rose-colored boy

i am eight years old and it is the evening of the 23rd of december. my aunts had flew in from japan after what felt like ages. in a rare occasion, all my cousins from my dad's side are here. we begged our parents that we all sleep together at my grandparents' house. our shrill voices are rewarded. we scatter to prepare our beds. the house is grand, and the christmas tree is a towering one, with a million colors, dazzling lights, and ornaments.

the sala furniture are pushed against the walls until the floor belongs to us. our uncles make sure we have enough pillows and blankets and fans.

we tell each other that we will stay up late and tell stories. we giggle and my brother cracks a joke, a cousin farts, and my sisters murmur. i remember how happy i was, and safe, and how the lights painted their colors unto my face.

as the night grew deeper, we cant help but surrender to our tiredness and weary. i am placed by the edge of the spread of our beds, just a foot away from the christmas tree.

i remember the lights were those that had a music box of sorts that played a melancholic tune and it would alternate between songs i knew and sang. that night though as the rest of my siblings and cousin snore away, i placed a pillow by the bottom of the tree and stared up towards it.

i saw the million lights and colors and scores of angels and reindeers and glitter.

I don't think I've ever felt this much anxiety, dread, and grief as I've had before. In all honesty, it somehow feels like I'm just this hollow shell full of extremely negative thoughts. When I daydream, I can think of only the most ludicrous expectations with no possibility of ever acting on them. I know I should get back with my therapist and hope that they'll prescribe me with something stronger but I've just been so lost with what I want to do and what I want and need to happen.

The truth is, I think a huge chunk of this right now is because I can't escape the stress that this job has on me even though everything that needs to be done is all entirely my fault. I know that if I do this one thing right, I'll be free from this pit I have in my stomach. But I can't seem to function. No matter how much I try, I can't help myself to do better. I've been lying so incredibly often that even I have started to believe in them, and yet somehow I demand of myself reprieve. I don't deserve it. I need to be beat down and scolded at how subpar my performance has been. I need a reality check but the mere thought of it has me throwing up.

A part of me thinks that I just need a long vacation; that maybe if I get away, I'll be able to gather my thoughts more effectively. But I can't do it right when I know I am still lacking any drive.

Writing these things down hasn't helped me the way that it should, but putting it out there at least gives it more weight in a way that makes something more real.

10 years have passed since I donned the Sablay and left UP after having attended university for 5 years in two different campuses. The degree I earned in the university has been put to good use, albeit serving multinational corporations and their capitalist endeavours. For a time, I tried to keep the same fire in me when talking about the many, many times the Duterte administration tested my faith in the system, and in people (and in some ways, myself) and time and time again, it would fail me.

Eventually, I succumbed to the tiredness and weight of having cared too much about the country and I decided to withdraw myself from talking about issues vocally. I distanced myself from conversations about politics, kept a minimum watch on current events involving politicians, and instead poured hours, days, months, and years building a career.

When the Duterte administration ended after six long, grueling years, I found myself hopeful again with the prospect of electing someone competent. I yearned for 6 years full of transparency and accountability, of a renewed optimism in the economy and the people. Eventually, the loss of the candidate I supported struck down whatever sliver of hope I had left in me. I crawled back into my shell of disinterest, and through the cracks saw the terrible rift that engulfed the country into a war between two corrupt families.

To my further recollection, I'd trace it back again to how we met: with a dating app I barely used and his profile only a photo of a cartoon character I used to watch. How we talked for about a month before we decided to meet -- and how I accepted to meet him even if he had no photos of himself that he shared. Call it carelessness of youth, but I think I was just being romantic.

We had agreed to meet by the park near our apartment, it was a Saturday and I was alone. He arrived wearing a grey hoodie, a mask, and some flipflops. I had the decency to wear shoes and an umbrella. He was about a couple of inches shorter than I was, but he was very good-looking without the mask. He reminded me so much of an old friend who had passed. I would tell him this as the afternoon melted.

