THE ODYSSEY ISSUE NO. 01
The Odyssey | 1
The Westwaves Literary Folio
Volume 01 Issue 01 June 2021
ABOUT THE COVER Life submerges us in a sea of challenges. As we grow older, we venture into its depths, where the light begins to fade. While, terror, and anxiety penetrate the seams of our conscience, we begin to struggle amongst the pressure and the uncertainty of the deep, we become wary of the things that we cannot see, the things that hide in the dark – we begin to fear. And yet, under currents that hold insurmountable pressure, life, and even light, finds a way to thrive in the twilight depths. Someway, somehow, it may come to each of us differently, but there will always be a way to triumph over the trials and tribulations that we face in life. Cover art by Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
The Odyssey Literary Folio Volume 01 Issue 01 © Copyright 2021 The Odyssey Literary Folio is the official publication of literature and arts of The Westwaves, under the authority of the PAREF Westbridge School, Inc. All comments and suggestion may be sent through: The Westwaves Office PAREF Westbridge School, Inc. Magsaysay Village, La Paz, Iloilo City westwavespub@parefwestbridge.edu.ph
Introduction
“Riptides are strong, offshore currents that are caused by tides pulling
water through inlets along the shores. The currents can sweep even the strongest swimmers out to sea, overcoming their efforts, and ultimately drowning them, left to sleep with the fishes. They are deadly, they are real, and they can be metaphorically attributed to the troubles we face in life.
As humans, we seek what pleases us, so when we end up frolicking at
last amongst the pleasures of life, sometimes, we let our guard down, and we are abruptly, and viciously pulled into deep depths that we may not return from. That is the riptide of life. It is instinctual that we fight directly against it, to struggle towards the shore, but such an action is a farce, we cannot resist a riptide this way. There are only two ways to resist a riptide: one – swim parallel to the shore – or two – remain calm, because the riptide could set you on a path back to safety.
Like in the event of a real riptide, we can use the same strategies when
faced with the riptides of life. When we are faced with adversities, it is not always ideal to fight against it directly, rather, we should remain calm, and tackle our problems with a stoic, but determined fire. As you journey through the pages of this literary folio, you will see the many riptides that try to pull us away from life, and you will see the stories of those who fought against them and survived.”
Reeno Miguel Arcones Editor-in-Chief
Digital Art:
Reeno Miguel Arcones
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Poetry/ Tula The Odyssey | 7
Photo:
Rommel Terante
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The Summit By Hyle Daduya
A mountain with a height that seems unconquerable a steep and dangerous one that seems impossible where every step is challenge, I need to conquer in order to reach the summit, the goal I’m after But there are obstacles that comes in the way That makes my goal seem farther away. From this perilous wall I climb upon I constantly lose my grip, just barely holding on The adversities and trials in my life Are inflicting scars, cutting deeper than a knife. Things look bleak when I get stranded As my body feels numb and exhausted The higher I go, the bitter is the taste of failure A sense of displeasure filled frustration and anger I continue to fall and fall again, continuing to agonize But just like the sun, every day I will rise. My perseverance is my greatest weapon And my failures have become my greatest lesson I become stronger every time I fail And I will always continue until I prevail. Because people are forged through the fires of adversity Experiencing pressure and being melted atrociously In order for us to become stronger and tougher And tackle the challenges in life we will encounter.
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Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
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The Wanderer By Justin Emmanuel Bautista
Two peculiar paths diverged my way. A crossroad, where anxiety came into play, a wrong footstep, which direction might lead me astray? It would take courage to walk away, but curiosity will destroy my day. Doubtful decisions result in unwanted conclusions, so I chose my instinct to guide my way.
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Sailing through the Years By Marcus Pranga
A boat that began as a vessel That’s where it all began The values needed to build it Was used strengthen and nurture it Sailing and fighting against the chaotic tides Yet the service of its men, set it all aside Do men do this out of fear or integrity ? But one thing is for sure they’re not just witty but also gritty Now it has safely sailed through the years Helping its men in conquering their fears Always defending what is right In order to keep its light bright Setting the values and foundation In order for its men to build a better nation Although evil and vices are present Our men will resent from these and will always be decent We are the blueprint for tomorrow Our next of kin we should nurture Preserving our school’s culture Which our descendants should follow Challenges may come along the way These may make our missions and visions sway But we must not be affected and go away In order for our ship to sail another day
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Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
One day when we are grey and old Our stories will be told But until that day comes Let’s see what we and our ship can become Our integrity will never be taken Service and competence never forsaken Although our days may darken But with these values it will always brighten After many years, we return and step foot in this ship Tears from our eyes may drip Remembering how we sailed this ship Always doing what seemed fit
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Remembering Him By Matthew Vito-Cruz
“Look at me”, my dad used to say. When every moment seems dire. He would say this line. However, it does not refer to him entirely. I am reminded of the time he first said it to me. So tender and young. Where I was learning and learning. Whenever trouble comes upon me. I remind myself with this line. Wherever time passes. At each moment of my life. In my mind. I remember this line. It is true that it does not refer to him. Rather. It refers to someone divine.
