the walks i take whilst the moon is still awake

going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“say a little prayer before you leave,” she says, handing me a booklet she has used all these years
she tells me she had been guided by that tiny prayer book whilst she gave birth to me, my sister and my brothers
and i think to myself, maybe it will pass the same kind of protection to me
maybe not
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“leave a little later, maybe when the sun cracks open the sky and darkness would no longer be alive” she says, holding my hand a little too tight
i don’t think i can do that, mom
i’ll run late, and you know how that creates knots inside my stomach
nausea kicking in, forgetting how to breathe
forgetting how to breathe
breathe, breathe, breathe
i don’t want to see the sun shining as i walk through the same paths, drive through the same roads as i did yesterday and the days before that
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“wait until the moon and the stars are no longer in sight, will you?” she says, still holding on to me
you don’t understand, maybe i don’t too
but this is the only time i can telepathically write letters to the moon
i wonder if anyone else looks at the moon without waiting for the sun to devour it soon after
without waiting for something else, anything else to happen
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
“it’s too dangerous outside” she says, her voice shaky as she stares deep into my eyes, something she doesn’t always do
i know, mom
i know
i have become afraid of this country too
hungry for streets painted with the blood of its people
blood of nameless children no longer nameless
blood in every corner, the stench tingling our noses, reminding us of all our recurring nightmares
blood and violence in a crazy mix driving everyone to their feet
to their wings
i am afraid too, mom
but mom, i have to go
outside where i can’t pretend to be blind
outside where i can feel danger’s foul and heavy breath licking my neck over and over again
outside where i can do more than just ignore what’s happening out there
because i can’t close my eyes anymore
because i can’t
because i won’t let myself
going to work too early makes my mother tremble, fill up with worry
but i step out anyway

Art and Art and Art and Dreams

Narrating my life in essay form… Now this is something I miss. I dived into the blogosphere not knowing what to blog at all, not knowing what to expect and, most of all, not knowing that I would last this long. All the poems in here have faced my inner critic. It has been messy as one part of my brain (and most of my heart) is jumping for joy as I am close to hitting that “Publish” button but another part is this little devil that tells me I could never be good at anything and that I would never be somebody. It is confusing, it is tiring at times and it cuts my soul into small pieces of broken glass. Every poem I share with you went through hell, my own personal hell. It takes a tremendous amount of courage, a couple of side eyes from my little devil and me wondering when everything would end. I wonder if there will ever come a time when my writings, my works, my films, my art would be something I am truly proud of.

To tell you the truth, I do not even know who I am doing this for anymore. I know art should be for yourself, but the lines are so blurry now. I do not know if I am actually doing this for me and this question keeps me up most of the time. What is art for me and why am I still here? Why, if I am doubting myself so much, am I still fighting? Why am I still creating, brainstorming, crafting, writing, dreaming, feeling, observing, pondering, overthinking, breathing art?

Art is something I could never live without. I breathe in words and I breathe out poems. I watch a movie and instead of just watching it, I devour every dialogue, every movement, every music, every expression of the actors, every laugh or cry from the audience, every single frame, and I always come out of the cinema full, no matter if the movie is good or bad. Even by just thinking about these two things that matter to me and the future that, although scary, is so exciting, make me feel alive. To be a writer and a filmmaker… The two moons of my little planet. And don’t you worry, this spaceship I have worked on for years is ready for takeoff.

An Essay

So we have this Creative Writing class. We had to write a travel essay and well… this essay I wrote really isn’t much. Anyway, here ya go 😀 


Dear you,


Everyone has a story. Each one unique from the other. Some stories we share, others we keep. The most beautiful are those that we keep in our minds and our hearts. I have a story to tell you. A story about this one fine Thursday when I decided to finally notice other people around me and figure out their stories just by looking at them. And nothing beats Starbucks when it comes to people-watching. There are many kinds of people there: there are those who go there for their usual fix, those who noisily tap on their laptops to finish a report, those who talk with their bosses or their clients on the phone, those couples that sweetly tell their own tales to each other and then there is the likes of me, watching all of them.

                Christmas songs were blasting through the speakers as we entered the café. I made a mental note to buy Christmas gifts as early as next week. Inah, my friend, and I went straight to the counter. She made me buy this holiday special frappe so she could add one sticker for a Starbucks planner. So I ordered this Toffee Nut Frappe that looked really good on the menu and a Ham and Cheese Croissant to stop my stomach from growling. Oh how I hate spending too much just for a drink! When we got what we ordered, we went upstairs and we sat near the balcony overlooking the whole café. I took a sip of my coffee and I winced as the bitter liquid slid down my throat. I hate coffee! The only thing I truly love about Starbucks’ coffee is the cream. While sipping my coffee, I looked at the people around me. Down below, there was an American man looking outside the window. He looked old and lonely. Maybe this American man misses his wife whom he left in America or his children who left him. Then I looked at the woman in front of me who was smiling so brightly as she typed away on her laptop. Maybe she finally finished her report or maybe she is chatting with her boyfriend online. Inah looked at me weirdly so I temporarily stopped imagining. She talked about Lee Min Ho, a popular Korean artist who is currently endorsing Bench. Inah likes imagining things and so she said, “What if Lee Min Ho was here right now? What if he approached us and asked us to come with him?” We squealed like pigs! I noticed some people look at us and I just laughed the embarrassment away. It was quite an experience and I really wish you were there to see it all.

                Some stories cannot be written on paper because sometimes we cannot express everything through words. I did not experience a complete transformation or anything of that sort that one fine Thursday. I was looking for a tale to tell and I found a lot. Everyone has a story. Each one unique from the other. So I want to know… what is your story?