Literary
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Amidst these quiet moments, when lassitude or exhaustion presses heavy, remember: darkness is not the enemy. It is the frame for light, the soil where resilience roots. You breathe, you wait, you rise, as the sun naturally breaks through. When the night draws close, the moon offers rest and silver calm. Balance endures. You endure. And life moves on, still circling, still shimmering, and so can you.
Maybe aging well isn’t about becoming numb. Maybe it’s about becoming less surprised—by loss, by love, by the way the world keeps moving even when you don’t. It’s about learning that survival isn’t always noble, and that sometimes staying is braver than leaving. It’s realizing that the people you once swore you couldn’t live without were only ever chapters, not the whole book.
When malls rise and parks vanish, even a bench becomes a witness to inequality. The disappearance of public spaces is not just an urban issue—it is a quiet erasure of freedom. What remains of public life when the last open seat is swallowed by concrete? Will the seat be moved? Uncertain. Unyielding.
"Hanggang keyboard warrior ka lang naman," "Hanggang libro lang 'yan," "Puro reels, mag-protest ayaw?" Those are the phrases often thrown like a challenge, a sneer and dismissal. As if people expressing their opinions and hatred—towards those who are above us—online is a lesser form of activism. As if speaking up in a digital space is insignificant—more often seen as either being safe, lazy or useless.
I've come to terms that practicality will always come first before passion. Maybe passion won't even be an option in the first place. Maybe it will become a little side hobby when corporate life gets tough, and maybe that's all it will be.
Even before the money reaches our hands, the government has already taken its share in taxes. We endure because of its purpose. But we are not benefitting anything from what we've been paying.
Art is sometimes the artist itself, for crafting a masterpiece, Revolving through life and art, making life a bliss, These pieces of one's soul, shall be immortalized, sealed with a kiss.
To everyone who stood when the sky fell, thank you. The storm may have stolen our roofs, our walls, our streets. But it did not take hope.
In my daydreams, I already imagined strolling along the halls of my dream college. Feeling so fulfilled and energized, studying in the course I've always dreamed of, surrounded by peers with the same hopes and dreams as me. Pursuing the path I've always wanted.
It is the curse and calling of journalism: To walk where thunder waits, to write even when the ink runs red, To stand—even if alone, Because the world still needs Those who do not bend with the rain.
In a few weeks, someone else will be typing their first headline. But my story? It’s still being written — just beyond the deadline. Because I’ve learned: in journalism, as in life, it’s never just about the scoop. It’s about the JOURNey.
