different tides, grappling upon the tips of your fingers to the deepest crevices of your secrets, which hold the answer to your immense greatness. Shades of red, yellow, white, and blue – all that carry an unmistakable warning. “If I am to be touched where gold thrums underneath my skin, I am afraid I will explode and die a cruel death. I am afraid I am contagious, for a man of another tide will surely bite with their sharp teeth. I will be wounded, and my silence will show cuts deep into my skin.”

A curse shall be sung by the ancestors before you, carrying waves of warning bells that aim to have no return. You will be preyed upon for your richness, and you will return to them a curse from the ancestors of those who loved you dearly. Apologies will only be a story that will never be heard – they will be sorry and only sorry. For they have reached a point of no return, and the clock only ever moves forward. “If I am to be touched where the heart of my richness flows underneath, the stars will shift and will never align in any night. I hold with my islands a long history as I face the sky, I will bury it with me. Time will thud against my bones while I am held hostage, but power is merely a temporary thing, for the spirits of my time never choose to forgive.”

The tides shall rise from the West, fury untamed, a tempest risen of stolen breath, anchoring its islands from the etched South. The winds shall carry the cries of the old, with blood-streaked history written in the palms of their hands – a curse for nevermore. Islets carving their names upon the spines of ships, like the shadows in the book of Exodus. “If I am to be touched where rests those who have protected me, know that the sea remembers, the sea resists, and the sea – my sea – shall always reclaim what it bore upon this world.”

A reckoning brews where the sun meets the waves, where silence will be replaced with a thunderstorm for days. For every wound upon her flesh, a thousand voices have wept. Yet even in the shackles of the chains, your spirit remains unbroken, free. For no empire outlives the storm and no hand can ever claim the sea. Another day shall pass, and anyone who dares touch thee shall never wake to see another sun’s rising.

every god i pray to answers me in an echoing voice with each word etched deeply on my skin; line after line, stroke after stroke, dyeing the flowing stream in anger hungrily waiting to be reborn.

god calls my name;

“for centuries long, i have been waiting;

from the rays of the effervescent sun shining on the hanging gardens of babylon,

to the moon that dawns upon today’s eroding columns of the parthenon,”

a contrasting picturesque of something long forgotten.

“here, i am! here i am.”

the dark, stagnant water that lies the shadow of my ever-rotting soul has stained the shore in crimson, and my flesh remains yearning to disintegrate into minuscule fragments of matter.

in waiting i have wondered, i have pondered, and i have long ached to be embraced.

god calls my name again, gently:

“for there is still a melody that aches to be heard, a warmth that begs to be touched — be free! be free.”

to every god i pray to, you turn out to be the same.

hear me.

save me.