randomly cluttered

Photo by Patrick Schneider on Unsplash I heard from a close friend that — after almost a decade — my previous church left the G12 system. It came as a shock. But I saw its eventuality after I left in 2020. I was relieved that my former spiritual leaders had finally seen G12 for what it truly is — a cultic system that has divided churches more than it has unified. But anger had already crept in as soon as I realized how late they were with the decision. Many have already left and are now tending to their spiritual traumas. All of this for what? I seethed in what was left of my self-righteousness. Someone has to be accountable. Healing will not be possible if no one will take responsibility for the hurt that has been inflicted to people who only wanted a God-centered community. If our spiritual leaders back then really had “spiritual discernment,” why did it take them this long to leave G12? Why weren’t we, their flock, warned and insulated from the dangers of it? Where is the pastoral ...

Photo by Kevin Jackson on Unsplash I miss my mother every day. She died on February 25, 2017. And ever since, I have been navigating life with the weight of her loss. Some days are easier than most. But recently, I discovered the weight getting heavier around her death anniversary and mother’s day. On sobering breakdowns and ironic epiphanies Just recently, days before mother’s day, I had a proper emotional breakdown. Time and again, I have braced for these waves. And as with time, it became bearable. But not this one, I’m afraid. Trying my hardest to ride the waves of grief, I got sucked in the quicksand of my heart. After drying my tears and grounding my thoughts, an ironic epiphany befallen upon me. The epiphany explained When I was in elementary, I had always prided myself with my academic achievements. I can count with my fingers the number of times I failed to be in the honor roll. I was never pressured by my mother to be the best, I just knew back then how excelling in school w...

Photo by Peter Thomas on Unsplash Oh, the nostalgia! “One day when I get to write my book, I’ll never forget to include your names on it.” Read the caption on an Facebook post from a friend. Her post was a picture of us with another friend in BGC. It was one of those days when a specific memory found me unawares. I’d be listening to an old song and out of nowhere a sliver of memory would trickle into my mind, and before I knew it, I’m already awash with a deluge of the past. Most of the time it would be a fun recollection, and when it’s all dried up, sadness would creep in. The house metaphor My life would have been empty without a number of people who have barged in, banged on its doors, and rang the doorbell. Some I let in happily; Some I locked out. For those I had welcomed, two possibilities awaited: (1) They would start hating the interiors but would end up beguiled by how cozy such a space becomes. (2) They would enter the premise awed and slack-jawed until they’d notice the cra...

The sun waved hi The morning you bid goodbye; Felt like nothing and everything Changed at the same time. As the hospital woke up, You had fallen asleep. As they wheeled you out the door, I counted all the promises I failed to keep. Relatives were notified. Not a tear in my eye. Parched heart beating slow, Feeling restless but I got nowhere to go. Did you lie next to your body? Did you watch me as I packed? Did you visit your favorite places? Did you think of going back? Did you hear my I love yous? Did you notice the weather that day? Did you soak in the sun, had your fun, Before you finally went on your way? Documents were processed. Memories were accessed. Your last dress was bought, Your last moments rethought. While the country commemorated the bravery Of those who marched to reclaim our democracy, A silent song rose within me — A remembrance of what was and what is meant to be. For nothing is bolder than to love courageously In the face of certain uncertainty. And from that moment...

Photo by Jun on Unsplash Grieving is for the living; the dead passes on  while we're stuck. There's only so much grief  that the heart can entertain. Life is a sad broken track. We process it differently,  but we go through it just the same. There's no ounce of growth to be had,  when we're all wallowing in its crippling pain. Grief emancipates. Grief imprisons. Grief rises and sets. Grief has seasons. Grief is a moving target. Grief is an empathetic pet. Grief breathes life and robs for the wrong reasons. Grief is a pit in your stomach. Grief is a whirlpool in the sea. Grief is an abandoned shipwreck. Grief is a lovely company. Grief is a journey. Grief is wheeled with the gurney. Grief is a whisper to the void. Grief is an AI powering an android. Grief darkens. Grief glimmers. Grief forgets and then remembers. Grief connects. Grief divides. Grief reflects. Grief provides. Grief grows with us until the end. When it leaves, Grief becomes our last friend. Grief trans...