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Hi By Marcus Pranga
“Hi my name is Marcus” I muttered those words with sheer confidence With a hint of arrogance Although with no experience, I risk it all for a chance I approached yet I hesitate Since I feared it might have been too late Knowing there was no given alternate I grasp Cupid’s bait “Hi, you’re from ISA right ?” As I tried to bring life into this awkward conversation Afterward, I made a realization This was the beginning of my damnation I looked at her eyes A pair of stars that sparkled amidst daylight Mirrors which reflected her thoughts As she muttered to herself, “Who is this young man?” After an exchange of words or two She bade her goodbyes Bye A word that closed off a door One look was all it took, for me to fall for you My heart stuck to you like a well-made glue Yet all this time you had no clue Of how much I admired you A mystery to me Yet, why did I like you ? Was it because of your looks or personality ? That I cannot say since we haven’t met since that day
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Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
Then COVID struck This was a time for me to reflect on thoughts that were stuck I kept telling myself what if, what if But they were all what if’s to the past The cold sweat covers my head at 4 in the morning As I awake from that dreadful memory Yet, I still hold on to it Maybe it’s because I still hope for another chance Yes, a second chance A second chance to say “Hi,my name is Marcus” Another opportunity for me to get to know you Suddenly, I revert to reality I liked her Liked, not loved Just how Pygamalion admired Galatea You were simply a person for me to view from afar
Sharp eyes that pierced through my soul It left an unfillable hole My heart ached for someone like you Yet I knew fairytales never come true With a deep sigh, I slowly began to realize How much my love for you was a lie My admiration for you slowly began to die It was all just a sudden infatuation My heart was meant for another life, as our stars refused to align Somehow I got over her I guess she was just a phase To help me get through those confused and difficult days Although it was our first and last exchange That moment will remain with me forever and always Yet, I still wonder if I could have another chance with her
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Bangon By Joshua Pagmanua
Sa madilim na sulok ako ay nakakubli Tangan-tangan ang siphayo ng aking paligid Nauutal Nabibingi Nalulunod sa kanilang mga sinasabi Mga salitang katumbas ay saksak sa aking dibdib Silbi ay hindi mawari Ano nga ba ako? Sa lipunang mahirap tumanggap at magbago Ngunit Mula sa madilim na sulok, natutunang tumayo mula sa pagkakubli Kung saan siphayo ng aking paligid ay unti-unting nawawaglit Mula sa mga saksak sa aking dibdib, natutunan ng unahin ang sarili Nalunod man sa kanilang mga sinasabi, natutunang umahon Bitbit ang mga karanasang aking natipon Sa pagkakataong ito, Maglalakbay handa sa anumang hamon Walang alinlangan, ako ay muling babangon Hindi na para sa kanila Kundi para sa sarili ko na
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Balang Araw By Joshua Pagmanua
Ako ay may pangarap Babaguhin ang kinalakihang bansa Bawat yapak ay mag-iiwan ng bakas Kabataan ang panghuhugutan ng lakas Daan man ay malabo’t delikado tahakin Likod man ay dagan ng mga problema at suliranin Kahit ako man ay nabibingi sa kanilang mga sinasabi Mananatiling matapat sa puso at hangarin Mga pananaw man ay negatibo at mapanghusga Mata man nila’y mapang-usig at ako’y nahihila pababa Patuloy ipagsisigawan ang nararapat Susulong sa kaunlaran, bansa ay iaangat Ako ay may pangarap at ipapangako gagawin ang lahat Pagbabago man ay malayo ngunit makakamtan Sa unang hakbang, pangarap ay sisimulan Itaga sa bato, ito ay maisasakatuparan
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Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
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Hakuna Matata By Thom Dave Loja
Sa kadiliman, ang anino’y matamlay Walang tugon sa tunog ng mga panaghoy Isang bagay na tumatakbo na may tatlong kamay Kumakatok sa tenga ko ng walang humpay Katahimikan… Dug-dug ng dibdib ay may gustong ipahiwatig Parang propetang may gustong iparinig Sumasabay sa lagaslas ng ilog sa talon Dug-dug -- tunog ng pagkatok sa kahoy ng tatlong beses Ang mga ingay ay tuluyang humina Katahimikan… Mula sa kuweba ng buhay at sa takbo ng oras Pagtibok ng puso at rumaragasang talon Ang mapagbadyang daluyong ay hindi nakakaabala Hindi ito delubyo, ‘pagkat ito’y paalala na merong bahaghari pagkatapos ng ulan
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Hatinggabi By Joshua Pagmanua
Mata’y pagod Ngunit mga guni-guni’y hindi maigaod Bawat segundo, dibdib ay kumakabog Umihip ang hangin, kasabay ng pagnginig ng aking tuhod Ulo --- pakiramdam ko ay sasabog Bawat araw Tuwing hatinggabi Samantalang mundo’y tahimik Tuhod ay naka-pike, tainga ay nakatakip Walang bukambibig, damit ay basa ng pawis Sa oras na lahat ay nakapikit Ako lamang ang hindi
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Photo:
Rommel Terante The Odyssey | 25
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Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela The Odyssey | 27
Digital Art:
Reeno Miguel Arcones 28 | The West Waves
Flash Fiction/ Dagli The Odyssey | 29
D Day Calculus is about to end. Homework is being given as preparation for the finals next week. Exactly right before lunch, the moment everyone’s hunger is satiated, Principal Ramos enters the room. With his meek voice and my classmates’ loud whispers, I couldn’t hear the announcement. I was getting my lunchbox while everyone else was seemingly ready to go home with their backpacks already worn. It was the day Corona broke out.
Flash Fictions:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
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Too Late My mom and dad hug and kiss me every day. I don’t know why, but it makes them cry. They filled me with emotions, yet they won’t know it since it’s only my picture before I died.
Play Staring outside by the window, I gasped for the breeze that can be heard from far away. “Ah… what a great day to play outside,” I thought to myself – only if it was possible.
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Leaps My breath staggered, my heart quickened, my toes close to the ledge. The breeze was chilling cold. I wanted to fall and let go. No, I don’t, but maybe I do. “¡-ḣḤẏʋ`0÷z!gṡM:C×ȧ⁾ẉwẸḌ²⁴Ȧẇ:Ị§Vḷ¶~Ƒ» I looked back, with my heart on my throat. One foot was on the air, the other on the concrete pavement. I sucked the air as though my last. Tears well up in my eyes. I hope this was the right decision. “ZeṣⱮSỌf<ɦẊ» I fell. I closed my eyes. I soared through the air. My feet touched the end of the zipline-track.
Flash Fictions:
Ian Zeph Valderrama
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Life for Some For mister M and his constituents, life is a four-cornered room with white walls, no ceiling, and maybe a white bed and four pillows. There are many doors out. Some leave, but most remain. It was a monotonous existence. There was nothing to do but look again and again and see the same and same. Everything was as it always is, but the sky - the only everchanging, but still white. By happenstance, however, M would see a cloud so different that no words could describe it. It would never pass by, nor would he try to forget; life less dull.
Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
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Moment I Knew “No!” she said. Tears fell as I blankly stared at her gaze. Soon after, she knelt and held my hand, looked in my eye and said, “Don’t give up on me.” It was short, but she was genuine.
Sparring Session “I’m coming!” she said. As she approached performing her signature move, her sweat travelled up to the ends of her forehead down her throat and on my skin. The next thing I knew, her body was on top of mine. I can feel the warmth of her palm pressed toward my chest together with the faint sound of her heart beating and her breath gasping for air.
Then she looked straight into my eyes and suddenly muttered, “Another round?”
Flash Fictions:
Joshua Pagmanua
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Scratched Canvas “Describe your marriage in one word?” “Satisfaction,” said the giddy husband. “Struggle,” she thought to herself.
Inner Demons “You’re worthless” says a distant voice in the hallway. Feels like only yesterday when I felt I was well until a bunch showed up to tell me how I wasn’t.
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Preparation “Get ready!” I woke up from a loud shout and bolted out from under my sheets to grab an empty bag. By the entrance of our house, I rushed to greet my brother, Jay, my mother, and my father. We then entered the car and, upon hearing the engine, my heart started to beat faster...it started to feel heavy-- and then the dawn broke out into a bloody red, waking me up to see my arms hooked to an IV and my legs wrapped in casts. At least, it was better than waking up in a coffin.
Test Reeri sighed and looked out of the window while looking at his own reflection on the glass pane. It-- “Reeri, the professor has been calling your name for a while now!” his friend snapped him back to reality. “But, wait...What was I thinking about again--” his thoughts were interrupted yet again not because of the teacher but instead a sudden heaviness he felt. “And that concludes attendance. Now, the test!” Reeri then bolted to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. What he saw on the reflection stood a glitchy framework of a mess. How could he have forgotten?
