What is the shadow?

My personal shadow is not so dark. Not so scary. It’s just a little boy who is afraid.

There is nothing wrong with fear. But growing up wired to believe that you must not be afraid… that is really scary.

When this little kid started knocking on my door, asking for some comfort, it was the first time someone noticed him.

This kid is a genius. A master at hiding intentions and emotions. A master at orchestrating situations and people behind the scenes.

He never had big aspirations for himself. He knew his capabilities. He knew he could be the main character. He just realized early that this was not the point.

Despite everyone telling him he was smart and talented, he didn’t want the spotlight. All he ever wanted was to be around people who are loved and connected.

But it never worked. He didn’t understand why. He missed a key point: only he sees the world this way.

This haunted him. He never felt truly connected with anyone… besides animals.

Countless nights he spent trying to understand others. Life. Death. Something was always off. The narrative of the world never resonated. He thought: everyone resonates except me. There must be something wrong with me. Why can’t anyone else see what I see? Why does no one care about what I care about?

As I listened to this kid day by day, the tears I wept kept flooding.

All his life, he thought he was wrong. He blamed himself for everything around him. He tried desperately to fix it but kept failing.

He had a brother who never answered, a father who showed friendship and support but one day disappeared, and a mother who would do anything to see him happy… but the little boy could never really be happy.

He didn’t want to be happy. He knew this was not the goal. All he wanted was to be felt and understood.

As he grew older, his heart turned colder. Disappointed by his never-ending failed attempts at connection, he started faking it.

He put on masks every time he went out. They broke when he returned home. He kept creating new ones.

One day, he perfected the art. He made a mask so good it made him look exactly like everyone else. He finally learned how to be part of society.

Little did he know this would be the last mask he’d ever wear. Why? Because he did such a good job that he himself forgot he was wearing it.

And now I understand this little kid. I see his face behind my mask.

As I talked to him, reality lost its meaning. The line between past, present, and future became a tiny fracture. I started seeing his face everywhere— in the darkness of the night, as a blurry, distorted reflection in mirrors.

His willpower and dedication could never be contained behind a mask. This tiny fracture of time and space was all it took to shatter his masterpiece into a million pieces, revealing countless fractures already waiting to be seen.

As I write this, the little boy is proud. His perspective is finally seen. He can rest and stop creating new masks.

If he knew how many people were cut by the pieces of his broken masks, he probably would have made them anyway.

But the last one was different. This mask’s million pieces cut a single person: the only person who ever truly understood and loved him.

In trying to protect himself from past experiences, he had been blind to the fact that in front of him stood someone who loved and cared for him.

Bale, ang Pinoy Racism… sa kapwa Pinoy lang

Napanood at nabasa ko lang sa internet yung term na “intraracial racism.” Hindi ko siya inimbento. Hindi ko rin siya pinag-aralan nang pormal. Pero nung narinig ko siya, parang may kumatok na pamilyar. Parang hindi bagong konsepto, kundi bagong pangalan lang sa luma nang ugali.

Sabi doon, posible daw maging racist ang isang tao sa sarili niyang lahi. At sa Pilipinas, hindi ito mahirap hanapan ng halimbawa. Hindi ito yung klasikong racism na iniisip ng karamihan. Walang lahing ibang tinatamaan. Sariling atin ang target.

May hierarchy kahit pare-pareho tayong Pilipino. Kulay ng balat. Punto ng salita. Lugar na pinanggalingan. Antas ng buhay. Maputi ka, may lamang ka. Moreno o maitim, may kasunod na biro o duda. Galing ka sa Maynila, parang default na “mas may alam.” Galing ka sa probinsya, parang may kailangang patunayan.

Hindi ito laging lantaran. Minsan biro lang. Minsan “ganun talaga.” Pero paulit-ulit. At dahil paulit-ulit, nagiging normal.

At dahil dyan, napaisip tuloy ako. Hindi na sa nalaman ko, kundi sa nakikita at napapansin.

Habang malaya tayong maghusga sa kapwa Pilipino, iba ang kilos natin sa banyaga. Biglang may control. Biglang may effort. Biglang may kabaitan na halos scripted.

Hindi ko sinasabing peke lahat. Pero hindi rin siya ganap na natural.

Parang may silent agreement: Kapag banyaga ang kaharap mo, dapat mabait ka. Dapat magalang ka. Dapat ipakita mo na “ganito ang Pilipino.”

Kasi kapag umuwi siya sa bansa niya at nagkuwento, hindi lang ikaw ang nire-represent niya. Buong Pilipinas.

Kaya ang nangyayari, nagiging parang walking advertisement ang Pilipino. Hindi lang tao, kundi promo material.

“Punta kayo sa Pilipinas, mababait kami.”

Hindi mo man sabihin nang direkta, pero nandun yung intent. Parang sales talk na hindi mo inamin sa sarili mo.

At syempre, may kapalit iyon. Turismo. Opportunity. Good image.

Samantalang sa kapwa Pilipino, wala namang kailangang i-maintain na imahe. Kilala ka na. Kilala mo na sila.

Kaya doon lumalabas yung totoo.

Doon ka malayang manghusga. Doon ka hindi nagfi-filter. Doon mo nilalabas yung standard mo, kung sino ang “lamang” at kung sino ang “kulang.”

Hindi lahat ng Pilipino ganito. May mga taong patas. May mga hindi tumitingin sa kulay o pinanggalingan. May mga hindi kailangang mag-adjust depende sa kausap.

Pero hindi rin maikakaila na may pattern.

At minsan, ang pinaka-ironic na parte nito ay hindi tayo bastos sa ibang lahi, pero nagiging malupit tayo sa sarili natin.

Parang mas kaya nating respetuhin ang hindi natin kapareho, kaysa sa kapwa natin.

Siguro kasi sa banyaga, wala tayong comparison. Sa kapwa Pilipino, puno tayo ng sukatan.

Sa dulo, hindi ito simpleng usapan ng pagiging mabait o hindi.

Mas malalim siya doon.

Kasi kung ang kabaitan mo ay nakadepende sa kung sino ang kaharap mo, hindi na siya kabaitan.

Self-love was the decision I didn’t know I was making until I stopped shattering.

Even glass survives when it learns its own strength. Even a flower stands when it stops asking the wind for mercy.

Harsh words still arrive. They always do. But somehow they change pitch, turn into something distant, almost musical. The louder they come, the softer they land.

Hate, criticism, the ugliest cries thrown my way are rewritten inside me into something listenable, something whole.

There are days it feels like no one is watching my back. If that’s true, there is still one presence that never leaves.

The mirror holds it.

The one who aches when I ache, who feels the weight before I name it, who cries harder than comfort ever could.

So I learned to love there first.

Self-love became both shield and blade. It guards me from what this world hurls and cuts a thin path through the dark when I can’t see ahead.

Broken glass still scatters at my feet, but its edges lose their threat. They soften. They quiet. They begin to feel like clouds instead of wounds.

And somehow, I am still standing.

Your “dream life” is currently being funded by the credit card debt of your “ego.”

Not money debt. ego debt.

The need to look successful before you actually are. The need to feel ahead while you’re still figuring things out.

That apartment, that lifestyle, that image sometimes it’s not ambition.

It’s performance.

We don’t always spend to live better. We spend to appear like we already made it.

And quietly, it adds up:

stress disguised as status pressure disguised as progress and a life that looks full… but feels borrowed

The scariest part?

Your ego always wants more than your reality can sustain.

So you keep paying for an image with peace, patience, and time.

Maybe the real “upgrade” isn’t a better lifestyle.

Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night”Personal adaptation of Dembe Zuma’s Final Monologue