Note to self

By: Frances Grace Damazo - @inquirerdotnet

Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:02 AM October 07, 2018

There are mornings when you wake up and do nothing but stare at your reflection
for a few minutes. Not because you’re vain. It’s to make sure that you are still here.
That you still recognize the girl in the mirror.

You are 12 years old, and feel like you don’t actually belong. Boys tease you
because you’re this lanky kid who always gets called whenever there’s recitation in
class.

The teachers tell you that you are smart and full of potential, but somehow you feel
like these things are more of a liability than an asset. And so you stifle your voice
and try your best not to do too well in class. You equate being smart to being
bullied.

You are 15, and everybody’s talking about makeup and dating. Boys start to rate
your attractiveness on a scale of 1 to 10, and you know you’ll never be billboard-
pretty. You are not part of the cool crowd.

You do not date the hottest guy in school. You do not date anyone. Not because no
one has actually asked you out, you just feel you’re not ready to become
vulnerable. Also, you don’t really understand what they see in you.

You are 19, and you learn to embrace being smart. However, you still feel that you
can do better. There are lots of things you want to try, but you feel insecure and
lacking — and so you never do.

Somehow, falling for a guy who eventually ghosts on you doesn’t do anything to
erase your insecurities. You are nearing graduation and you feel uneasy.
Undecided. Incompetent. You don’t know if you’re ready to face reality outside the
four walls of the classroom.
You are 23, and you experience heartbreak like you never did before. You feel ugly.
You hit rock bottom in love and in career. You feel displaced. You retreat and start
doubting every life choice you’ve made. You don’t think you will ever find love
again.

For all of these, I want to apologize.

I’m sorry for letting them make you feel that you’re not good enough, that there’s
something wrong with you. For propagating the idea that the skin you’re in is not
the most attractive. For believing that intelligence is not sexy. For being
hypercritical. For doubting your abilities.

I promise to never let these negative thoughts seep into your consciousness again.
And if they do, I promise that, this time, you will have a stronger sense of self —
that these things will not bother you as much as they used to.

Because you are made of hopes and dreams, fears and strengths, dark and light,
passion and compassion. You are a force to be reckoned with. You are love.

Dear self, I want to apologize for all the times I have not loved you enough. We’re
stuck together forever, and I want you to know that I like you. I really do. Your
flawed, silly self is perfect. And lovable. I am sorry you thought otherwise.

Dear self, know that I accept you and I’ve forgiven you for feeling these things and
believing them. You are real. You are beautiful. Never forget that.

I love you.

***

Frances Grace Damazo, 25, is learning to be comfortable in her own skin. She is a
development worker and youth advocate, working under the 2030 Youth Force in
the Philippines Inc., a youth network working collectively toward a high-quality
life for all by 2030.
 Do you agree or disagree? Why?

No one would ever love you the way you will love yourself. In the reality of life, one
thing is for sure, your best and foremost companion would be your own self. There may be
a lot of people that surrounds you but little do you know they are already dragging you
down. Just like the article written by Frances Grace Damazo entitled, “Note to self”, it
explains how the people we encounter in various stages of our lives defines how we see
ourselves. I definitely agree with the message she wants to convey for we tend to get
swallowed up by our fears as we meet new people every day. It makes us feel that we will
never be good enough. The truth is everyone would feel the same way deep within but it is
up to the person how you they will deal with it.

Life is too short to have regrets and we have to start loving ourselves because no
one will not unless you accept every flaw and imperfections the way that God made you.
Always remind yourself that you have a unique purpose in life regardless of the physical
attributes you possess. You can do much more compared to other people whom you get
insecure to. It is just a matter of trust and love for yourself that you can do anything
incredibly. Be the best version of yourself each and every day of your life that you had a
chance to live and prove to the rest of the world what you’ve got.
 Truth, insult and letting go
By: Kat Uytiepo - @inquirerdotnet
Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:18 AM July 26, 2018

It felt like it was the beginning of the end, like how they show you the ending of the
story in movies before they unfold the events that led to that moment.