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Time I kept running, knowing one day I would stop.
Flash Fictions:
Keith Kendrick Velez
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Digital Story:
Linus Josef Leonida 38 | The West Waves
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Maling Akala Pagpatak ng gabi, pumatak rin ang ulan. Inakala ay panilong sapat na ngunit kahit langoy kulang pa pala.
Napundi Na Rumagasa ng rumagasa hanggang aninag ko na ang pagsikat ng araw. Humupa na ang sigaw ng mga tao ngunit ang pangamba ay hindi pa. Sa kalawanging yero, ako ay nakatuntong. Sa malayo, tanaw ko ang ilog na dati’y kapatagan. Sa isang gabi, sa isang kisapmata, di lang ang ilaw ang napundi na.
Mga Dagli:
Joshua Pagmanua
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Hulyo Atrenta Single Layp “On my own, pretending she’s beside me.” Biglang huminto ang pag-ikot ng cassette kasabay ng aking pagmumuni-muni kasama sa kanta. Sa isang sandali, dinig ko na lamang ang tunog ng dambana ng simbahan na tila hinuhugot ako papalapit dito. Nanay ko pala yun. Sumisigaw. May Utos.
Ika-30 ng Hulyo. Alas-sais ng gabi. Bitbit ang dalawang piraso ng sigarilyo at isang bote ng beer, ako ay pumunta sa daang pinapagigitnaan ng bahay namin at ng poste ng MERALCO. Ako ay sumandal sa dingding sa tabi ng nakasinding kandila sa gilid ng daan. Ako ay pumikit. Nagdasal at bumulong sa sarili: “Tatlong taon na ‘tay. Tatlong taon.” Doon ko natantong kahit sisiw ay di kayang pabilisin ang hustisyang hinahanap ko.
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Agila Malaya ang agilang pumapainlanlang kahit bato’y nakatali sa mga kuko.
Mga Dagli:
Jero Marion Gallinero
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Ilaw “Nak, matulog kana! Madaling araw na ay gising ka pa!” Palahaw ng ina nang mapansing silid na lamang ng anak ang bukas ang ilaw. “Maya-maya na ‘ma. May ginagawa pa ako.” “Puro ka na lang laro. Hindi ka titigil ng hindi ka mamamatay sa puyat, ano?” Walang imik si Jose. Makalipas ang ilan pang pindot sa keyboard, huminga siya ng malalim. “Hay salamat! Natapos rin.” Sabay turn in sa Activity 3.6.
Ala-ala “28/50? Nakakahiya naman ng score mo. Ang baba naman. Nag-aral kaba talaga o sadyang mahina kalang?” kantyaw ni Eric kay Jovy matapos ibalik ng kanilang teacher ang Unit Test nila sa El Filibusterismo. Mga pulutong ng salitang nag-iwan ng ala-alang tumatak kay Jovy. “Kay sarap balikan ng mga ala-ala,” pagtatapos ni Jovy sa kanyang mahabang valedictory address sabay ngisi kay Eric na sa pinakadulong upuan ng mga nagsipagtapos.
Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
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Digital Art:
Rafael Martin Prudente
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Digital Art:
Rafael Martin Prudente
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Digital Art:
Reeno Miguel Arcones 46 | The West Waves
Short Stories
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Siopao By Josh Winse Yap
The siopao is an iconic Fil-Chi hot bun that originally came from the Cantonese steamed bun called cha siu bao. There are many types of siopaos found all over the Philippines with a wide variety of flavors coming from chopped pork or chicken to a creamy chocolate filling. Pedro was a siopao store owner for 70 years already. He had been keeping the iconic warm bun booming in the streets of Iloilo for over 50 years already, with his father starting up the small business in the 1950s. Everybody in the city knew of his bright white bread filled with pork asado, and anyone from Iloilo remembered grabbing one on their way to their job or to school, and since it was open 24/7, it was a great snack to munch on in the coldest of nights. The siopao was quite simple yet it became such a classic from Ilonggos that it was engraved in everybody’s tongue and mind. The corona virus impacted everybody, from overseas workers to restaurant shops, nobody was an exception and some stores have closed out already due to the lack of customers and income and Pedro’s siopao store was no special case. Pedro had a hard time reaching his daily quota, and most of the time, his buns would still be there at the end of the night, wherein a normal day, it should be all gone. Regardless of the problems, Pedro stayed true to his father’s will, and that was to always produce the perfect siopao and that it should be warm, soft and pleasing to the tongue. One day, a nurse passed by his store, she looked tired and hungry too, as we all know - Health workers, nurses, doctors and frontliners are working hard to combat this pandemic and the virus strained even the most trained professionals.Pedro did not hesitate to hand out his lovely siopao, even giving her two just for the sake that she would not get hungry.
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“Baydi lang ko kung magkita ta liwat ah!” Pedro said.
The nurse smiled as she was getting ready to board the bus to the hospital, and she waved goodbye to Pedro. Several weeks later, things were the usual, but Pedro felt sick - difficulty of breathing, headaches, and cold. He passed out on a Monday morning where coincidentally, the same nurse passed the store and saw Pedro, helplessly lying in the ground. She called an ambulance and stayed with Pedro, making sure he was alright and was given the proper care. Arriving in the hospital, he had the corona virus and if it wasn’t for the nurse, his condition could have worsened and would fatally die if not given the proper attention. Pedro did not have any relatives and was in a financial problem, he could not pay the medical fees that the hospital provided. However everyone in the hospital was aware of who he was, a man in the next cubicle with her daughter even volunteered to pay for his medical bills and even said: “Dumduman kopa sang una gutom-gutom sa akon kag wala ko kwarta pang balon pero gin gaan mo ko gyapon. Te pag kadto ko sa school busog ko. Pedro cried as he remembered all throughout the year. He never disregarded a customer and always gave them the quality siopao, and more importantly he did not shoo away any beggars or street children who were begging in his store. He gave them food and care.
As Pedro cried, the words of his father passed through his ears.
“Indi gid pagkalimiti na mag bulig sa isig mo katawo. Biskan malain pana sila kay ang siopao biskan ano pa nga tao ang matilaw, parehos man gyapon- manamit kag busog.”
