introduction When we create something, it is a proof of our existence. It is painted by colors and by a myriad of emotions embedded between the lines that preserve our experiences. We also capture these lingering moments, extending their impressions before they are lost. The Squire Publication presents these creations in Meraki, a collection of literary pieces, artworks, and photography of the Xavier University Senior High School community. However, a portfolio is not complete without a theme. Taken from a Latin philosophical proposition by René Descartes, Ergo Sum, the folio’s theme is directly translated as “therefore I am” which is further anchored on three subjects. Euphoria. Students have created and captured stories of themselves overcoming fear, emptiness, heartbreaks which ultimately led them to a state of complete happiness.
Emergence. Once the euphoria sets in, various emotions emerge in the afterglow. The absence of euphoria also beckons a separate set of feelings. From satisfaction to frustration, each one has a story to tell—a feeling to express in the infinite realm of creativity. Eureka. After a state of euphoria and emergence, we reflect on experience. Existence itself opens various points of revelation. Remember, self-discovery is always a triumphant facet in telling a story. There is more to Meraki than being a mere compilation of works. It is growing just as the stories of the XUSHS community are evolving. Unearth the mysteries of existence piece by piece and find your answer to the question: Who are you? The individuality or the love that you express in your crafts can be crafted by the hands or captured by the lens. When it emerges from the fruit of passion, it is art—whether it is painted by words, lines or colors. It serves as a vessel for an overflow of emotions that are wanting to be expressed by writers, artists, and photographers alike.
after the scream By Kyle Isabelle P. Francisco
clothes By anon
Every morning I carefully pick out an outfit. Right there, smack dab in the front of my wardrobe is a bright red shirt—clean and cut to fit me just right. I wear it too much, but I don’t think I have it in me to stop. The brand on the tag reads Insecurity. Behind that is a sweater that’s been with me for a while but still manages to look brand new and feel like a million bucks. It’s kind of clingy, but I can live with it. The left shoulder boasts a label in bold letters—Inferiority Complex. Designer jeans with roses embroidered onto its hems are folded neatly, placed on the top shelf for easy access. This one is special. My parents got it for me on my ninth birthday, and I’ve kept it ever since. The tagline written down the side of a pant leg reads Never Good Enough. Way in the back is an old, threadbare pea coat that has the insulation of toilet paper. It’s a good but rare brand, and I haven’t been able to find another one.
This one’s a Confidence piece. There’s a patched-up hat, the brim of it faded in colour. It’s ripped in places, and it doesn’t really do a good job of keeping the sun out. The word SelfWorth is written on its head in loopy letters. My socks were a splurge—limited edition pieces from the Happiness clothing line—and a luxury item I probably won’t be able to afford again. But even calling them socks is generous, what with all the holes and the questionable stains. It’s a shame I never really took proper care of them. I should probably buy new things, replace a few old ones and change the look a little bit, but I treasure these clothes. They’re a part of my identity, and I don’t think I could go anywhere without them.
5:47 pm
Captured by Caryll Apostol
isang tala By Kevin Matthew N. Pacana Sa unang iglap ng mata, ako’y pursigidong ika’y maabot at makuha. Ning-ning mo’y tanaw sa karamihan, taglay mo’y kapurihan at kagalakan. Marami ang iyong nabihag—sumubok at nabigo. Umuwing luhaan, pagod at tulala dulot ng sinag na iyong dala. Ako rin ay sumubok, kamay ko’y aking inabot, ilang beses ika’y tinangkang dukutin kaya’t kay Bathala’y ako’y nagbabasakali. Ako’y napaisip at napagtanto kung ako’y magpapatuloy, baka uuwi lamang ako na bigo sa huli. Kamay ko’y aking ibinaba tulad ng talulot ng mayabong rosas na pula.
ako ay mapapaisip at magtatanong, “Paano kaya kung ang tala’y aking naabot?” Ngunit hindi ko alam ang kasagutan. Sumubok at nabigo pero may karunungang nabatid. Ako’y karaniwan lamang para maabot ang talang inaasam. Darating ang panahon na ang tala ay makakamtan. Pero sa ngayon? Ako ang tala na kumikinang sa sariling kalawakan.
Sa mapayapang pastulan ako’y humiga, sabay ng maginaw na simoy ng gabi, ako’y muling nabihag, napaasa at nangarap ng husto. Pero tama na, tama na. Ako muna ay magpapahinga. Darating ang oras na
magna mater domination anima By Renee R. Chico
amaryllis
By Sophia Carl V. Carretas
desiderata ng mga umaasa By Angelica Marie A. Naelga
Liking someone and hoping for them to like you back will never be bad. What makes it bad is when you make a fool out of yourself and sacrifice your ego into the pit of shame. So heed my words, I have warned you– busa gani crush ra, kay naay possibility na atong feelings ma-crush pud. There are three things, kita mga gaasa, must keep in mind: Una, hindi kahit kailan naging mali ang maging masaya
To love is free, at ang pagmamahal ay malaya. Credit the feeling, the lingering sensation, Si crush ang motivation, pati inspiration.