The legendary opening sequence of “Breaking Bad,” for example: He’s about to pull
the trigger on his head. “This weeks ago, this is what happened.” As the events
gradually unfold before our eyes, we slowly come to understand how all that fear
and sorrow had accumulated in his eyes.

This is how I felt. I didn’t have a pistol, I wasn’t about to jump off the platform and
face the headlights of a speeding train, but it felt like the end anyway.

I moved to Barcelona over a year ago. I stepped out of El Prat airport and
welcomed the heat of the Mediterranean sun on my face. I remember, we were
holding hands, we were going on this grand adventure together. Things between
us weren’t the most solid back then, but we were together, and that togetherness
used to matter.

One year later, things were still shaky, and the hopelessness of the losing battle
was more apparent in our faces. We said hurtful words to each other. Truth and
insult—they became indistinguishable. During one of these hateful exchanges, I
realized that, sadly, some things in life were simply not worth saving.

Living in a foreign country away from my family made it so much harder. There’s
a relatively big Filipino community in Barcelona. I heard a Filipino woman sharing
the word of God on the train to a fellow Filipino woman just the other day. It’s not
uncommon to pick up our language from the hubbub of conversations in Catalan
and Spanish. There are also a few Filipino restaurants and stores selling “Sinigang
Mix” in Gotico, and even an LBC.
But most of these Filipinos are mothers who left their children in the Philippines—
overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) who came here to work and who have the same
somber look on their faces, a mixture of longing, worry and awareness of being
different. You can almost see their quiet thoughts trying to reach out to their loved
ones back home.

I have yet to strike a conversation with any of them. I respect their aloneness, and
mostly I keep to myself as well.

Even though I had him, I was never able to shake the feeling of being utterly and
indescribably alone. Perhaps because I knew I should’ve been happier for having
him, but I wasn’t. I always dreaded the next betrayal, the next lie I was going to
uncover.

I didn’t think being an OFW was going to be this challenging. I convinced myself
that I was adaptable, that I could belong here if I tried. I was so sure, mainly
because I had this guy, and he occupied the role of both best friend and family in
my life.

It wasn’t until I lost the security of having someone with me that all these feelings
came flooding in. Oh, what I would give to be able to cry on my mom’s shoulders,
tell her how much I was hurting, and to let her use her own hand to wipe away the
tears of her only daughter.

We traveled through Europe, and we had plans to see the rest of the world
together. I thought our relationship was going to be the whole book that is my life,
but it turned out it was only a chapter—one that I will earmark over and over.

I suggested we write farewell letters to each other. This was going to be it, but even
in writing I couldn’t bear to say it, the dreaded words along the lines of “I love you,
good bye… really.”

We had tried to end it many times. We kept having the same

arguments and clash of values, which always ended the same way. But then we
would somewhat find our way back into each other’s arms again. I always gave in
to his almost-sincere apologies.

When a bowl, teapot or vase breaks into countless pieces, we just heave a sigh and
throw them away. In Japan, there’s a tradition of giving second chances to broken
ceramic. It’s called “kintsugi,” and it teaches that sometimes even scars can make
something more beautiful and refined.

I’m not sure if we’re more beautiful or refined now because of the scars we have
left on each other. Maybe we became better in certain areas of life. Maybe all the
fights left us resentful and full of anger. Or maybe we are simply broken, not ugly
or refined, just… broken.

I don’t doubt we will both recover and move on, eventually, one day. And when
that time comes, I hope to look back on this tear-filled chapter not with regret or
avoidance, but with a slight smile and even a hint of pride, for having the courage
to end what needed to be ended.

The hardest part of letting go is the process of letting go. Tonight, I ate at a
restaurant by myself for the first time in a very long time. I thought I’d be sadder,
but I welcomed the absence of conversations and sat in silence.