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Digital Art:
Rafael Martin Prudente 52 | The West Waves
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Lazarus in His Lonesome By Reeno Miguel Arcones
Sunlight seeped through the dust-battered window blinds of the small chapel, draping the girl, who sat alone, in a morbid twirl of shadows. Etched upon her face was a visage undecipherable to the layman, though those who could read the room knew that she could not be anything but woeful. After all, a wake was no place for frolic, let alone one held in a Godless world. The longcase time-teller rung its noon-time bells a few hours ago. That is to say it was around the middle of the afternoon. She had been sitting there for a while now, watching the candlelight flicker around the coffin, and the occasional griever who paid their respects at the foot of the altar. There, her mother lay within the big darkwood coffin that was set at the center, with another smaller, similar one set alongside it. Neither had the lacquer or the finish that was usually given to the dead deemed ‘higher’, but there were flowers at the very least. Surely Elia’s mother and baby sister, whom she had never got to meet, deserved as much, right? Her father didn’t. A hewer of coal, he was, and his wife, a drawer of water. Her father’s mine collapsed mere months ago, with him in it and a dozen other poor souls. There was no attempt to recover their bodies, far too deep and far too uncertain were the words said by the spokesperson, though ‘far too insignificant and far too cumbersome’ were the truer words that they withheld. As for Elia’s mother, the poor widow incubated both her life and death within her own bosom. At one point, as Elia sat pondering, she proposed in her mind that, perhaps, her father was better off not ever learning the fate of his partner, and what was when he was alive – his unborn child. She heard many stories similar to hers, stories of loss, and death, and not anything that Elia wanted to hear at the moment, or hopefully ever for that matter. Some stories were from friends and relatives, all told to her in solemnity, and all story-tellers sent to mollify. Elia paid scarce attention to those who came to try and conciliate her with stories of their own grief, instead, she preferred to listen to the ones who came to reminisce. The first of such: an inconsequential man.
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An acquaintance of her father, a miner himself, who was fortunate enough to be bed-stricken by sickness the day the mine collapsed, came to her at the beginning of the wake. Still dressed in his grey jumpsuit, mottled by the rage of the dust storm outside, he sat beside her, and they shared a silent moment of understanding before he spoke. He admitted that he didn’t know Elia’s mother personally, but he still came for two reasons. The first came as a duty to his old friend. The second was because he wanted to know if his old friend would still be survived, or if this was the end of his line. Elia presumed it was the facial features her father passed onto her that led the man here at this moment, though more probably, it was just because another guest at the wake had directed him to her during his search. Nonetheless, he got his answer, Elia was the last of her father’s line. She eventually learned that “Blackbeard” was the nickname her father had amongst his workmates. The miner let out a laughing rasp when he first told Elia about it. Her father’s goggles would always protect his eyes from the coal dust, but the shoddy masks would rarely work, and he would come out of the shafts with the top half of his face as clear as a baby’s skin, while the bottom was as dark as the depths of the mine itself. However, it was not the tales the man told that could pass as workplace banter that interested Elia the most, it was the tales the man told that caused him to stare absently into the distance, as if his memories had taken a life of their own and dragged him out of reality. The man’s solemn eyes gazed forward, meeting nothing in particular, as he recalled a memory of when he was a young boy, the first time he had met Elia’s father around four decades ago. They were schoolmates, delinquents he mentioned with a chuckle, and ‘damn near inseparable’ for a time. He recalled the afternoons where they would skip school in favour of their favourite pastime – loitering at the quays and throwing rocks at the rookeries that stood there, frolicking dangerously close to the water like two midget madmen and gaining deploring looks by the passersby, which of course, they couldn’t care less for. In the end, he mentioned that they weren’t special people, and the rest of his story was rather the same. There was nothing glorious in the following decades, no semblance of greatness, he said. They lived their lives one historically miniscule step at a time. Every laugh they shared observing the mild misfortunes of their teachers when they were still troublesome boys, to every near-death experience they shared working the coal mines, there was nothing grandiose about their lives, yet the man could still find a way to smile
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and cherish the past, as he did so vividly then. That was more or less what he had told Elia, but it was enough for him to receive a genuinely appreciative thanks. He left with a courteous nod, gave his final condolences, and left the chapel to, presumably, carry out his self-proclaimed, inconsequential existence. Still, even if that was the case, and it most likely was, it seemed that he did so contentedly with no ounce of strife. That conversation took place hours ago, yet Elia had circled back to the man’s words at least thrice since then (this would be the fourth). After all, she couldn’t help except to sonder, a niche quirk she developed when she was young. ‘An inconsequential man’ was how he referred to himself. The thought conjured curves that ghosted the edges of her lips, perhaps the closest she came to smiling since she had woken up today. Rarely are people truthful enough to admit their own insignificance, though whether they know it or not, often are these same people actually telling the truth. A rather intriguing contradiction, Elia would say so herself, hence the quaint amusement that crept across her face then. The man she met had lived much of his life slaving away in the depths of coal-seamed caves, with only menial wealth to his name, and had done nothing to garner the epithet of ‘great’, yet he, a stranger, was the first out of many to have gladdened a girl, who would otherwise be burying herself silently in an abundance of concealed sorrows. A feat like that was surely great enough, more so consequential! At the very least, that was what Elia thought. So, there she sat in the old chapel hall and its peeling, olive wallpapers, amongst a sparse group of strangers and acquaintances alike, a group wherein she found very few confidants, and even less friends. Here she contemplated upon her grief, and waited for the next straggling soul who would share the chore of mourning with her. A few guests would eventually go on to do so. It was almost always the usual exchange of consolations, followed by respective farewells. Nevertheless, Elia didn’t care much for these typical cases. She threw these conversations into a cerebral trash compactor, hidden in the depths of her brain, to be forgotten forever. It’s not like she was a prude about everything though (even if those who received any sense of it understood her circumstances and still took no offense), she still had the decency to give a genuine-
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ly grateful smile to everyone, especially when a young boy in a collared shirt and a flat cap, no older than eight, came trotting behind his just-as-humbly dressed parents. When they left shortly after, she couldn’t help but to wonder if a child that young could possibly grasp the implications of death. It was a morbid thing to think about, though this is a morbid world after all, and she just couldn’t help think about morbid things. That was, until a woman had interrupted her in her melancholy. Momentarily, her pensive face had enlightened at the familiar sight of her aunt, the same sentiment being reciprocated upon her as well. Though Elia was the last of her father’s line, she still had some relatives from her mother’s side. Her aunt, who had taken the initiative to sit beside her on the glossy church pew, was one of them. There were no greetings needed, an exchange of sober glances was enough to know that they carried a similar, solemn weight on their shoulders. They were close enough to understand each other, to feel comfortable with each other’s presence, and to consolidate a particularly rare bond between two people, of which had enabled them to engage in the wistful retrospection of life with no qualms about, and no misgivings to fear. That was how their engagement went. Time went by as they spoke with each other, both eventually becoming lost in wanderlust, venturing through the angstroms of memories held within their minds, and becoming immersed in a collection of bittersweet musings. For Elia’s aunt, she spent much of her words retelling stories of her admittedly chaotic, but always playful and loving past with her only sibling, younger by almost a decade or so. Just like any pair of sisters, they had their own quarrels throughout the years. The woman chuckled wryly as she recalled the many feuds they had. They would often find themselves fighting over typical and fickle things, like who had eaten all of the snacks for themselves, or who would neglect their chores the most; they had even come across a moment wherein they were both courting the same boy. Just as often as they fought, they would find their own resolution that was, as described by their mother, always profoundly unique to them. Though sisterly bickering was the common thing in their blood-bound lives, they also had their fair share of instances where they could not be anything but prouder to be family. And Elia’s aunt could only just grasp that she no longer walked upon the same ground as someone she loved so dearly.