We talked, of course. And he asked if I regret meeting him so soon. I laughed and asked the same thing. We were both in agreement that neither of us felt slighted. Our friendship grew and we decided to keep seeing each other.

It is perhaps important to tell you that he and I were at very different stages of our lives. He was starting a new job after just graduating, and I was moving on to my second job. We talked a lot about the future, never really a shared one, but the future nonetheless. We had similar taste in food, meaning we both detested Korean food and spicy food in general. And more meaningfully we both had a sadness inside us that we felt was only filled by other people.

At that point I had been single for 5 years, and he was struggling finding company since his father passed and his mother ran off with another man. We talked a lot about our past too. Sometimes, it was grief we often shared.

For the course of the next few months, we'd share a lot more than this grief. We'd talk every day, and meet as often as we could. We'd go out of the city plenty of times because we couldn't handle anyone we know seeing us. Needless to say, we did feel our friendship grow into more than just that. And we'd act on it, but always in secret. We'd never post anything that had us both. We'd refuse to interact with each other's socials because we didn't want prying eyes. Once we were at UP Diliman, a vendor (in an attempt to sell their peanuts during Valentine's) shouted at us and exclaimed: These will make your love deeper! I could feel his shoulders tighten and his pace would pick up speed.

It took about 5 minutes of silent walking before he sarcastically quips: "Magkasama lang, agad mag jowa ang akala nila". Silence of course was my only response.

The next few months would see our usual routine crumble. Our messages would end abruptly, our hangouts more sporadic. In a last ditch attempt, while laying on the floor, right after the end of one song, I had told him: I love you.

He stared at me. He only stared at me.

We tried to make it work. Or at least, I begged if we could.

In my recollection again, and in hindsight, I might've scared him off.

We'd talk again, and see each other a few more times, but it was clear that we weren't moving in the same direction anymore.

The last time we saw each other, even though we made plans, a part of me knew that it would be the last time we'd ever see each other again. So when he leaned in for a hug and a kiss goodbye, I felt myself linger.

I watched him leave the apartment, out of the gate, and unto the busy streets. He never looked back. I held my tears just until I went back to my room. I couldn't even text him.

It's been three years now, I've moved out of the city, and I feel as though every semblance of who I was when I first met him has changed. Except for the grief, which I now carry with me along with his memory.

Japan - 2026

Never thought I’d actually end up visiting (with my family, no less!).

I've been doing so well with all the lies I put in at work -- pretending that I'm doing what's needed of me and keeping up this facade with the most minimal output.

There's this fatigue that I can't seem to get rid of, but sometimes I think about the sun and the trees and I get a little bit better. I'm trying to keep that feeling to last longer.

Currently here at Ayala Triangle Gardens.

I love how I woke up this morning, went for a walk to have breakfast around Salcedo and then walked here to have another cup of coffee and people-watch.

There’s no sense of rush in me today as it’s a holiday in the UK so I basically don’t need to open ny laptop. I’m just taking a slow day and might even go out to watch a movie later after lunch.

just random shots of Hong Kong.

Postcards from Limasawa Island, Southern Leyte

We initially planned to go to Limasawa back in January before I went on my trip to Hong Kong, however, the recent popularity of the island made booking an available place to stay almost impossible. We opted to pre-book a couple of nights instead at Dakdak Beach Resort 3 months ahead of time since it was the only period available.

I tagged along with my sister and brother-in-law with their friends (whom my family has already grown fond of), and went on a 3 day-2 night stay at the island (including an overnight rest at Padre Burgos).

While many travelers from Manila would take over half a day to reach Limasawa, the 8+ hour drive from Eastern Samar was just as grueling. Luckily for me I had grown used to staying up well into the night so the travel didn't feel as bad. Still, stepping foot into the island one is immediately rewarded at just how beautiful and serene the place is.

We were lucky to be visiting the island the same time as the anniversary of the supposed first Catholic mass in Philippine soil (which Limasawa is famed for) as well as the start of Holy Week. Strangely though, the island didn't feel as hallowed as I expected it to be. Probably because of the multitude of other Christian denominations and churches present in the island.