This is only the beginning of the end. But it will end, eventually, one day.

Kat Uytiepo is 25 years old and lives in Barcelona, Spain. She loves taking beautiful pictures and
cooking. She was born and raised in Manila.
 Do you agree or disagree? Why?
As we all know and as we always say, nothing is permanent in this world except
change. It is one of the greatest lessons in life that we shouldn’t get easily used to the things
or the people around because they will eventually come and go. This may seem unfair but I
think it is intended for us to gain our life lessons and learn from it to be able to explore the
brighter things offered for us. Similarly with the story written by Kat Uytiepo who resides
in Spain after having her heart broken. Based from the article, it was a rough road for their
relationship but they both choose to let go of each other. Their trust was shattered down
into pieces by the insults they have raised on one another during their fights. They both felt
it was unhealthy for the two of them to continue what they have started. I salute and agree
with how fearless they were to end the relationship that they thought would last forever.

At some point in life, it is much easier to let go than to still hold on with things you
know that it would just hurt you even more. There are a billion people in this world so why
waste your heart on someone who is not worth it anymore. Probably you would say that
you really love him or her but sooner or later you would realize the essence of the choice
that you had made. Two people will find their way back at any moment of their lives if they
are really meant to be. Thus, let your hearts heal first for some time and enjoy the beauty of
life because there are still a lot ahead for you. You just have to learn to be wise enough to
take good care of your heart for it is only one, unique and irreplaceable. Come back in your
battle with a braver and stronger heart than ever. We all deserve to love and be loved with
utmost sincerity.
 Free will and broken bones
By: Joeie P. Cuerpo - @inquirerdotnet
05:04 AM July 31, 2018

You know the phrase “following in your parents’ footsteps”? My father takes this
mantra to heart and wants me to make it my life’s motto, too.

I have a military father who, for years, always went on about how I should become
a soldier like him—physically fit, confident, snappy in uniform. It seemed like
every conversation we had involved me being persuaded in some way to consider
a profession in the military. Of course, I always made a feeble attempt to divert this
issue by saying I intended to pursue medicine or law or psychology. But my quick-
thinking father would always say, in a firm but amused tone: “But you can be a
doctor/lawyer/psychologist in the military!”

He had a point. But I knew in my heart that military service was not for me. I did
not see myself as physically equipped for it. And though I have such high respect
and admiration for those who follow orders without question, I must admit I am
not one of them. There is a part of me that wants to guard my free will and that
needs to question authority, especially if I find my personal morals and conscience
outweighing my sense of obedience to that authority.

There are times when I would stare at myself in the mirror, trying to catch my
father’s reflection in the boy staring back at me. I inherited most of my facial
features from him—white complexion, oblong-shaped face, dark eyes spaced
evenly apart, average-sized nose and lips. But apart from these, there is nothing
else of my father in me physically. While he possesses that “power stance” most
military men have—chin up, chest out, shoulders back and stomach in (though he
can no longer comply with the last one because he is 50 years old), I have hunched
shoulders and a boyish look bordering on androgynous.

I am the kid who can’t go up two flights of stairs without gasping for air. I am
someone who wouldn’t be able to stand seeing another person die in front of him,
much less still keep fighting after that.

All this talk about me joining the military came to a sudden halt during one
physical education class last December. Doing a sprint, I thought I would channel
the superstar sprinter and world record holder Usain Bolt: torso straight and
vertical, elbows bent at 90 degrees, shoulders relaxed and steady…

But then I stumbled. It wasn’t the first time I fell while running; the scar on my
forehead is a badge of such childhood clumsiness. But this time, I had become
Icarus, blinded by my own petty hubris. The fall resulted in a broken right clavicle
that required me to undergo surgery. Of course, a broken bone is a broken bone
that can only be repaired with a titanium steel plate.

Though I had to endure excruciating pain for a couple of days, the misfortune led
to some constructive outcome.