Ikaduha, ayaw jud ug ka-bwisit kung si crush naay uban nga lain. Remember, mga dzai ug dzong, know your limits; Wala na gani’y kamo, ikaw pa ang malain. Ikatulo, prepare for pain. Make sure you keep your emotions sane. Kapag ang sinisinta ay hindi na makita, tiyak masaya na siya sa piling ng iba. Umasa at your own risk. Hoping allows us to explore the realms and long list of possibilities that our feelings desire. However, it also entails a long list of uncertainties where our heart is at stake. Always remember: Ga-asa ra tuod ta, pero ‘di sad ta magpakatanga.
5:47 am
Captured by Caryll Apostol
stranger By anon
Early July and you’re a Stranger, just come back down from the heavens It’s the little things that make you different Like the way the sun’s tanned your cheeks, the clouds that’ve blown your posture up. The light highlights your face and chases away shadows Been a while since I’ve looked in a mirror and you shouldn’t look as alien as you do but there you are It’s late September and you’re Familiar, going through the motions of a fairy tale Your shoulders stoop inward like a witch’s Self-depreciating laughter claws its way out of your throat A dragon called dread curls up in your belly and spews puffs of smoke and failure and, There is no knight to come slay it. Only you, the dragon, and the cloying inability to breathe. It’s November. You’re Frustrated. You stretch out in a frozen wasteland. Paper grades come and go and fall like snow. Disappointment creeps across a frosted lake, the cold reaching everywhere.
In the silence of this wasteland you complain and you can’t stand the sound of your own voice But realizations and regret come with the silence The fear of mediocrity is a cloak you’ve wrapped around your shoulders The need to improve is fire but you’re sitting too close and there are blisters in your skin It’s December and you’re a Stranger again, one dressed in green and red The alien look is back and I can’t put my finger to it but there’s something not right in the way you smile. Contentedness makes you soft Your lips curve back too much, too genuinely, The carols are loud enough to drown out everything else somehow though, it feels quiet. Emptier than the wasteland, more useless. The Stranger is fun but she unnerves me and I wait for her to leave. It’s somewhere around February and you’re Tired. But you’re Familiar too. I map out your sunken eyes and I feel the comfort of home I trace the edges of your frown like a sailor on charted waters I let myself feel the fatigue on your spine And the pressure is nostalgic, almost. Warm, almost, I thought it was the Stranger, but I think I’m learning— This never-ending, crippling obsession with being better This Familiarity in constantly working for that brush of improvement —Is this your happiness? It must be. You spend so much time chasing it that it must be.
it’s too loud downtown By Maria Victoria P. Tenido
Thursday night. A few minutes past seven. My heart dropped along with my phone after that last conversation with him; that is, if you could even call it a conversation. There were no words coming from him. There haven’t been any for the past few weeks or so. All I could hear on the other end of the line was Mama’s muffled sobbing. Pa, sagot ka na. Kinakausap ka ng anak mo, she was saying. The only thing I could make out from Papa were the sounds of strained, shallow breathing. It felt as though a brick wall was sitting on my chest, and that a vise had its claws around my throat. That night, I was struggling to breathe as much as he was. The malong he had given me already reeked of a horrible mix of sweat, snot, and tears—I couldn’t muster the strength to do tasks as mundane as laundry—but I no longer gave two damns. I used to avoid crying in my dormitory because I didn’t want to alarm my roommates. We weren’t that close in the first place. I haven’t been able to care less over the days as I made call after call after call hoping I’d be able to hear his voice—oh, that sweet raspy voice—filled with much vigor again.