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Elia remembers vividly how she caught her aunt’s gaze, and how little specks of light shimmered amongst her deep blue eyes. It was like watching the Leonids once more, a flurry of comets Elia used to watch scream across the night sky with her mother. That was a memory scantily held together in her youth. At that moment, little did Elia know that her Aunt had travelled the past sixteen years of their lives in mere seconds. She could still feel the warm ghost of her Aunt’s hand that placed itself on her soft cheek just some time ago, and she remembered her aunt muttering ‘Elia’ in a blissfully whispered tone. ‘You are God’s answer’ were the words she had spoken to a young girl in awe. After the woman sombrely laughed at her niece’s bewilderment, she went on to tell the story of Elia’s birth. Of course, the younger had already heard the tall tale of how she came to be many times before, mostly by her mother, and mostly during moments where she awoke in the middle of the night in a cold, frightful sweat. But this would be the first time she would hear it from her aunt, and so, she listened, and pictured herself in the ramshackled shed that was described. There was the bed of straw that her mother laid upon, wrapping her hands around her swollen belly and pushing with all the strength a woman in labour could muster. Throughout the ordeal, proliferated a maelstrom of struggle and pain and uncertainty, tinged with a flutter of hope, which eventually resolved in a fleeting bliss. It was Elia’s aunt who delivered the child as Elia’s father stood grasping his wife’s hand, and it was still her who first held the newborn, coated in blood and crying, wailing at the abruptness of being brought into the world in circumstances as poor as hers. There were lingering feelings as Elia was cradled in her aunt’s arms. Mostly happiness, and pride, and amazement, she noted. But there was another emotion brooding within her, an emotion which at that time Elia’s aunt could not diagnose. It took her to this moment, as the mature woman sat reminiscing with the niece she held within her arms sixteen years ago, to realize that the rogue emotion she had felt that day were little, fugitive feelings of envy. It was then that Elia’s aunt revealed that she herself was the last of her own line, never to have married, and rarely to have loved. An unfortunate circumstance, she described it, but one that was in the past, and one she neglects if she felt like doing so. Elia remembered asking her what there was to envy about a newborn baby, so fragile and boisterous in all the wrong
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ways. She was told that it wasn’t herself that was the center of her aunt’s envy, but actually Elia’s mother. Because on that fateful day, when she gazed at the so-called fragile, and boisterous thing, she also saw what was to her, an infinitude of possibility, along with an existential epiphany that may take a lifetime to accurately explain. All she could say was that she saw the future within the little piece of the universe that fussed and bawled in her arms, although, it wasn’t entirely her piece of the universe. A single, lone tear ran down the aged woman’s face. To her, there was something wonderful about watching over a child as they journey through life and grow into adulthood, and something horribly wistful about never getting to do so at all. It was then that the two women turned mournfully towards the infant-sized coffin. Prior to her mother’s death, Elia and her family rejoiced at the miracle of her mother’s second child. A sixteen year gap was indeed rarely heard of. The news had spread widely and quickly amongst their friends and acquaintances. Even some who held no connection to the family gained a sudden curiosity about the child and its rather extraordinary inception. All who knew rejoiced for a time, but that joy was short-lived as news of the collapsed mine had come forth, preceding that of her father’s death. Though still, some people held on to the sliver of hope that was growing inside Elia’s mother, all the way up until the point where they didn’t. Many of those who anticipated a great celebration have found themselves so suddenly forced to cope with an unimaginable tragedy that led them all to this mildly decrepit house of God, made to look as hospitable as possible with the few raked funds that Elia and other generous donors could provide. Hours had passed since Elia’s aunt had left her alone, but she did not leave without a parting gift. It seemed to her that a promise to meet again was not sufficient enough to breed contentment these days. After everything that’s conspired in less than a year, Elia couldn’t blame her for the harshly realistic sentiment. So, she sat under the tiring lights, absentmindedly brushing her thumb over the canvas-like fabric of the doll in her hands. And it almost relieves her of all her tension, before she reminds herself that it was originally intended to be a gift to her would-be sister, who, in a grim simplicity, never had the chance to claim it. When the doll was placed in her hands from her aunt’s and after she was told about its nature, she had
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wanted to leave it with its true owner, to let the dead rest with its only earthly promise. However, she had decided to keep the ragdoll after being so humbly heralded by her aunt as its rightful inheritor. Then Elia decided to keep it for that reason, not for any self-serving motives, but rather, to fulfil the request from her aunt and to keep it so she would never forget the little, lost soul that lay within that simple, wood box. She thought that, perhaps, holding on and owning up to a sorrowful memory is better than trying desperately to bury it under the ground. The candleflames began outshining the dissipating sunlight that trickled inside. The growing darkness that came with the day winding down only intensified as another dust storm raged outside. Elia let out a languid sigh. This was the first and last day of the wake. Renting a chapel didn’t come cheap after all, even if the one she finds herself in now isn’t the most splendorous thing to look at. It was the best that could be done, and to reduce the remembrance of those who pass away to the fickle aesthetic of their final resting place was not something she would do. She packed whatever loose ends there were back into her bag, while the church pew creaked as she stood up, approaching the two coffins that reside by the altar. She placed her hand on the lid of her mother’s, it was cold and the wood felt newly sanded. It was simple too. There was no hatch to open to let Elia see her mother’s face one last time. That part of the coffin was surprisingly out of the budget. She would have to settle, as these boxes were due for the proper burial in the coming days. This would be the closest she would get to her mother until all that’ll remain is a stone plaque engraved with everything she’d expect. Then she turned to the smaller coffin, built with the same humble carpentry, and possessing the same woefulness. It was a rare tragedy that Elia had faced – profoundly unfortunate – everyone knew that, and Elia was no exception. She looked to her bag strapped across her shoulder and laid her hand on the peeling leather protectively. It was where the burlap doll resided for now. She didn’t know where she would place it later. Upon a shelf? On the nightstand beside her old, rickety bed? She didn’t know where, but she knew that she wouldn’t store it away in some box or container and left collecting dust in a dank storage room. Maybe she would keep it close to her for the first few days. It would be a talisman, she chuckled as she thought.