It changed my father’s plans for me. He conceded to the fact that, with broken
bones and all, I was no longer eligible to enter the military. Though I somehow felt
liberated, I must admit there was also sadness in that, as it was tantamount to
ending my father’s dream of continuing the military line in the family. I couldn’t
help but feel a pang of guilt at how things had turned out. As an only child, I felt
bad that I could not convince myself in any way to take on what he had wanted for
me.

But my accident also opened another door: We began to relate to each other with
greater openness and sincerity. I would like to believe my father is now learning to
trust me well enough to let me take the lead when it comes to pursuing my own
future.
Not all children are meant to follow in their parents’ footsteps. But we honor our
parents just the same for the immense love they invest in us their children—and
the understanding to change their plans and hopes for us when our own young
minds beckon us somewhere else

Joeie P. Cuerpo, 17, is a Grade 12 student taking up humanities and social sciences at Corpus
Christi School, Cagayan de Oro City.

Do you agree or disagree? Why?

There would always come a time in our lives that blessings come in disguise. A proof
of which was an article entitled, “Free will and broken bones” by Joeie P. Cuerpo, who is
torn between reaching what his heart desires and following the footsteps of his dearest
father. A part of every child’s dream would probably making his/her parents proud with
what they have achieved in life. But what if you don’t meet at the same point of interest,
what will you do? For me, I would sacrifice and set aside my own goals first so that I could
mark my parents’ faces with so much pride and love with what I have accomplished. I think
I could still be who I really wanted to be a few years from now as long as I keep that
determination and passion within me. However, when you let faith do the thing, it would
amaze you with such surprises. Joeie got broken bones during one of his school activities
and with that his father gave his blessing to pursue what he really wants in life. It felt like
there was thorn out from his chest but had left a scar. He will not be able to continue the
military line in their family. Nevertheless, he became more open with his plans for his
future with his dad after that incident.

Sometimes happiness doesn’t come in extravagant gift wrappers but it would be

given to you in the most unexpected way. We are given our free will and as a rational
human being, we should still be wise enough with our decisions in life and don’t waste the
gift of chance to uncertain things. Do the things that you love the most and you will not
regret anything at all.

In the eyes of a desperate child

By: Aron Jan Mitchell B. Sierva - @inquirerdotnet
Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:02 AM September 30, 2018

The desperate look in his eyes said it all.

“Kuya, pahinging barya, pangkain lang,” the child said as he stretched his hand
out to me, motioning the other over his stomach as if to express his hunger. It was
a rough day in this city, with the sun at its peak, and this kid — perhaps not even
10, his body underdeveloped and weak — was out here, stretching his hands out to
passersby.

What caught my attention the most was the desperate look in his eyes, which
seemed to mirror the harshness of the life he has to go through as a child of the
streets.

It caught me because it stirred something in my memory — that his story might be

another person’s story. Because in that little child, I saw a friend, a person who has
a story of his own.

His name is Ronnie.

He is a great friend to me, to anyone — he’d talk to you and cheer you up as if he
has no problems of his own. He is a jolly person, such that you won’t think he has
faced great battles in life.
Life started out pleasant for him. He was the eldest child, born to hardworking
parents who had a chicharon business.

Because of this business, their family was able to eat thrice a day, in a fine-looking
house they were able to afford. Ronnie, with his younger brother and sister, were
privileged to get an education, even if in a public school.

Blessed with an amazing ability to draw, Ronnie dreamed of becoming an

architect.

He lived a normal life as a kid. He and his siblings played outside with their
friends. And like many others, they enjoyed their childhood.

His childhood was fun, he would always tell me — until their business collapsed.
The family went bankrupt; and soon, they had to give it all up. In a snap,
everything was gone. Along with his dreams, every single property the family had
was reduced to dust. Like an eagle deprived of its ability to soar, they were
helpless.

In the most desperate times, he wept.