Still, the community is as hospitable befitting an island of such renown and I thoroughly enjoyed exploring the length of it.

the dates would sometimes surprise me. they seemed random, but if i remembered hard enough i could recall vivid details. cursed are the digital footprints that archive my myriad attempts at begging. by my count, i had sent roughly twenty-four messages, various iterations of "please don't end it like this, i'm sorry, i can be better" and by that same count, i received three replies. one of them a mistyped "im sorry."

much has been said about how the covid years wiped away half a decade’s worth of memories, yet the messages i found myself poring over (stretching from 2016 to 2017), made the decade feel loose and poorly stitched together.

patched, i think is the word that best describes it? mostly out of my poor vocabulary.

may 14, 2016, 9:48pm. somewhere in sampaloc, manila, i sent you seven messages asking to see you one more time.

the cause was the three messages you had sent earlier, at exactly 5:00pm, maybe around up diliman, saying you weren't sure where we were headed anymore. that staying was pain. that maybe i wasn’t worth going through it.

see, i'm not as good at remembering you as i am at remembering the pain. the begging. the endless pleading: to talk, to stay, to fight for another chance.

it is 10:47pm, march 6, 2026. i am in my bedroom in borongan, except this room has no real attachment to who i was ten years ago. not really.

still, whenever i find myself thinking about the times i almost gave everything up to be with you, your memory slips into the usual ramblings i have grown to detest.

so often i realise that the version of you in my head is different now. i do not picture a kind smile or a reassuring hand anymore, and i wonder if i will ever allow myself the reprieve that forgiveness offers.

i knew you to be kind and funny and frighteningly smart. you knew me more broken then, lost and out of place in a city too large for who i was.

i think i'll never get over the fact that i knew you so kind that remembering you still makes me cry.

the gentle rain and mild breeze prompted me to open my bedroom window in the hopes that it'll set me in the right mood for work.

after clearing my desk hastily, i ended up slumped on my chair, watching the rain soak the papaya tree that has outdone the height of our house. there has been a constant cover of clouds today, with the occasional ray of sun slitting through and at very short intervals would give the surroundings a glint of golden glow.

while i slave away with the multitude of tasks i have ben putting off this week, a much needed break is one i want to get too. sure yesterday's holiday was a good respite, but i spent it at home doing close to nothing.

There are times when I'd stare at a blank piece of paper, or the flickering emptiness of a computer screen, trying to figure out what to write.

I often tell myself that it's normal to not know what it is I want to jot down, especially if it's simply for personal affectations; that whatever writer's block I have will fill itself and somehow, when the time is right, I'll be able to write again.

A few years on, and I still feel like the best of my writing hasn't fully recovered. Funny how the most contemplative piece of writing I've had in a long time is about me not knowing what to write.

But I guess, this isn't really about that. I started typing my thoughts because after scrolling through a myriad of TikToks, tweets, and random instagram posts, my head came to rest at the fact that I am constantly biding my time in the hopes that inspiration will kick in. I keep thinking about how I can't seem to pull myself out of a rut in terms of getting thoughts out. Even now, I'm supposed to still be working on a number of financial reports and analyses, but I'm taking a prolonged respite from numbers and data.

Maybe not to exaggerate myself a bit but I did end up working on Sunday night just to keep from sleeping early. Either way, my head's too full of otherworldly thoughts to occupy it simply with work.

I do think the timing for things lately hasn't been to the best of my advantage. I feel like I put on schedules at the wrong time or forget to place important details into my calendar because I get too comfortable not being busy.

The constant rain has been a solid companion for me though, as I've managed to still myself home after spending a couple of weeks vacationing off in Hong Kong and Manila. I didn't think I'd miss being back in my own room after only a short while. Nevertheless, I still feel a need to wander and have put a few destinations in mind for the year. Maybe I'll get lucky this time and get my UK visa approved and then I'll be off to London for the summer.

Still, I think aboiut the timing of things. I don't know if I just have to force myself to sit through my head thinking about all the loss I've had over the past year or two.