Photo by Budi Firdaus on Unsplash Aside from schools, hospitals are believed to be hotspots for ghosts and other paranormal entities. Most schools in the Philippines used to be cemeteries. Hospitals, on the other hand, are perfect dwelling places for spirits in limbo. Those who passed but haven’t passed on are said to wander through wards and halls still looking for the light to guide them to the next realm. --- To add novelty to my growing hospital boredom, I embarked on a ghost hunting mission. One night when my mother was already asleep, I roamed through the bowels of the old building. I made it a point to walk through the empty halls minutes before the clock struck 12 MN.  On my first visit to PGH, I almost got lost. There were many passages and buildings, not to mention the daily volume of people. To process a blood donation request, you must go through different departments, which were far from one another. On my first night, I ran from one building to another, dashing past ...

  Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash "You don't forget your first time." For as long I could, I tried everything to avoid going to PGH. Hospitals freak me out—even to this day. There is something about the place that scares me. If you think about it, hospitals are oxymoronic: it’s teeming with life and reeking of death at the same time. It was only a matter of time. Eventually, I found myself waiting outside PGH’s main entrance, one Saturday morning in 2013. --- Not long enough, my mother was admitted again to PGH. She went initially for her monthly check-up but learned that her blood count was alarmingly low. Her doctor instructed her to stay and get admitted as soon as possible. Luckily a bed was available as a patient got discharged earlier that day. When I learned of this, I mentally prepared myself to go to PGH after my shift from UP TechnoHub. I asked my step-father how to get there. After my graveyard shift, I found myself seated outside the PGH main entran...

Photo by Ante Samarzija on Unsplash My mother, being the friendly person that she was, had made a handful of friends while she was confined in PGH. Amidst the stench of death across the ward, a sweet scent of humanity persisted. After all, we are all social beings, despite our physical afflictions. I’ve had made an acquaintance or two during that time. One day while I was preparing to leave for work, a voice called from behind me. I turned and saw a gaunt woman in her 30s, seated on the bed next to us, nibbling on a pack of wafers. “Mama mo?” she asked, looking at my mother. “Opo,” I answered politely. “Gaano na kayo katagal dito?” “Mahigit na pong dalawang buwan.” “Anong sakit ng mama mo?” Back then this was difficult for me to answer. We had been in the hospital for months on end, but still there was no clear diagnosis for my mother’s condition. “Hindi pa po namin alam eh. Ina-alam pa po ng mga doctors niya.” She went silent for a moment until I asked her the same ...

Photo by Simon Hurry on Unsplash When I came back from my book haul at Booksale, not much had changed—my mother was still lying on a metal bed along the corridor outside the ER. This would continue until the next day.  That night, the NGT was removed. Around 11 AM the next day, I had my lunch—a bowl of greasy nilagang baboy and two cups of rice. When I returned, my step-father told us that he wanted to go home to clean up. Instantly, my mother’s face contorted. “Mubalik ko dayon, hon. Maligo lang ko ug magda ug imong gamit,” he reassured her. Unable to speak as her throat was still tender, my mother groaned in consternation. I’d react the same way too if it were me. Dread crept up as my step-father promised he'll return right a way.  It took a while before my mother smoothened her face. She was too weak to argue, too weak to protest. A few moments later, my step-father was gone. He would return days after. I sat next to my mother for what felt like an eternity, f...

Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash How does it feel to have no full control over your body? How does it feel to realize that you can only do so much? You may try to eat healthy or avoid stressful situations. But that’s just it. How does it feel to realize that your body has turned against you? Every day you wake up weaker than the day before. Your body, a cruel reminder of your deteriorating health, mocking and bullying you into submission. An old friend who turned out to be a traitor, exposing them self at your weakest moment. Despite those things, my mother faced her sickness gracefully. At least for me, it looked that way. Because if it were me, I wouldn't want to see how it would play out. My mother was so patient, so hopeful. Was there joy in any of this? Hell, no! Does one have to suffer so the reward would be worthwhile? A resounding no. Sign me out quickly. During those nights that I kept vigil beside her bed, wiping my tears and muffling my silent cries, I've l...

Photo by Levi Meir Clancy on Unsplash It all started one Monday night. During our cell meeting, I felt aches ripple through my body. Earlier that morning my throat started itching. When I got home I felt worse. I awoke the next morning groggy, everything was spinning.  “Need ug bantay ni mama unya. Naa ko’y ilakaw nga papeles,” the text from my step-father read. When I got my bearings back, I replied that I wasn’t feeling well. “Importante ning ako lakwon. Paanhi-a imo igsuon.” Quickly, I ran downstairs and called my younger sister. “Mayroon po kaming test kuya. Malapit na rin periodical exam namin; bawal akong um-absent,” she protested. “Paano yan? Eh ang sakit ng pakiramdam ko?” She shrugged and left. It was useless to argue. I was too flustered to explain, she wouldn’t understand. An hour later, I was in transit to PGH. Sending my notice to our HR as I’d be absent for the day, I mentally prepared myself for another day in the hospital. It didn’t take for my mother to notice how...