He wept because he had a dream, and he was afraid of losing it. He wept because
he wanted to do something, but he couldn’t. He wept because he was a helpless,
young child anxious about his family’s future.

I could just imagine the feeling of desperation he experienced at such a young age.
Like the kid who stretched his hand out to me in the city, Ronnie was also a child
anxious about life, eager to succeed, but in desperate straits.

Ronnie’s family resettled in a small and simple house. His father became a tricycle
driver, his mother a dressmaker.

They earned barely enough to even buy food for their children. There were times
when they would eat only at night, the meager food not even filling up their bellies.
It came to a point where the children had to beg their grandmother for food—
doing it in secret from their own grandfather, who had personal issues with their
father.

But with education as their family’s priority, Ronnie, along with his siblings, still
went to school. Only this time, they were constantly slapped with insults because of
their underprivileged life. They were impoverished, barely able to buy anything.

Still, Ronnie had a dream, and he knew he had to strive hard to achieve it. He was
desperate, so he used that desperation as his motivation to succeed.

He studied with enthusiasm until he finished college. At certain points, he switched

from studying to working so that he could earn money to finance his education.

Ronnie finished college as cum laude—a fulfillment and an honor he gave both to
himself and his family.

He was once a child as well—an anxious kid challenged by poverty. But he strove
mightily in order to succeed.

In the middle of remembering all these, suddenly, reality hit me.

The kid was still there, still stretching his hand out to me, and so I dug into my
pocket to give him a handful.

Then, I thought just to myself, “What would this child become?”

As soon as I handed him money, he ran away. As far as my sight could reach, I
followed the kid. He was still stretching his hand out, begging other people for
coins.

The desperate look in his eyes said it all — it spoke of both innocence and despair;
it spoke of poverty and the harshness of life.

I could only hope that his eyes, too, would one day speak of success — that he
would win his own battle.
In the eyes of a humbled child, I saw a story — that of my friend’s, who was also
that child once. But my friend looked beyond desperation and anxiety, and worked
hard to achieve a dream. He was a man who defied the circumstances of his life,
and defeated poverty.

He is more than just a friend to me. His name is Ronnie, and I am blessed to call
him my father.

***

Aron Jan Mitchell B. Sierva, 16, is a Grade 11 student of Malayan Colleges, Laguna.

Do you agree or disagree? Why?

It is you and only who could make impossible things possible in your journey. There
may come a time that you will hit the rock bottom of your life which is called the beginning.
Your greatest downfall marks the start of something new only if you climb back up to reach
for it. Not all things begins from the top because it will surely make you experience to be at
the bottom which would teach you how to get back on track with the plans laid for you.
Don’t let the negatives in life pull you back from aiming high for your dreams because it will
not fully define you as a person rather you will just see yourself one day, staring at nothing.
We all have a purpose in life and we are in search for it every single day. Motivate yourself
until you find that thing which creates a genuine happiness in your heart. There is more to
life than just waiting for some miracle to happen. You have to work hard and strive for your
own success. Just like how Ronnie, the father of Aron Jan Mitchell B. Sierva, who is the
author of the article entitled, “In the eyes of a desperate child”, stood up and empowered
his spirit to go on with his dreams. I highly recommend this piece of art to be red by youth
nowadays and get motivated as well.

Other people and things around you are just supplementary gears that would help
you get through your battle for they also have their own to fight with. Thus, when we see
people who are innocent and desperately in need of our help, never hesitate. You may not
know one day that you are one of the pillars of his/her success which makes it an
achievement for you. All of us are here on Earth to help each other and we should extend
our hands whenever needed. Nothing will be taken away from you and rather you could fill
someone’s life with hopes and dreams to live by. Life is not filled with unicorn for it is full of
warriors who fights for their dreams to come into reality.

