basangsisiw

Trails of a wandering soul

What Remains

The hollering and the familiar noise came to a sudden halt as blank shadows drew the spirits of the undead away. In the minds of the holy few, acts became noble when done in consent from whom the floor creaks with restraint. I could not see her vision the way laudators see it; whilst in the hearts of those left to churn on a lifeless responsibility, that act was to lull one or the other, and the many witnesses thereof, of spiteful reasons why things have to be the way it was. In the guise of unaccounted for duty, everything seemed legit, even scapegoating. I could not commend both for the lack of empathy. I have stopped demanding that from a few people a long time ago… But you know, I never stopped hoping.

what remains-hands holding

As the room slips into darkness, I dragged along a dream of the other with me. In a blink of the eye, no one, not them even, seems to realize that again, the boat is heading wayward into a dangerous pit… and no one seems to bother to listen to the deafening roar for help.

Silence took over and the darkness swallowed the ground whole. What remains from there headed home with a slack for more of what seems to be, an inevitable outage in oneness of vision, of goals, of dreams.

To note, there can never be unity without full accountability of power.

Death and Rebirth

The death of a grandma and an unexpected offer I will never forget—this week was quite a long week.

Lola Dolores or Loling as she was fondly known, is the eldest sister of grandpa and possibly one of the most productive person I personally know. She was never married but she haven’t denied having had a relationship before. She passed away Monday, 14th of April, same day as the birth anniversary of my father.

death and rebirth

I haven’t seen Lola for quite some time already. But when she was still able to visit us especially on the first few months when she was brought here, she would come to the house to do anything but relax. She was still a workhorse at eighty-seven. I do not know if the truth of her being single had anything to do with that.

Most of my younger cousins would often call me Loling. Because at thirty, I am the only cousin they know who has never been in any relationship. They would say I would grow old a spinster like Lola, or possibly die with the same fate.

I have become accustomed to family and kin calling me that way. I don’t budge. “I’d rather stay single than end up in an abusive relationship”, always was my sudden retort. But to be honest, at the back of my head, I was considering what life would be without a partner to grow old with, like Lola.

Besides everyone, only my two young nephews have point out on me to never get into any relationship, ever—Andre, seven and Francois, my four-year old nephew who seem to never ran out of reasons why I should stick to their advice. These are only two of the four super powers I may have to ask a leeway with once the fateful time would come, should it come to me in this lifetime.

In a time like this when families and relatives gather together to celebrate and reminisce the life of the deceased, the truth of me being single at this age will always be brought up to discussion—among family members, friends and even relatives I would only see once in several years like my second-degree cousins in Toledo. Again, I would laugh at the thought of people making so much fuss about it. But really, I don’t bother.

While I was fighting the urge to get too emotional about my Lola’s passing, I cannot help but feel a little downhearted as we are now left with only one grandparent to take care of, my Lolo Teban. Good thing while I was fighting this war at home, work has not aided to make this moment more depressing.

Since everyone is excited about the incoming team-building trip to Palawan, I stayed silent and kept mum about some personal issue. I am excited as well for what awaits us there. I am grateful for the BOD for granting us this privilege the management has fought over a year since. Also, for letting other staffs join us, instead of the only nine member of the management. While the air of excitement ensues, another blessing came to surprise me last Wednesday. And although I declined the promotion that was offered, it feels great to know that your efforts are seen and acknowledged.

I am stubborn, an overthinker, a worrywart most of the times. To partially put my worries to rest, I plan. It’s my innate nature to always plan ahead and reconsider the consequences of things. I guess that says a lot about introverts and basically why I head the planning department as of the moment.

At a time when I am already an inch away to letting go of what I have, I stumble upon this letter whom the late Interior Secretary Jesse Robredo wrote to her daughter, Aika. His words came timely while I am baffled as to how to deal with my chosen career— while I struggle to put an end to this battle of trying to do anything while putting other’s welfare before my own.

I mourned the dead but in another, I celebrate a rebirth of fresh goals to keep me going for another year.

Perhaps, the late Secretary was right… or maybe I am just a coward.

A Nomad’s Cry

images (3)

(c)Google images

Stories untold—
where thoughts reduced to whispers
left to feed on one hope alone.

The blankness sets in.
She sees herself bright as daylight.
But, forsaken.

She wants to be somewhere—
She’s a nomad, owned nor cared by anyone—
wandering to and fro,
reliving what could be
but never had been.

The Lost Dandelion

 (http://www.the-exponent.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/kathy.jpg)

Image credit: Neal Fowler

She wander into realms beyond her own—
to find but the one she allowed to lose.
Tree leaves fall, new sprouts rise,
she braced the cold, basked in the light;
but nowhere,
nothing,
left her desolate—
as knowing no matter where in the world she is,
the truth remains—
A sad truth.

I Was Poorly Born With the Voice of a Wasp

When I blogged about my mountain escapades when I was young, never did it occur to me that it will soon become my most viewed post since I started blogging in 2011 in WP. From basically just talking about and helping me get the right lyrics of a particular song, to people sharing their own experience— to me, that was out of ordinary. I was not used to people commenting in my posts, especially that this is just a personal blog. But later, I realized there is probably something more than just sharing my life here. I am humbled everytime a reader shares his views or relates his experience. I am actually growing with these people, learning with them, crying and laughing with them, sometimes all at the same time. We wander through space and time to where the reader or the writer takes us. And it is always a new and wonderful journey to take everytime.

I love this world. I love where it takes me. I love the people who has journeyed with me through these years. That is why when I got that request, I said I am going to reconsider his suggestion. But after realizing what I am truly in for, my knees quiver in horror.

idk

I loved singing but I do not know if the love between me and the art is mutual. I think singing loathed me, especially when we talk of ear-piercing falsettos thrown out in the air like confetti after a victory. Like how am I supposed to sing this song when clearly, my musical prowess can only excel in the periphery of the great toilet arena? That is where I occasionally held my concerts… and I am glad the lizards that inhabit it were surprisingly moved by my talent every time. The crickets too, sing in unison.


That's the melody of the song. Imagine?

But seriously, I am no good at this. Oh, Jaysus!

While we celebrate the bravery of our fallen Filipino WWII heroes on this great Day of Valor, we pay tribute to the years gone past with the song above. Perhaps, while the American and Filipino soldiers were forced to march the 90-mile hike to Camp O’Donnell in San Fernando by the Japanese troops, some soldiers hummed this song and wished life were something different. That they could be just anyone somewhere in the outskirts of La Union enjoying a shot of tuba in one hand, while singing to “I was poorly born on the top of the mountain”… and with a fighting cock in another.

PS. To you Sir, please know that I am still considering your request. I still have a lifetime to learn and master the craft. I’ll post when I am able.

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