She looked around the chapel one last time, noticing that it was emp-
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ty save for herself and the caretaker, who busied himself by sweeping the floors. It was time for her to go. She would say her goodbyes with a smile knowing, hoping, that it wouldn’t be her last. ‘Farewells don’t end at death’ is perhaps one of the most hopeful sentiments she holds. Elia walked down the aisle to the sound of her clacking heels and a distant, sweeping broom. She stopped at the tall darkwood doors, hearing the faint flurry of the windy dust storm outside. Beyond them, she would return to a world where she was mostly alone. She knows she would be able to get by, living off a modest salary that satisfies her equally modest life. There was not much to look forward to though, not many days where she would anticipate a celebration of sorts. The layman would say that there’s not much hope for a girl like Elia. But after this day, and talking to the people she spoke to, she knew that it would be up to her to make life worth living. There would be no one else with that responsibility. If there truly was no God in this hopeless world that people perceive too often, then Elia didn’t care, her lonesome wouldn’t stop her from living on. Elia grasped the steely handle and opened up the doors to the outside. She was glad to notice that the dust storm had already begun dying down, so she ventured forth into it with little strife to her vigor. There is no time to waste on waiting for a miracle out of the blue, whether that miracle will serve to make your life more interesting, or to lift your spirits from tragedy, one cannot expect their life to change by sheer luck, we must find a way to be our own ray of hope in an otherwise hopeless world.
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Digital Art:
Reeno Miguel Arcones
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Personal Essay/ Sanaysay
Digital Art:
Reeno Miguel Arcones 64 | The West Waves
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SC AN TO LI ST EN
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It’s All In The State of Mind By Justine Emmanuel Bautista
“The mind is the greatest power in all of creation.” This quote written by J.B. Rhine struck me differently. Well, do you agree with me? Our minds are one of the world’s deadliest weapons that destroys our vision of reality. We are often encapsulated in our own world of imagination. We create certain situations that don’t even exist. Some are obfuscated in their thoughts of contemplation, while others are drowning in their abysmal pool of rumination. All of us have our own silent battles that only we alone could overcome. It’s either we learn through defeat, or we become stronger in our own silent victories. In my case, expectations became my obstruction. I’m always that type of person who likes to do things in perfection, only to save myself from people’s resentment. Ever since I was little, my elders always told me to dream high and aim for the stars, for if you may miss the bull’s eye least you’ll land on a deserving spot. That notion only kept on giving me desperation, for whenever I set higher goals I often do not achieve them and I always end up becoming disappointed with myself. I would set up a standard so high just so people could recognize my efforts and be appreciated. I wanted to be the best version of myself, someone who is looked upon to, a person with great exemplary behavior and so I often work so hard to the point of breaking down. These thoughts, ideas, and outlook started to consume me. For a long time I have never been satisfied with what I have become and what I have achieved. It is because I lived up in the expectations of others, which led me to make my own expectations of myself.
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The processes that I have been through were painful, but that’s just one aspect of reaching for my dreams in life. Being a perfectionist, made me believe that I am able to achieve something that was impossible. It blinded me to the point that I wouldn’t even recognize my own little progress, but then I realized it was all in my thought process. Suddenly, it has gradually built my character into the person I am today. I remember during my elementary days, I would do my best in every football practice in school just so I could impress others and exceed their expectations of me. When the match comes, I would often play insensibly, fearing that I might commit mistakes and affect my team’s performance. The more I thought of that, the more it most likely occurred. I learned from that moment to focus more on myself and to enjoy these experiences. Some might say I’m a multifaceted and versatile person. I joined lots of organizations in school and tried out so many hobbies just so I could be an inspiration to others. I never knew that all along I was doing it for my self discovery. I just had to adjust my mindset and redirect my focus so that I may be able to recalibrate my vision of reality. As I grew older, a lot of realizations had come to my mind. I should have been more grounded and incorporated the values and virtues taught to me when I was little. It was all about going back to my roots and not thinking so highly of myself and my capabilities. People often choose to deceive themselves, they would rather live in their imagination as a subterfuge of their escapism to obtain happiness which they thought was permanent. Things are easier said than done, but taking a single step could lead to a long run. Don’t dwell in a world of illusion but rather admire the beauty of reality. It’s all just in the state of mind.
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Digital Art:
Kristian Kyle Tan
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Photo:
Hans Benedict Palacios
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A New, Better Path By Paolo Deoniggi Mesa
A riptide is a strong tidal flow of water within estuaries and other enclosed tidal areas. No man who can walk on two feet can overwhelm mother nature’s creation. Man only has two choices to survive it. Either to swim parallel to the shore or to remain calm as the riptide may bring you to a safe path. In life, we encounter real life riptides. As we get sucked into the raptures of life, we forget our purpose. We become blinded by the pleasures. Sending us further away into a place where we can not think for our own. Losing ourselves in the process. At one point in my life, I was trapped in a riptide. Where I let the people around me influence my choices. Growing up as a kid, I was deeply supported by my parents. They let me choose whatever sport I wanted to play. Even if I wasn’t consistent. They would buy me taekwondo gear, then the next month I would change sports and I would ask for football studs. Then surprisingly, they bought it as well. I’m not really sure if they mean it or they just want me to gain confidence, but my parents often complimented me about my constantly-changing sport. Proudly bragging: “Ay wow! Amo nani si next Lionel Mesa!” and “ang sunod na Bruce Lee ang bata ko!” Obviously, it’s not rude to frequently compliment your son’s passion. In fact, it should be set as a norm for all parents to uplift their children in whatever their child wants or loves to do. It’s only because we have different perspectives, experiences, and reactions to things that not all the time we produce a decent outcome.
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The confidence my parents laid onto me transpired into my becoming of an overly confident kid who believed that he was the best at anything he tried. I eventually had an idle attitude. I had never thought of working hard because I thought I didn’t need it and I already had the talent to easily get to whatever I want. Entering 2016, I was an upcoming 6th grade student. It was a glorious life back then. People at city plazas, shamelessly swiping their phones up and down in front of a stranger just to get a pokemon. Harambe became a world-wide hero for his bravery. And for me, I believed that this was the year that I would reach my peek in sports and academics. By then, I had already tried every extracurricular activity my parents could possibly afford. I joined public speaking, character interpretation, chess, football and I had even tried practicing basketball once, which I was terrible at. As I kept joining, I was fueled more by how much compliments my peers would lend me, often saying that I am a well rounded kid. As much as it boosted my confidence, the compliments were exaggerated. Though at the time, I was genuinely ecstatic whenever I got one, but in the long run it changed me. I was too caught up with engaging myself with trying new sports as I was somewhat, fishing for compliments. It changed me in the sense that I wasn’t who I truly wanted to be. I forgot what I truly loved. To me, then, I loved what people loved for me.