📍🇭🇰 Hong Kong Cultural Centre

Christmas has always been our family's favorite time of the year. We've always made it a point to celebrate the holidays, even if we had grown up financially challenged.

The past five years have been vastly different celebrating it inside our newly renovated home.

Now as we celebrate our first Christmas without dad, there is an obvious pang of emotional pain having to decorate the house without him.

The last time we celebrated together in this house was back in 2022. Now, as his death anniversary approaches, his absence is all the more felt.

I started off this write up with a bit about the weather because even in social situations, or especially in social situations, when one has difficulty trying to come up with a topic to break the ice, the weather's the easiest thing everyone can relate to.

Now, my months-long hiatus from writing has fallen victim to this rut, this unimaginative attempt at starting back from where I last picked up. I could just take the easy way out and have an AI find me topics to discuss, but where's the fun in that? I remember I used to post incredibly detailed prose and mundane ramblings about my life solely because my brain was just filled with ideas. I didn't need another device to tell me what thoughts to think, or words to write, or memories to ponder. God, my nostalgia was incredibly efficient at churning out scenarios to write about.

While my writing has taken a bit of a backseat ride, seeing as I have been focusing on a myriad of things, I thought for over the past few days that I might find inspiration from other people. Now I know books will have a much better and more effective effect in inspiring me, but I was hoping to find more chunk-size essays or stories. Unfortunately I can't seem to find anything decent.

The Internet's vastness has been it's downfall too, I guess. Search rankings on Google simply churn out ad-driven corporate bullshit about topics I actually want to read. That or everyone else has simply turned to social media to write 140 (or 280 apparently) character stories that simply don't just do it for me.

I mean I could understand. Friends of mine who used to write countless essays have also gone radio silent. Just a couple of days ago, my best friend shared that the current political landscape has eroded her drive to write things she likes. She'll end up venting her frustrations over the corrupt undertakings of the admin to the point where her attempt at describing her quiet Sunday afternoon brunch had seem almost an afterthought.

Still, we continue to jot things down. Either through sheer will or stubbornness, we write what we can. Just as writers of centuries-old have done.

I’ve been caught between holding on to pieces of who I used to be and trying to understand the changes that have unfolded around me. Life has been moving too fast, and I feel like I’ve been moving too slow to keep up. Sometimes I find myself coming back to that scene in Fleabag, where she’s mourning her mother but instead I ask, “What do I do with all this grief?” What do I do with all of this? Where do I put it? It feels too big to manage, yet too present to ignore.

But the idea of sharing it, that feels just as overwhelming. How do you begin to share something so heavy, so consuming, without feeling like you’re burdening the people around you?

Looking back, I find myself piecing together a narrative that intertwines joy and struggle, growth and uncertainty. Life has been anything but stagnant, and as I sift through the events and emotions that have shaped this period, I realize just how much I’ve learned about myself, my priorities, and the people around me. At the heart of it all is a grief that feels impossible to put into words. Losing my dad has been the deepest loss I’ve ever endured, and the weight of it is something I carry with me every day.

When I think about the person I was a year ago, I find myself questioning if that version of me still exists, or if life has reshaped me into someone entirely new, someone I’m still trying to recognize. You get so used to heartbreak that you wonder if anything else is going to top that pain, and yet somehow it still finds a new way to break. A few weeks ago I stumbled upon a clip from Midnight Gospel, where Duncan and his mom talk about her cancer and death. He asks near the end:

"You can't stop a heartbreak - what do you do about that?"

"You cry"

and sometimes it helps. And you start to think, maybe it helps because it's a distraction. Or that maybe, you don't get to go back to the way it was before all of this happened, so you grieve that part of yourself just as much as you grieve for a person.

I don't think I've ever written a eulogy, and I don't think these 3 posts count as such, but being back home in the house Dad built for us, I think fondly of an excerpt from a poem by Hakim Sanai, made popular by Del Toro's The Shape of Water:

"Unable to perceive the shape of you, I find you all around me. Your presence fills my eyes with your love. It humbles my heart, for you are everywhere."