Only when a heart ruptures
do we hear the rending sound.

—Doris Trinidad, Breakup

It begins with a booming sound
inside us, some machines,
a part of us
The reason, we can never understood
despite the time we engineered
our ship before
going to the sea.
And it wasn’t the sea’s fault.
Because we chose the sea
for us to cruise on.
And even it is the raging sea
that engulfed us,
it is still chiefly because of a failure
of our engines
(which made us believe
we’re unsinkable).
But here we are in a trench
taking a look at our ship
wrecked, submerging,
wretched, devoured
by the too much water inside.

Our ship touches the bottom,
but it will remain there

Soon it will be another ruin
we will stare and remember
and we will sink in the sea again.
Yet someday, though our
ship is under the sea,
the water will never get inside us anymore.



Sincerely, I remember this.

We selected similar trajectory, but we had our own ways of treading. And then our footprints somehow—or rather unintentionally—meet and match. So we walk together, happily.

Admittedly, I say this.

While we traipse, I wanted my footprint to left standout among the rest of us. And I was eager to walk faster.

Eventually, I came to a realization.

Walking would not wholly show that I would win—for this was not a race. We move in our own pace and learn along the way.

Honestly, for that, I have never said sorry.

For wanting to leave and get ahead, for not helping when one of us fall, for saying you slow my speed, for seriously wishing to walk on my own.

Yet, truly, I am grateful for this, for you.

You hold my arm as we walk to let me know I should not be alone. You help me every time I stumble.

Yes, I really remember everything.

I may always looking straight to the end of the pathway, but I never forget the footprints we made, our falls and runs, and our hands never loosening its grip no matter the obstructions or the variance of our pace.

I know this.

We have our own trajectories now, but I also know, soon we will share the trace of our footprints when our trail intersect and reach the destination.

Monsoon season had aroused me to express sentimentality.

Nevertheless, I know that I should not—it displays a vain and apathetic craft. Frankly, however, I’m still trying to work on my senseless romanticism.

Rain had always fascinated me especially during my late teenage years. Alongside the cold breeze, there were cup of coffee and good book. Eventually, I would be motivated to put saccharine words on a paper. Now, I have sworn that I should not waste my creativity only on personal benefit since I am aware that words contain a power to fix the turmoil in our current state. My maudlin thoughts are thus undeniably futile.

Furthermore, I also vowed to myself that after college, I would initiate (or at least attempt and practice) writing pieces in my vernacular tongue. Language holds similar ability in resolving the present issues as well. Hence, imagine the substance of such writing for this reality.

I’m working on it, really. I may have posted some sentimental writings here but I’m still trying to fulfill my word. Soon, when I’m ready, this space will not be that useless anymore. This will be filled of writings, and not only during the monsoon season.