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It was the night of our final Elementary Parangal. I had expected myself to be granted most of the awards that night because throughout the year I joined in all the possible criteria there was in our awarding. As the awarding had commenced, I had the least amount of awards in the top of my class. Some of my classmates won Best Science Project, Best Athlete, Best in Filipino, Best in Science, while I was waiting for these awards. They never came. I was devastated. Years of my upbringing with tons of praise of how pliable I was in my sports and academics was lost. I had always wanted to be recognized as the best in others eyes, in doing so, I had lost my own path. It became more painful when the people who had supported me the most, my mom and dad, were the ones who I thought were truly disappointed in me. Though other people influenced me onto my perception , I was the one who had brought myself of chagrin. I was the blame. Ultimately, I had realized I had been focused on the pleasure of being seen as the best. I promised myself that I would change my ways. To acknowledge my failures, to yearn to please myself, and to survive the riptide. Sooner or later, our time here will run out. Only then will it decide, whether the riptide will ruin my life or will create a new, better path.
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Digital Story:
Jan Ulric Sumagaysay
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Absurdity By Paul Angelo Montalban
In this dreary cycle of life, I find myself absorbed in video games even in the middle of this catastrophic crisis. Accustomed to the repetitive online classes, eating, playing, and sleeping. It felt like I was only hopelessly waiting for change but with a void of anticipation. I sometimes find myself in an epiphany that I was in a state of futility. A feeling that I had to escape this state of inertia. There was this passion inside of me, aching to burst - desiring to be found. I tried to comprehend this zealous feeling, but the more I tried to unravel this behavior - the more absurd and irrational it became. “What is this innate desire that drives me? What does it want?” I asked. I was trapped contemplating my own consciousness. Days, weeks, and possibly even months, I sought an answer - maybe I desired purpose. I was bewildered by my own ignorance. I have lived for 16 years, yet I lived a life without thinking about meaning. Treading at life whilst oblivious of one’s “true” purpose. Agitated by the incoherence of existence, I pursued something that I hope will give flavor to life. Something that would cause the blandness to fade. A cliche yet still a profound question, I asked, “What is meaning?.” I then began to search for what gave meaning to others. Some believe in a transcendent entity that gives them meaning, but it feels somewhat like being robbed of individual responsibility. The abstract belief of the intangible lacks empirical evidence to prove its existence. It would only distress me by its uncertainties. Some would create their own meaning, but the idea of existentialism seems too subjective. I keep yearning for an objective answer for everything. But I know that man can’t comprehend all the complexities of the universe, thus resulting in the futile search for meaning. Then is there even such a thing as an objective meaning? A nihilistic aura started to loom around me. a belief that there is no such thing as value or meaning - it only calls for the abandonment of hope. The thought of it evokes despair and emptiness. It all felt futile - I had no choice but to hope aimlessly. I had to hope because I know that the faintest of light can shine even in absolute darkness. With the impeccable persistence of humanity, I had learned that we cannot
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Digital Art:
Kristian Kyle Tan
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survive. I had to decide whether I would yield to this irrational flaw or transcend the need for hope. Perplexed and confused, I was clueless on what path I shall strive for. With nearly infinite ways of living and creating meaning, I couldn’t solve the dilemma that I was in. I remember my past self succumbing to distractions - school, video games, entertainment, etc. just to avoid this existential dread. I craved enlightenment but was also frightened by the mysterious enigma. I had no other choice but to swim in the uncharted waters. I tried to read books of philosophers, especially Nietzsche, but I couldn’t seem to fully grasp its intricate aphorisms. I then searched for relevant ideas and people that could liberate me from ignorance. Fortunately, I came to witness a literary piece of Albert Camus’s Myth of Sisyphus. Sisyphus was a tyrannical King who cheated his death and fooled the Greek Gods. He was to receive eternal condemnation - to roll a boulder up a mountain only for it to only fall back down again. Camus compared the punishment to humanity’s futile search for meaning. Sisyphus has no conception of a better day or an afterlife. He then lives in the present without any future, hope, and illusions. Sisyphus defiantly meets his fate instead of despairing over it. He constantly revolts against his own situation, yet consciously aware that he is forever bound in Tartarus. The literary piece illustrated a nuanced shade of Existentialism and Nihilism. The philosophy of Absurdism. The idea to constantly revolt at one’s circumstances with total lucidity that defeat is ever-present. An absurd person knows about his inevitable demise yet doesn’t admit it. To live with passion and embrace the obscurity of existence. Even if the struggles appear to be repetitive and absurd, we still give them significance and value by embracing them as our own. Absurdism, one is aware that the apple is bitter, yet nonetheless consumes it. “I leave you at the foot of the mountain. You do always find your burden again. But you possess a strange hope that rejects the need for a deity and instead raises rocks. This universe henceforth without a master seems to you neither sterile nor futile. The struggle towards the heights is enough to fill your heart. I then imagine you happy.”
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Digital Art:
Kristian Kyle Tan
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Tidal Flows By Julian Raphael Abad
Riptides are strong tidal flows of water within estuaries and other enclosed tidal areas. They pull any object into them from the shore out into the sea. They should be avoided at all costs because they are dangerous and can cause injuries or even death. Riptides come in waves and can be a real problem if you are unlucky enough to be caught in one. Well, the problems in our lives keep coming and don’t stop. For as long as we live, we will encounter these problems no matter how small or grave they are. Staying calm is one of the most important things you need to do if you are ever in trouble or in a bad situation. Staying calm will avoid panic and help you organize your thoughts to think of a solution to your problem. The movements of the riptides symbolize how life works. Riptides are unpredictable and nobody knows exactly when they will appear or how strong they’ll be. Everyday, we face problems and challenges that are meant to create a struggle for us and make things harder. We don’t know what might happen to us next. Right now we could be lying in our bed resting because we are tired, and then later we could trip and hurt ourselves. The things that will happen in the future may catch us off-guard, but we should always be prepared for any situation we are put in.
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Ever since my siblings and I were little, my dad has always told us to always pay attention to our surroundings. He explained that it is important to be aware of the things happening around us because if we are not on alert, we wouldn’t be able to react fast to the situation at hand. For example, you and your family go to the mall to eat at a restaurant. You have finished your meal and everybody is ready to leave except you, because you were busy playing with your phone. You were having so much fun with your gadget that you didn’t even realize that your parents had already stood up and left. So you get left behind and do not know where they went. Sure you could call your parents with your phone and ask them where they were, but what about the people who didn’t have one? What would they do and where would they go?
This is just one of the many possible scenarios that may happen if one isn’t attentive to their environment. Maybe if you were paying attention, you would have noticed that they had already left instead of looking at your phone. This is why it is important to be aware of our surroundings and be prepared for whatever is gonna happen next.
