“We tell ourselves stories in order to live…. We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social or moral lesson in the murder of five. We interpret what we see, select the most workable of the multiple choices. We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the ‘ideas’ with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.”

-Joan Didion


Haiyan Story, Survivor

When silence speaks

Many demand it. It is mostly destroyed in courts. Some post it on walls, letting it speak. It is a word that conveys lots of meanings, torturing those who are responded with it — silence. Perhaps it is essential and rare in a country where people called each other frauds and lunatics after the strongest typhoon recorded in the history, landed on them. And so everybody joined the blaming game, making a marketplace of rotten promises no one is going to buy.

It has been eleven months since our land got a glimpse of the Apocalypse. Some said everything’s fine now, as if seeing a newly-built shanty makes the word “fine”. Posters of smiling faces hang in places to grab people’s attention. Everything’s fine according to politicians whose faces are stamped on plastic bags given to the survivors. They smile as if the bags were from their own pockets. They look straight into the rolling cameras and say that the land will carry on. “They” will, of course, carry on as long as the survivors will stay in character and “they” will take care of the coins pouring in.

The truth is, nothing is fine yet. A couple will celebrate Christmas with an extra plate for their daughter who drowned, a man will keep waiting for his missing wife and child, a bride will get married without her childhood photos on their prenup video, and lots of families will watch the fireworks display outside their foreign tents.

This is a country which considers these things normal, and later on will burn a huge paper maché of their king’s face. This narrative’s purpose is not to speak ill against this yellow nation. It is even an honor to be alive in this land. Otherwise, this narrative wouldn’t be as it is. This is a country where a father eats his dinner in his tricycle at midnight because he should not go home without his son’s new school shoes. He should spend the night on the road hiring commuters who have different stories to tell. This is a nation where a tricycle driver sees what a king cannot. This is a nation of the enduring.

This article, again, may be disagreeable since this merely came from a bias of an 18 year old aspiring writer, living in a country she speaks a lot about. Where the title is the reason for the entire narrative, and she has to respond to it by letting the voices inside her head be alive by typing them on the external keyboard of her broken netbook which survived the Apocalypse she has been talking about. She wrote this because this country is her beloved.

Writing this might give hope and might make somebody listen, and eventually think. Some would say, this is pathetic and very unlikely but this is far better than just taking selfies and just be contented with being juvenile. The silence is talking and this article seems to be the response since shoving a middle finger to those stamping on packs of donated goods is just very unbecoming, because this is the country of the morally upright.

safe mental corner

Under the yellow light

Walking back to my boarding house at past seven in the evening is my typical prelude of the night. Walking on damp streets illuminated by yellow light coming from the street lamps offers the possibility of not being able to reach my room alive. There are dark imagined corners that add to the thrill of walking alone. I always give a sigh of relief every time I get to pass a dark corner and step on the street light’s periphery. Walking back home in a city is like one of the movie scenes in Sherlock Holmes where the yellow light and the drizzle add to the drama of beating the enemies with a long umbrella.
But I’m not expecting  flying ninjas with shining swords. In the first place, a Filipino country doesn’t have ninjas. And who am I that must be plotted of assassination? I am no damsel, first daughter, or a witness (denied from witness protection program). I really am not expecting swords or red dots but short knives held not by black-wrapped, may or may not be, man but by a person of my age or younger demanding for my wallet. This is a reality I do not like; people tired of begging for petty amounts and started taking advantage of an instinctive human weakness — fear — to get whatever of great value.
I write this in my room. I’m still alive. I survived the walk, would always want to survive the walk, will keep walking. This is one of my stories and I wrote this because I’ve been greeted by the night with this scene for three years now and I will make full use of the preposition “I” because this narrative contains the primacy of personal opinion, personal biases and a sense of triviality of human experiences. Perhaps this is nonsense.
Everybody has a story, makes stories, destroys stories. One story is heavier than the other. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m writing this when a lot more stories are worthy of public space. But the ceiling fan is revolving and is the only thing moving in my room stirring my towel, my tidy uniform, and the curtain sways in response. I guess this is how things work; one affecting the other. Maybe this is why the walk became a one-page narrative. Maybe I want to let the old folks know how our age thinks, that not all of us bypass everything, that we actually pay attention at each passing moment. Maybe because I’m looking for something that makes sense. Maybe that’s what I want to say.
safe mental corner

The Rightful Niche

This article may be disagreeable, and if you’re looking for fun, feel free to close the tab.

Now, as I have been provided with space, I will assume that I deserve it, and by deserve it means, for me, a pleasure of having and doing something about this space. I will not write about tips or how-to’s of whatever because I admit that I am not an expert on anything, and will absolutely not enumerate things about the normal facts on people being people, just to serve and tolerate teenage girls’ immaturity by trusting the web to tell them if their boyfriends (to which they are still immature to commit) are cheating. I will not write about travels either, because I admit I’m broke. I don’t have a bank account, and don’t even wait for any signed checks, I will just be frustrated because of the maintenance. The only thing I could share to you are my thoughts and, as many don’t accept opinions in general, my comments about certain things that may be disagreeable to you. Well, agree to disagree. This, I can assure you with the maintenance as long as the network providers are enlightened.


Allow me to tell you something.

She is now the center of attraction even in a country where “the center” is crowded. She is now considered a heroine of the female species. Everybody who loves her began to say her words, demands what she demands – gender equality. She proclaimed herself a feminist. The world was amazed when she spoke while wearing a white Dior dress. Everybody listened because it’s a Harry Potter girl speaking. But some questioned her presence in the UN Summit. But her followers are billions in number stretching to a Filipino country. And so everybody claimed they are feminists. They demand feminism in the country called the Pearl of the Orient. This is kind of odd since the Filipino country is one of the friendliest to women.

The yellow queen


Photo from google.com

The country had let a yellow queen save its people. The people loved her and joined her face the dragons ridden by cold-faced warriors under the spell of the wicked king. She was granted power by the people. They trusted her to take the lead. They did not see her less than a person just because she is a she.

The beauty queen

Photo from google.com

Photo from google.com

The country has been proud of her and her countrymen adored her. She was allowed to show herself and tell the world what it’s like being one in her species. She was allowed to stroll the streets waving her hand and balancing the crown at the same time. Her face was allowed on billboards and her skin was allowed on primetime screens. The masses call her a beauty.

I’m not talking in behalf of feminism in the country because I still cannot understand it really. I cannot even call myself a feminist though I’ve mentioned the word several times above. I do not even know if telling you this is considered “feminism” of whatever wave. What I know is that I am grateful to be in a country where being a woman is not a sin.

And they:

Photo from google.com

Photo from google.com

Photo from google.com

Photo from google.com

can tell it, too.