Life is but a series of deaths

By: Alpha Habon - @inquirerdotnet
Philippine Daily Inquirer / 05:02 AM September 23, 2018

I remember a childhood afternoon inside a kulambo with my mother and my

younger sister. I was randomly tracing my mom’s face with my fingers — wrinkles
to moles, moles to freckles, and freckles to laugh lines, connecting the dots like a
constellation.

I forgot why I said it, but I told her this: “Mother, I don’t want you to grow old and
die.”

She just smiled wanly. We all die.

I remember being afraid then, and I cried and hugged her so tightly as she laughed,
perhaps realizing that she had unleashed that fact of life on me too soon.
But as I look back now, I realize that I am not so afraid anymore. Death somehow
feels both strange and familiar. Because we all die. Not only once, but many times
in our lives.

Someone died that April morning when I graduated from preschool. Our class
danced to the tune of “Shalala lala,” our tiny, dynamic bodies strained by maong
vests, the required attire.

My mom stitched colorful cartoon patches on mine so I would stand out, or at least
be identifiable in the sea of washed-out blue.

I felt so mature looking forward to the big school and never looking back at that
small house with the wooden playground and the colorful charts.

Seasons die. I spent a good year in the province when I was young, when days
consisted of catching dragonflies, leaving goats to graze by the grass, taking baths
in the nearby irrigation, lying down on straw sacks with cousins, whiling the
afternoon away telling ghost stories.

If I close my eyes now, I can still remember the drone of a faraway tractor, the
random conversations carried by the wind in Ilocano I could half-understand, and
the din of chirping crickets like a daytime lullaby. I can still feel the heat on my
skin, bronzed by the sun, and the smell of wild grass and freshly picked corn.

That summer came and went. Many summers happened after, but they never
replicated that one.

Innocence dies. I dipped my leather-clad feet in the flood, as  my classmates and I
traversed the dirty streets of Taft Avenue to the jeepney terminal, them headstrong
young who failed to heed the radio’s call for school suspension.

We ate Haw Flakes like the holy bread and smoked MikMik on straw like
cigarettes, feigning bravado, as we talked about who went out with whom, or
which teacher looked like the mutant from “X-Men.”
This was a guy content and full of confidence, as if life had promised him
everything.

I passed by the same school recently while riding the train, the same building that
housed me for almost a quarter of my life. I felt nostalgic, like I should be grasping
at something. But what was I supposed to hold on to, really? The vehicle was fast,
and the moment passed. Time did, too.

Connections die. We crammed seven to a four-seater car headed to Tagaytay on a

school night, with the sole purpose of eating bulalo. We threw caution to the wind,
never mind the exams the day after, or theses due that weekend.

The cool wind slapped our faces as we kept warm with a little weed, feeling
invincible like in the movie. Never knowing that, soon, one of us will be married.
Another will live abroad. And yet another will turn bitter and never speak to us
again. But then morning came, we left sober, and everyone died with the night.

I see photos and videos of my former workmates. I see comments and well-wishes
on my birthday or on a random post on a random day. But we will never be as
close and random as those first few days at our first job, skirting through the
tightrope of being promoted and fired.

That Tuesday when someone played an Aegis song to destress, and our high-strung
corporate selves all sang along, unleashing our inner “jologs” and turning swivel
chairs in an attempt at impromptu choreography. No, not in that way. Not in that
moment, or with the same people. That died, too.

How many people do we meet, and how many stay for good? It’s a fistful of sand,
pouring out of our hands, until only a few grains remain.

Love dies. That rainy evening in Sunken Garden, when love was young and the
wind hummed with sweet promise, when my lips first felt another. Nothing
mattered then but us, the rain, and that all-consuming fire.

But, of course, that version of me died. I have since been in various relationships,
whittling my naïvete thin to maturity, my heart still on my sleeve, but now
decorated with scars. The kisses I’ve had since then are neither less nor more. Only
different.