uprising By Renee R. Chico
I’d been bawling my eyes out for God knows how long already. Acads had already severed a huge chunk of me. Not to mention, the insecurities that I’ve been locking away in the farthest depths of my mind were creeping up on me, along with that nagging voice telling me that I’ll never be enough and that I won’t amount to anything. Knowing that my father was suffering, that I’m not there by his side, and that there was practically nothing I could do about it was the last straw. I had to get out. I had to let it out. I jumped out of bed and changed out of the uniform that was about as worn as I have been. I put on my rubber shoes. It was going to be a long
night. I might as well be comfortable then. As soon as I was outside my room, everything turned into a dragging adrenaline-fueled blur. Walk. Walk. Walk. Find a place. Let it out. I felt more tears trail down the existing stains on my face. I felt a similar crawl slither down my arms until they were as numb as the rest of my being was. Walk. Walk. Walk some more. The streets only got darker, but everything was still too loud for me. Every single step I made had the weight of each and every burden bogging me down. None of the nearby cathedrals were open anymore. The parks I used to find solace in seemed all too chaotic. Where do I go from here? How do I shake this off? So I walked. And walked. And walked some more. Walking has always been something I found therapeutic. It was a habit my father introduced to me when I was younger. Whenever he’s bored, he’d go out and let his feet take him wherever. I took after the habit, allowing myself to get lost in thought in the middle of the humble city we lived in. But that night, I walked. I was lost, not in thought, but rather in the absence of it. My new city was already tucking itself to sleep. Why was everything still too loud? I’ve been walking for an hour or so. Why have I not calmed down yet? I walked. And walked. And walked until my legs and my limited knowledge of the ins and outs of the area could take no more. I took a deep breath and prayed to all the gods that could possibly hear my calls. I hope I hear something on the other end of the line this time.
mulat
By Pamela Erika J. Emano Yung mga naniniwala sa kasinungalingan ay may takot sa katotohanan Bakit ganito ang mga Pilipino sa ating gobyerno? Sa pag-usad ng makabagong panahon, patuloy tayong nagiging biktima at di maka ahon sa opresyon, korupsyon, at pagkawala ng dignidad. Mga problema’y laging dumadagdag Tayo’y kabataan, Tayo nga ay nakikibaka, Tayo na nga ang nakikialam, pero ang pagtingin sa atin ay parang musmos lamang Hinihila pababa dahil tayo’y bata pa. May panatag kami sa sariling bansa na palaging nadudurog at minamansa Hindi nga lahat taga bundok; ‘Di rin lahat nakatikim ng karahasan at bugbog. Konti lamang ang nakakapag-aral ng kalidad na edukasyon, ngunit karamihan ay naniniwalang may pag-asa pa, dahil ito’y may malaking misyon. Tayo’y nakatira sa kulturang hipokrito. Pero kapag namulat na sa katotohanan, kasalanan na pala ang pumikit. ‘Yan ang naging batas natin at sa puso’y nakaukit. Manahimik ka o patatahimikin ka? Takot ba sila o galit na masimhoy nang lahat ang katiwaliang patuloy na tinatanim sa ating mga isipan? Pero laging tandaan, na ang pagiging walang alam ng karamihan, lalo na ng mga kabataa’y naging silbi ng walang humpay na problema ng ating bayan. Hindi mali ang lumaban; May mali kaya lumalaban.
waterFALL waterfall Captured by Caryll Apostol
Captured by Caryll Apostol
connotations By anon
In the wake of EDSA my father wanted to join the rallies They had on campus He knew he wanted to be part of a voice That would echo on out through history In the wake of Jake Zyrus coming out As transgender, my father sat me down and Explained to me why the people and the media were rallying against him He knew he wanted to be that voice That would change my view on history But sometimes I don’t understand why My father is careless with his words The word girlfriend leaves his lips so easily That it’s lightweight He doesn’t get the weight that word carries when I say it,
It is accepted until you see that there’s this veil of tolerance and that it’s just a joke to everyone’s ears except ours. Because it’s fine if it’s a punch line in a story. It’s not like it’s damaging the lives of so many people, right? Like the number of times people have had to cover up bruises and battery because we’re supposed to laugh it off… I mean, when you fire a gun at someone you expect them to bleed, but how come my father doesn’t see that his words are weapons he keeps tucked in his back pocket as a safety net to protect him from the things he doesn’t understand?
He doesn’t see that fear and ignorance control the world that we live in and that he is the fear in the back of my mind and ignoHe thinks that two girls holding hands is fine. rance is the thing that I pray for when I bring my girl friends over hoping he doesn’t see It’s fine until you realize that the girls holding that they’re girlfriends just holding hands. hands are holding on for dear life because I am not careless with my words they’re scared that if they let go no one else I always double check the safety and make will be there to make them feel safe—their sure it’s not aimed at anyone hands are the cradle in which they will build Because god knows I’m too afraid to kill. their own civilization. He thinks that two girls on a date is a fine-fun activity.
tanker
Captured by Caryll Apostol
Its fine until you realize they’re counting the dates until they think they can safely come out to their families hoping enough time has passed so their coming out will not overlook their achievements and what they’ve accomplished. He thinks that having girlfriends is accepted by everyone.
no more
By Audrey Louisse M. Castañares
narrowness
And perhaps, the dreams I dreamed when I was young could become a reality.
