Binary Tree Maze: Predetermined Paths


Who am I?

I am the person traveling this path. The path was not set by me. My tools, attributes, were given to me, some I picked up along the way.

Our paths, it seems, are predetermined. Our choices, just a cascade from the primordial decision. Then the universe narrows down your choices to binary: Do or Don’t. And just when you think you’re at least in control of that — it rains. The universe conspires and freewill is an illusion. Our Life’s purpose is for us to walk the paths and experience it.

And now, I feel like I finally understood what Kahlil Gibran said, “You are the way and the wayfarer”.


The Great Lucena Panic


I searched online and could not find any article written about “The Great Lucena Panic” that happened in 1995 just right about a week or two after typhoon Rosing (international name: typhoon Angela). My family and I were there and I wonder if anyone else remember that night. It was a glimpse of what it would be like and how humans will behave in the face of an apocalypse.
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written on Sept 13, 2023

The transience of things
And of looming ending
That can happen anytime
The unspoken agreement
Neither of us defined
But we adhere to
The murder of emotions
The lack of humanity

The walls around us
And the happy facade
What are we so afraid of?
What am I so afraid of?
Are we so traumatized,
That we all hide inside our shells?
Afraid of getting caught
For the crime of feeling or caring

The fear of rejection
And shame of being found wanting
So we hide behind the mask
Of never needing
And sit in the cold
With our only company
That we protect at all cost
Our pride and dignity


Hues of Fond Recall


Not in the present, but in their past’s embrace,
In their could-have-beens, I find my place.
A ghostly companion to remorseful minds,
In their regrets, a version of me unwinds.

In the reverie of hindsight, they romanticize,
Casting my presence with a saintly guise.
Tears and pleas, once dismissed, now adored,
As they weave a tale, where I’m saintly adored.

A figure of grace, in the retrospective light,
In the canvas of memory, I stand so bright.
A saintly mirage in the past’s rosy track,
Yearning whispers echo, “Bring the saintly back.”

But neither can I resurrect the saintly lore,
Nor would I feign to be anything more.
I’d rather linger unseen and drift away,
In the cold truth’s embrace, I’ll be okay.