I reread The Book Thief eight years later, and it still broke my heart. You can see my review of The Book Thief  here . One thing that stood out from the experience of reading TBT the first time was the buckets of tears I cried. Still, years after, even when I knew how it ends, I cried buckets. The Book Thief has got to be one of my favorite books of all time. It left a mark in my heart the first time I read it. Rereading it reinforced the many things I adored about the book: 1. The characters - There's so much to love about the characters on this book. While the major characters were carefully fleshed out, the minor ones were unforgettable. Delicate care and attention were devoted in breathing life to everyone. Each one a different color of thread interwoven masterfully into a beautiful tapestry. 2. The narrator - The idea of death being a sensible character with a great sense of humor and humanity comforts me.  death's narration is one of the strengths of TBT, because it s...

Photo by Amanda Jones on Unsplash Whenever I got sick as a kid, my mother would make a simple medicine concoction. She would crush a half of Biogesic in a spoon. To neutralize its bitterness, a teaspoon of sugar would be added. To make it easier to swallow, the dry ingredients would be dissolved by adding a teaspoon of water. It worked like magic, minus the initial retching as the bitter taste would hit my palette first.  If only things were easier as before. January 4, 2017 – A few days after New Year’s, my sister paid us a visit in the hospital. She was in a rather festive mood. She came in bringing with her bottles of USANA. Pretending to be interested, I went through all the bottles. “Ma, ningpalit ko ug ing-ani,” she grabbed a bottle from my hand, “para mu-ok na ka.” But mama was already taking handfuls of medicine, I thought. “Naa ko’y kaila nga ang iyang daddy kay naay cancer. After pila ka months ug tomar naayo iya sakit,” my sister explained, trying to hide the excitement...

Photo by Tom Hermans on Unsplash Finally, after a couple of hours procrastinating, I left and went to PGH. Because we were allowed to leave earlier for work, I clocked out around 5 PM. The walk from the office to the jeepney stop-over felt like a journey. Time stood still. My bag grew heavier by each step. My heart followed suit.  When I alighted the jeepney I almost lost my balance. Regaining what little composure I could, I ambled on. A few strides and I stopped. I'd been dropped on the same spot every time that it surprised me how I kept missing Booksale. Shrouded among displays of preloved clothes and colorful school supplies, its green overhead logo kept on waving at me, beckoning me inside. But with the shadow of my step-father’s message trailing behind, I continued walking. Reaching the hospital’s ER, I searched for my mother and found her laying on a metal bed along a corridor, her husband seated beside her. The ER was brimming with patients that many were forced to stay o...

Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash While walking back to the office, my phone shook in my pants. With both of my hands occupied, I wasn’t able to read the second message from my step-father. Arriving at my cubicle, I put down my grocery on my table and sat.  After gathering myself, I took out my phone. The message wasn’t subtle at all. “Tinubuhan si mama mo.” “Dumaan ka dito agad pagkalabas mo ng work.” My knees weakened after reading the first line. The message grew in size and flew out of my phone. It landed on me with a weight so unbearable I’m glad I was seated. I had to grab on to something solid to help me process the rush of emotions that was slowly drowning me. Everything happened at the same time. A knot the size of the Sun tightened in my stomach. My heart pounded on my ears. A tsunami of images flashed on my mind. Si mama tinubuhan? The knot in my stomach twirled at the image. The urge to cry was so intense I had to revive my PC to distract myself. Luckily, it worked....

Photo by Alex Plesovskich on Unsplash On the morning of December 30, 2016, two events occurred. The first one was not that remarkable---I went to work. It was the last working day of the year. And as expected, it was a slow and lazy day, the only thing that excited me was receiving my salary around lunchtime. Upon confirmation of said salary, I withdrew at the nearest ATM and headed straight to SM Hypermart. While checking my to-buy list, my phone vibrated, delivering the day's second major event. It was my step-father, asking me to go to PGH after work. I froze. My heart sank as I stared at his message. I had to reread it multiple times for the news to sink in. There it was yet again, that sinking feeling in my stomach. That feeling of knowing something bad is going to happen. A sense of doom so palpable it’s unnerving.  It should have been obvious when I woke up earlier. The house was empty. That should have sent warning signals to my brain already. But I remained hopeful, Chris...