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Digital Art:
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela
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Karanasan ng Isang N.G.S.B By Joshua Pagmanua
“Alas dos ng madaling araw. Ika-8 ng Pebrero. Sa ilalim ng gabing madilim at kislap ng mga munting bituin na milya ang layo mula sa akin, dinala ako ng aking imahinasyon sa malawak na hardin ng posibilidad. Hindi ko mawari ang mga gabing puno ng tamis ay mapapalitan ng katahimikan. Ang mga laging mong anyaya tuwing sabado papunta sa paboritong tindahan at tambayan mo malapit sa daang Ermita ay di ko na mapupunan. Sa bawat buwang inaasahan mong bubungad sayo ay ang paboritong mong tao na bitbit ay tsokolate at pulang rosas na paborito mo, ay papalitan na lamang ng mga halamang araw-araw mong nakikita sa labas ng bahay ninyo. Sa pagmumuni-muni ko ngayon sa mga bagay na ating nakasanayan, mga simpleng paraan ko sa pagpapahayag ng aking damdamin sa isang dilag na bumihag sa aking puso, ay hindi ko maalis ang mga posibleng mangyari.” Ganito ba magpahayag ng damdamin ang isang binata sa isang dalagang kanyang irog? Ganito ba kumislap ang isipan ng isang tao kung ito ay umiibig? Ganito ba talaga ang pakiramdam ng pag-ibig? Ako ay halimbawa ng sinasabi nilang NGSB o No Girlfriend Since Birth. Pag-ibig ang nag-iisang larangan na ako’y hindi dalubhasang gamayin ang mga sitwasyon. Yung tipong sinasabihan ng torpe sa babae. Yung balimbing klase ng lalaki na pabirong kinakantyawang bakla. Sa mapanghusgang lipunang kinabibilangan ko, linakad ko ang daan ng mga mapang-aping mga komento at mga nakaugaliang pananaw ng mga tao sa relasyon. Ako yung isa sa mga bawat binatang natatanong kung may kasintahan na ba. Ako rin yung isa sa mga bawat binatang pangiting tumutugong, Wala pa po! At mistulang ibong nakakulong sa kanilang mga tanong. Sa mga sitwasyong ito ay ang paulit-ulit kong tanong rin sa sarili kung bakit nga ba walang dumadating kahit sino. Kung minsan, umaabot na ako sa puntong kinekwestiyon ko na ang mga desisyon ko sa buhay hanggang ang isip ko ay binabaha na lamang ng mga tanong tungkol sa relasyon.
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Ako ay tila nalunod sa ideyang ang pagkakaroon ng kasintahan ang siyang pamantayan ng aking pagkalalaki. Di man lantarang makikita, ngunit Ako ay tila nalunod sa ideyang ang pagkakaroon ng kasintahan ang siyang pamantayan ng aking pagkalalaki. Di man lantarang makikita, ngunit nakumbinse ko ang aking sarili na ganoon ang tanaw sa tuwing ika’y isang binata. Binatang hindi brusko kung gumalaw. Kung bumitaw ng mga salita ay tila kulang sa diin at ang galaw ng mga kamay ay hindi alinsunod sa ideyang kanilang nahubog sa salitang “lalaki”. At sa maling akalang napaniwala ko ang aking sarili, ako itong baliw na nangangarap ng gising na sana magkaroon na ako ng isang babaeng ipangangalandakan ko sa lahat. Isa sa mga taong hibang na nangangarap sa alapaap at pinipinta ang mga pangyayari kung sakaling ang inaakala ay magkakatotoo. Ngunit, sa pagbaybay ko ng mga pahina ng aking buhay, sa bawat mga guni-guning pumapasok sa isip ko, tila ang aking sarili ay parang isang manikang papalit-palit ng bihis upang magustuhan lamang ng mga tao. Ang aking mga ginagawa ay hindi para sa ikabubuti ko ngunit para mapunan ang isang bagay na inaasahan nila sa akin. Ako ay saksi sa mga pangyayaring ilusyon lamang ng aking isipan. Saksi ako sa kanilang pagkahilaw at mga pangarap na malabong mangyari sa isang iglap lamang. Dayuhan pa ako sa kung ano nga ba ang pakiramdam ng pag-ibig. Ngunit, sa bawat bidyong aking napapanood ng mga magkasintahan, hindi ang kawalan ko ang aking naiisip. Kundi ang posibilidad ng mas magandang nakalaan para sa akin sa hinaharap. Sa bawat litratong aking nakakasalubong, ay ang mga pabirong “sana all” ko ngunit nakaukit sa aking mukha ang kaligayahan na aking pinapaubaya na maisasakatuparan ko rin balang araw. Bumungad ako ng panimula na tila ay isang sulat, na kung ipagpapalagay, ay tila isang makatang sumusulat sa kanyang talaarawan tungkol sa kanyang minamahal. Makukulay na mga salita, mga paglalarawang hatid ang emosyon ng isang binata sa kanyang kinalulugdang dalaga, at mga karanasang namumukod tangi na nagbigay ng buhay sa pagitan ng mga linya. Ngunit, sa isang N.G.S.B na katulad ko, tanging mga lupon lamang ng mga salita ang nabuo sa isang makabuluhang pangungusap. Walang alam, inosente, at marupok pa kung sabihin ng iba. Torpe, balimbing, at hindi matinik sa mga babae kung husgahan nila. Hindi ko pa man tuluyang naramdaman o naranasan ang magulo ngunit makabuluhang ibig sabihin ng pag-ibig, kahit walang tunaw na
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tsokolate o mapupulang mga rosas man akong maibigay, hindi ko man mapunan ang mga inaasahan nila, ang mahalaga na sa isang N.G.S.B na katulad ko, hindi pag-ibig ang siyang hinahanap ko kundi ang pag-ibig ang siyang hinihintay kong hanapin ang paraan upang matagpuan ko ang daan patungo sa nakatakda para sa akin.
SC AN TO LI ST EN
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THE WEST WAVES THE WEST WAVES
THE OFFICIAL STUDENT PUBLICATION OF PAREF WESTBRIDGE SCHOOL, INC. THE OFFICIAL STUDENT PUBLICATION OF PAREF WESTBRIDGE SCHOOL, INC.
Reeno Miguel Arcones Miguel Iñigo Concha Editors-in-Chief
Joshua Pagmanua Associate Editor
Marcus Pranga Managing Editor
Josh Winse Yap News and Special Reports Editor
Louie Renzel Castro Feature and Literary Editor
Jero Marion Gallinero Filipino and Local Languages Editor
Thom Dave Loja Sports Editor
Thomas Jeremy Gonzaga Online Editor
Paul Angelo Montalban Senior Editorial Assistant
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Julian Raphael Abad Justin Emmanuel Bautista Hyle David Daduya Jeter Arrhod Gloria Josef Vincent Jaen Paolo Deoniggi Mesa Anton Bernard Perez Ian Zeph Valderrama Keith Kendrick Velez Matthew Vito-Cruz Editorial Assistants
Jan Ulric Sumagaysay Creative Director
Hans Benedict Palacios Art Director
Patrick Ariel Siscar Gabriel Audrey Solon Photojournalists
Kristoffer Cliff Baxinela Juan Paolo Dingcong Rafael Martin Prudente Illustrators
Mr. Vincent Morales Mr. Rommel Terante Moderators
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