By Korrine Rica B. Amigo
But I was wrong, and it was impossible.
When I was a child, I thought the world had seemed so narrow.
Because instead of growing wider, the world turned smaller and uglier and crueler.
That within this narrow city, with narrow-minded people, believing in narrow-minded truths, I was the only one who ever saw something beyond that small, restricted tunnel. To escape this narrow place, I dreamed of wide dreams —dreams I thought were enough to leave behind the minuscule scope of everything. But I was wrong, and it was impossible. After all, I was just a child who believed that the world would, surely, become wider as an adult. That once I grew, the world would expand, and then it wouldn’t be so narrow anymore.
Now, I have stopped dreaming of dreams that are impossible, because dreams are meant for children who know nothing but still believe. That despite this narrow world, of narrow people, with narrow truths, there is something beyond the tunnel. Even though the truth was, there wasn’t. And the reality was when you grew, the world doesn’t expand, it only gets narrower.
dawn
Captured by Christinine Baleta
them on a ride as well. Will I be handsome? Will I be rich? and in the same way their grandpa used to, I would sing tenderly:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera.
que sera, sera By Maria Victoria P. Tenido
When I was just a little girl, Papa would sing me songs to keep me entertained or to send me to sleep. I never questioned why; I just sang along to the best of the abilities little toddler in me had. Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? were questions that never crossed my mind then, but those words would come out of my mouth solely because I enjoyed the high that singing gave me. Plus, it was such a sweet and wholesome song, and I don’t think I’d ever get tired of singing:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera. When I was young and fell in love, I didn’t tell Papa about it. I never told him about who I liked, much less about liking anyone at all. He always told me not to get a boyfriend until I finished schooling. “No boyfriend? What about a girlfriend then?” I jokingly said once. Well, I wasn’t exactly joking, but I assume he took it that I was. He laughed and told me to go ahead then. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about me suddenly bearing a child, he added. Will I have rainbows day after day? I never got to ask, but to that I say:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera. When I have children of my own, they’ll ask their mother about their grandpa. They’d hear the most wonderful stories of our adventures—both in real life and in our own little world—and I’d take
As I stood beside Papa’s casket, I saw a small thin man. His appearance was far from the way he looked when I last visited him, and that was only a month ago. He was tired, anyone could tell, but the way his face aired a sense of calm tells me he didn’t struggle in his final hours; that he finally got his long-deserved rest. As I stood beside his casket, I still found it hard to wrap my mind around the thought that he is actually gone; that this wasn’t just some twisted dream or simulation; that all of this was real. I must’ve gone through the six degrees of grief so quickly that I failed to actually feel any of them properly. As I stood beside his casket, and saw the pain in my little brother’s eyes, I remembered that I had to carry on with the mission he had. He used to tell me that his mission was to see me grow up responsible enough to take care of myself and of my younger brother, and that his mission would end as soon as he realized I was already capable of doing so. I now have to fulfill that mission of looking after that not-so-little boy anymore. I still can’t believe the moment has arrived. It still hurts. I suppose that some things just have to happen. I suppose I just have to accept that. As I stood beside Papa’s casket, I sang:
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera.
viridescent
Captured by Christinine Baleta
pathway
Captured by Christinine Baleta
night cat placebo
By Korrin Rica B. Amigo
“Hello. Good evening,” said the cat politely. “Good evening,” I replied with the same tone. The cat slinked across the shadows, blending in the semidarkness as it moved. It jumped down from the roof ledge and settled itself on the other end of the railing where I leaned on. After rubbing its head with its paws, it looked up at me. “You aren’t surprised,” it observed quietly. “Of what?” “The fact that I can speak.” I blinked, the thought just crossing my mind. It was sometime in the middle of the night, and I had stepped outside the balcony earlier for a breath of fresh air. The occasional breeze was frigid, the chill clinging to my skin. Above, the sky was a glittering expanse of stars that dimly illuminated the otherwise bleak view. There was no moon. I looked at the cat and managed to breathe out a reply. “… Oh. Right.” The cat purred. It narrowed its heterochromatic eyes—one a deep blue and the other a bright gold—and spoke again, “You’re an interesting