Places die. That dormitory in UP. Our bedspace at Teacher’s Village. Our cramped
apartment on Maginhawa Street. It will never house that same energy when we
lived there, and even if other transients inhabit it, it will never be the same. Who
we were then expired with the lease.

Dreams die. I pressed black ink on white paper, believing they were magic, not
knowing the rules, and that I was breaking them. My first creation was a written
material I foolishly considered a work of art then. The feeling of triumph increased
as the printer churned it out, page by page.

We create because we want to preserve an imprint of ourselves, long after we

leave the earth. That’s what I believed then. But what do we preserve, really?
They’re merely echoes of a belief we soon forget, and that people interpret
differently. We shout our truths, and the reverberance gets lost in translation.

I wrote many more after. They eventually stopped being dreams and just started
being words. The print is just black ink on white paper, and nothing more.

Life is but a series of deaths.

We remember our firsts. We remember our lasts. But we also have those in-
betweens, not as significant, but all deaths just the same. Why do we not mourn
them as we do a corporeal demise? As if that’s the only one that tolls with finality.

Our past selves die naturally, and we move on—different versions of who we were
before the fact. We all lose a part of us along the way, life thawing at our existence,
shaving away people, places and things attached to us, and all of these will be lost,
with us not knowing and feeling then that they’re gone forever. We ignore them,
trapped in the irony of growing old and repeatedly perishing. Until the ultimate
expiry comes, our departure from mortality, and the acceptance that these are the
only things that wait for us in the end: earth, moss and stone.
Loved ones die. I stare at yet another coffin. I don’t know her that well, but it is a
death just the same. That will be me. Soon. Maybe later. Maybe now. But not never.
This is the truth: Wherever we are now, we are all just on our way home.

I look at the flowers, the pews, the candles, and her. And I wonder: How many
summers had she whiled away? What’s the best bulalo she had ever tasted? Did
she ever smoke MikMik and real weed, or dipped her feet in irrigation or a flood?
How many Aegis songs did she sing on a random day, and what kind of dreams did
she attempt to make happen? How many vest-clad dances in April, or kisses in the
rain?

I’ll never know. Because all of that died with her. In a coffin, like a box we put our
mementos in, never to be opened again.

When my time comes, I might be scared again like that kid who hugged his mother
then. But, for now, I would like to believe I will not be afraid. Because I’ve stared
death in the face, in different forms, at different times. Life has subtly prepared me
for that inevitability.

We should  not fear but we can ache, because a part of us is removed, like scab to a
painful wound. We should not dread but we can cry. Not because of the
bereavement itself, but because of time lost, never to return. No, we already know
death, like an old and constant friend.

***

Alpha Habon, 28, is a filmmaker/writer at ABS-CBN Channel 2.

Do you agree or disagree? Why?

It is an irrevocable fact that everything has its own end and we can do nothing but to
accept it as part of our lives. Even the life of a person was designed to have a finale
however, it comes it different ways. We may or may not be in control how it’s going to
happen for there is no definite time for it. If it is God’s will and you have done your part
here on Earth, you can take a rest. Despite of this probabilities, we must not spearhead
what is intended for us. There is more to life than ending it immediately. We are still on the
preparatory stage of our lives where we experience various ending. It could be good or bad
but still we are to learn from it. Like how Alpha Habon defined “Life is but a series of
deaths” in his article. I do agree that we unconsciously gets involve with a variety of death
once we tend to go on with our lives which prevents ourselves from sinking into the
miserable reality.

It is normal to experience death each and every day in our lives for as we all know
that nothing is permanent in this world. Time passes by which terminates the moment we
are into and leading us into new adventures to explore. Life is just a cycle of living and
experiencing death. We live in the instant of reality but sooner or later it will come to an
end, thus, we should make the most of everything. All those we have right now is just a one
shot opportunity and won’t happen again the way it was used to before. Take it or leave it,
on the latter part you would realize the essence of your choices. Be wise enough for you not
to regret anything once the real death finally knocks on your door.