Una pa lang kitang makita
Alam kong mahal na kita
Ngunit nasa iba ang iyong pansin
Kaya damdamin ko’y kinimkim

Isang gabing puso’y hinagupit
Ako’y lumuha, saksi ang langit
Lihim na pag-ibig, itinago ko
Nagpanggap na puso ko’y bato

Maraming taon ang lumipas
Puso ko’y pinagtibay, pinalakas
Sabi ko, hindi na ako gaya ng dati
Walang sino man sa aki’y maka-aapi

Tatlong dekada at ikaw ay muling bumalik
Ngayon ay laman ka na naman ng puso at isip
Sa isang sulyap lang sa iyong imahe
Gaya ng dati, lutang na naman ako sa ere

Windang na animo’y batang muli
Hindi mapakali, kinakausap ang sarili
Natatakot sa mga mangyayari
Dapat ba akong magsisi?

Muling nagbalik ang kirot sa aking puso
Dahil mula noon, hanggang ngayon
Sa nagdaang maraming taon
Ikaw pa rin ang mahal

Saang mundo ba maaaring maging tayo?
Sabihin mo at pupunta ako.
Pupunta ako ng walang pag-aalinlangan
Kahit ako’y muli pang masaktan

Paulit-ulit kitang mamahalin
Sa puso at isip mananatili ka sa akin
Noon, ngayon at bukas
Damdamin sayo’y hindi magwawakas

Still, I pushed forward. There was no choice. I scrubbed the dust of travel from my skin, painted on my makeup like armor, and slipped into the clothes of my trade. These clothes clung to me, not as mere fabric but as a stark confession, revealing all I had to give. They spoke silently, as if to say, This is what I am, and this is all I have left.

For eight unrelenting hours, I became one with the murky atmosphere of the beerhouse. The air was thick with the mingling odors of stale cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and cheap perfume. The drunken howls of karaoke singers blended into a discordant symphony, drowning the faint hum of my thoughts. The dim light came only from strings of tiny, blinking bulbs strung along the ceiling, their faint flickers casting fleeting shadows on faces, walls, and souls.

My body ached not just from the weariness of the journey but from the endless need to dodge and deflect—hands reaching out, uninvited, clawing for pieces of me they had no right to take. I wore a smile, but it was a brittle mask, cracking under the weight of pretense. In that dim, suffocating room, I learned how easy it was to bury emotions when the heart was too numb to feel. I wasn’t happy, nor was I sad. I was empty—a blank canvas left untouched by purpose, a silent plea for meaning.

When the dawn finally broke, the storm, like me, seemed to falter. Its furious winds quieted, and the rain softened into a gentle drizzle. But even in its retreat, it left me wondering: Where does a storm go to rest? When it has spent all its rage, does it find solace somewhere? Because I had no such refuge. I had no place to call my own, no sanctuary for my battered spirit.

In desperation, I turned to a coworker for help. She brought me to her home—a humble place nestled near Araneta Village, a flood-prone settlement by the river. This community, haphazardly assembled, wore its poverty like a tattered cloak.

The air reeked of decay, an assault on the senses. Floodwaters pooled in stagnant puddles, their murky surfaces reflecting not hope, but despair—an ocean of broken dreams. The houses were fragile and improvised, patched together from scraps of wood, tin, and plastic, remnants of a world that had discarded them. These homes seemed less like dwellings and more like dens, barely shielding the lives within from the cruelty of their surroundings.

And yet, in this place, I saw something astonishing.

Through the acrid stench and the oppressive weight of poverty, my heart stood resolute, honed by years of hardship. My eyes, unflinching, sought meaning in the chaos. What I found was a miracle of endurance: homes that should have crumbled under the storm’s fury stood firm, defying nature itself. Built from discarded fragments of a failing society, they rose as monuments to human resilience.

I saw the remarkable strength of these cobbled-together homes built by the impoverished—rivaling in resilience the stone houses crafted by skilled engineers. Despite their humble origins, these dwellings withstood the unrelenting storm with a steadfastness that belied their fragile appearance. It was as if each rusted nail, each scrap of wood or tin, was imbued with the collective spirit of their builders—a determination that no storm or flood could wash away.

These patched-up homes were not merely shelters; they were living testaments to the unbreakable spirit of the downtrodden. They endured the storm’s wrath and remained steadfast—a quiet defiance against forces far greater than themselves. In their patched walls and rusted nails, I saw the essence of survival, a strength that no calamity could diminish.

As I stood before them, the houses seemed to watch me, their silent presence speaking volumes. Their battered structures whispered stories of perseverance, their scars etched with wisdom. In that moment, I felt like a student in the presence of an ancient teacher, humbled and awed.

Tears welled in my eyes, not from sorrow but from a profound sense of gratitude. In the midst of all this hardship, Beauty revealed herself—not in perfection, but in raw, unyielding strength. She smiled at me, and I felt her blessing.

My coworker, oblivious to the revelation stirring within me, mistook my quietness for worry. She tapped my shoulder and said, “It’s going to be okay.” I nodded and smiled, her simple words an anchor in the sea of my thoughts.

Two months remained before the world would enter a new millennium. What lay ahead was unknown, but in that moment, amidst the patched walls and the enduring spirit of a struggling community, I felt certain of one truth: no matter how fierce the storm, everything would find its way to calm. Everything would be alright.

I can’t paint
And even if I can, I don’t have the right colors
And if I have the right colors
Would you see it?

If I can express this emotion
That the person inside me feel for you
Would the person inside you feel it?

How can one put into words
Or find the right melody
Or even draw on a paper
The intricacies
Of a bitter-sweet, one sided memory?
Using statements that only serve to misrepresent
Adjectives at best only approximate
Of undying emotions, flavored by the present
From a time long gone

Like a tree telling a story
Of pains, secrets and splendor of what once was
And a man who only remembers the twig
And the tree who only remembers the boy

You, are not who you were
I, am not who I was
Yet who we were, once was
Now, live in solitude, locked up inside us
And though desperately trying to reach out for one another

They will never meet again

And for their story, let this be my final plea:

That though we remember separately
And hear but echoes of what used to be,
Together, the you and I of today…
Let’s honor in friendship’s new light
The beauty of all that once felt right

And when the time comes
With my last breath
I would have but one last prayer
That when we are both no more
That the universe remembers for us
And piece together, what we could not

The memory of the tree and the man
The twig and the boy
You and I, who were, once was