human.” “And you’re a really weird cat,” I said. “You talk.” It flicked its tail. “All cats can talk.” “Not like humans.” “But what if we all can?” “That would be impossible.” “If you say that, does that mean you’re denying our conversation right now?” “No,” I thought about it for a moment. “There are many possible explanations. I could be dreaming, for one. Or I could be hallucinating.” The cat rested its head on top of its paws, regarding me thoughtfully. “Yes. That may be so.” I rubbed my shoulders as a breeze blew by, bringing with it a quietness that settled around us. I listened as silence kept its steady rhythm, neither me or the cat willing to break its tune. After a few seconds, I slowly breathed out. “Hey cat, can you stay with me tonight?” I asked quietly. “Just until I feel sleepy. Or until morning comes. We can talk about anything. Or
not talk at all. Just, keep me company. You aren’t busy, are you?” The cat didn’t give an immediate reply. Seconds came and went. “You’re lonely,” it stated. I paused, not expecting that answer. “…I think so.” “Loneliness. A universal curse.” “Do cats feel lonely too?” “Everyone feels loneliness at some point.” “Even a cat?” “Even a cat.” I thought about this. “Tell me, how did you stop feeling lonely?” The cat purred quietly. “I didn’t.” I hadn’t expected to hear the sound of sadness laced in its tone. My tongue failed me and I couldn’t find the right words to answer. The cat seemed to have noticed my uneasiness and shook its head in an almost human-like gesture. “Don’t be troubled. As I told you, it’s a universal curse. You, I, and others alike. We are all lonely, because no one can ever understand another completely. Because no words or phrases can possibly make someone comprehend what the other is trying to convey. But that’s that, and nothing can be done.” “…Nothing can be done,” I repeated, whispering under my breath. “That… sounds terrible.” The cat nodded, “Most truths are terrible.” I sighed. “So then, are you implying that this loneliness will probably last forever?” “Not necessarily,” the cat said. “You can always ask for someone to keep you company. Like me.” “But you won’t stay with me forever.” “And neither will you.” That made me silent. “You must understand this truth,” the cat said quietly, “not everyone will remain, and you are the same. But that is how it is, and nothing can be done. All you can do is to wait for someone else to arrive and hope they stay longer. They will be the ones who’ll remain even after they leave you.” “That sounds complicated,” I confessed. “Indeed.” A wind drifted past us. None of us spoke. I sighed again. “Hey, cat?” “Yes?”
“So, my request... can you keep me company tonight—for now?” The cat tilted its head. “Yes, of course,” it said, sharing a private smile before continuing with the rest of its answer,
“... For now.”
doubt of my existence By Marion Alexandra Alaba
One day, I opened my eyes and questioned, are all these that my vision could reach just lies? Is the sound of the wave that pacifies really the comfort to cover these mistakes and unsuccessful tries? Inarguably, the fish swims freely, but have you ever wondered if it wishes to fly out of the sea? There are questions buried under the unconscious mind that knock during the freezing of time. Seconds and minutes pass, I commence to wonder who was the beginning of the past. I doubt if I’m truly part of this day or just one of the ideas a creator will never say. Perhaps, I am just an imagination conceived by the God of creation. But again, I doubt since I think, therefore I am. I know there’s nothing I must worry about.
Layout by: Kevin Matthew N. Pacana Circulation: 1500 copies
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Publishers Levina Eunice Palarca Subscribing students of Xavier University Senior High Jeri Marie P. Tabiliran School Evan Rey B. Aceret Vea Crystine Anne L. Gawingan Editorial Board Ellah Therese Maglangit Maria Victoria T. Tenido Editor-in-chief Hyacinth L. Premacio Maria Alessandra R. Talja Associate Editor-in-Chief Amanda Marie B. Hora Managing Editor Photojournalists Eric Noel B. Jabagat Design Editor Murielle Desiree V. Cocjin Jorge Jesus S. Balbon Layout editor Christinine Joy Baleta Earl Joy B. Lopina News Editor Mary Nyn Heruela Alyssa Kaye B. Oche Features Editor Annika Julia Encarnacion Arvin Jay C. Gadian Literary Editor Christianne Cabrera Caryll M. Apostol Photography Editor Theresa Veronica Sanchez Audrey Louisse M. Castañares Freehand Editor Freehand Artists Managers Jeanny Pearl Jungoy Francis Elijah M. Tutanes Office Manager Mary Lawrence Saldua Rachel Ann F. Alvarez Human Resource Manager William Jr. Galleros Kyle Angela B. Daroy Circulations Manager Jasmin Jane Pong Dominic Joaquin Dublado Online Accounts Melanier John Viado Manager Mary Anne Teleron Thobie Josh A. Capinig Computer Systems Manager Kaye Arabela C. Ebuña Finance Manager Layout Artists Kevin Matthew N. Pacana Staff Writers Lloyd Elton C. Yu Jarrah Francine Zaballero Maea Kaye Carriedo Moderator Queenie Heart Lozada Ms. Candy Grace M. Castañares
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