I Loathe You Once In A Blue Moon II

     Whenever I start to remember you, I would anchor my consciousness with the truth, as though it is  a prescribed medication. The wind will serenade the somber sun as how the lengthy lyrics will bore the unwilling. The night is brighter than the afternoons showered in golds and champaigns. Drown in the sonnets that lays your heart rest and buries your still beating heart to prevent from shattering further. I wish I never met you, I wish you never sat beside me that day, or interest to be exchanged. You were the journey I loath. There is no sun to set for us, only a moon to rise for me and you. You are the ship I pray sins in the trenches you yourself built. I believe I must cry, but that would make my eyes close, I cannot afford to miss a single moment now. May our memories scorch your soul as how mine is now in ashes.

I Loathe You Once In A Blue Moon

     Thankyou for reminding me to never love you anymore. You have show me that you will never be susceptible to change and remain in chains you delude yourself as comfort. You anchor my heart back into my mind and violently plaster why I should never love someone like you once more. My rationality reminded me that you can never be happy with one whose mind seeks to remain stagnant. You will remain the same with the path you chose. You ignored every wisdom that I provided your survival, still you proceed to listen to voices that never once cared for you. You are a memory I will always use to snap me back into reality. I breath out a sigh of relief to know we will never cross paths again. I hope it remains that way.

The Smokey Mountain of Tondo

    

    Beyond the glimmering skyscrapers and bustling colors of the urban life lies a filthy facade. The pretty skies and shirts in dyes masks the neglected garbage that had established its own identity. A Mountain  of waste, and a home to some. Filths that one would avoid, a source of income to another. 

    A man neither younger nor old treks upon mucks waltzing in mires. He grins in spite of the awry ambiance for where one should be. In garments of nothing more than preloved pants and rubber boots topped with a fedora gets him through the day. Accompanied by his cane to make ends meet. No weights of sacks will anchor him to exhaustion as he floods his mind of what he earns from the gathered rubble. One of the boys is no older than five nor younger than of an infant lifts sacks after sacks than prancing with peers of his age as any child should. Another with a sack tailing his very move through the ocean of rubble, gazing upon the half-dressed older fellow. Two among hundreds of youth whose hands should be holding pencils and clays, grasped with shards and rags as dirt paints their hands.

     A Scavenger, hooded in bags of indifferent cloth, finds his share through the musky landfill in exchange for today’s only meal. There was no room for fatigue from the filth. Like farmers plowing in their fields, he plows through gardens of garbage. Diapers as his roses and plastic bottles as his gold. Alone afar halts to take in the scenic land of incomprehensible  chunks. In pink, they sigh sorrow from a hustle that lurks underlying threats to one’s welfare. Salvage anything that can sell as the sun scorches and the humid atmosphere wafts around was an everyday movie. Poverty waltzes with corruption as they play the lives of the vulnerable. With the endless lust of power and papers of green by men and women in suits, while these fellows wear nothing but sacks and ragged cloth. Promoting recyclable and reusable commodities distracted minds of ever fixing the growing hill of beckoning. 

    It repels the use of innovating environmental alternatives. Humans are the danger to humans themselves. The growing population where garbage greets them instead of bread first thing in the morning and the last they see as they succumb to slumber. Stomaching a putrid embrace as quenching one’s hunger becomes a race. Garbage is the new gold.

Begotten Sepias

   I came across words of different kinds but somewhat meant the same.

“Yes” she didn’t hesitate. “I’m sorry” is all he could mutter. “I just really can’t” she was so sure. They all led to an end. Decisions so firm, It felt easy for them to let go as though I didn't bear any weight in their mind. All I could do was trail it back to me being at fault, time wasn't entirely on my side, it was my enemy. Episodes of decisions played on repeat, brewing I envy towards those who chose so well. Until this very end of a relationship, did I realize that time was a friend and that there was no such thing as a right or wrong decision. Everything is a wrong decision. Sincerity was a curse and being genuine made you a fool. Life doesn’t end from a bridge burnt down between you and another, that I very much knew. Adults have berated me that I have not lived half my life to finally surround myself with the right people and anything I decide at such a tender age is nothing more than a childish bliss. I found it foolish rather, to live your life without feeling miserable from a strained connection or declaring you’ve found the one. Simply, I’ve lived to believe that miserable luck was my counterpart and I can never get rid of it. No prayer nor witchcraft could probably extinguish it from the face of the earth. The walk home after horrendous Monday has never been this serene, crowds of children decorated the alleys of where the school stands, silenced sullen thoughts for a while at a glimpse of her. I had questions, itching to burst. "Would you like me to walk you home?" I spoke with all my might wishing she could have heard it through the chatters and passerby wheels. In my luck, she heard. "No. Go home and get some rest" It didn't take her long to come up with a response, tapping my shoulder and slowly her figure shrinking as she marched off to the corner evoked tears that I dare not drop upon unacquainted pavements. I was held in a daze, until I faced streets painted as though it was an abyss waiting to devour me at an instance. Out of the crowds, my hands that were once intertwined with hers, was now embraced by a gentle breeze. The walk home should've been longer as I would walk her home, an opposite direction to mine. The journey that should've been short felt longer. As my black leathers grovel among pavements and gravels, I tattooed the truth that I am disposable, a latent talent. Being remembered as a regret no longer fazed me as it did before. Was I simply not worth fighting for? my pace slowed as the idea echoed in the corners of my mind. I was not worth the energy, was the underlying message behind their words. It aroused begotten sepias as far as even six years ago. My idea of love that was already shattered has been further plummeted into bits and ashes for the winds of the city to carry Arriving alas at my abode, rains of tears trekking down the paths carved by the ones shed from before. In a call with him, one of those who imbedded knives of neglect, was the least person I expected to lavish me comfort, a tear-filled fool. It just happens that he was the first face I saw and knew of my dilemma . All he could say was I always chose the wrong decisions. Very comforting must I say. Everything I seemed to do was wrong. I knew I was a fool, but how could I fail at love as well. The call ended with sorrow not leaving my side, I stared at the ceilings as its plasters found no more reason to stay, peeling. The silence was unable to win against the voices only I could hear. I’ve fallen back to the place that I once escaped from. I spent several days upon blurry blank stares on dust plastered walls ignited by a drisson. I walked back home along the streets neither as dark as the abyss nor bright like heaven’s skies, my mind was once again lost in a trance. I was in a river of angst whose current were much more powerful than my storms from the past. Today grew worse. She no longer looked at me nor could she stand to be in my presence. At best, she would find a way to never even see me again. The folds of her eyebrows and her face painted in disgust for each time I tried to converse with her, spoke volumes immeasurable. Lamppost after lamppost and a car, the eerie silence harmonized with my wistful canvas of a face came to a halt. There was simply nothing I could do or choose for none of them would have been right. This comforted the grieving tattered heart of mine who was at its last straw. No choice of mine would have been correct. For there was no such thing as a wrong or right choice, it was and will always be wrong for it is time that makes its right. What I may have chosen or said today may be wrong, yet the right one for tomorrow or maybe in a few years from now. The regret I may have in the future may have been a success if I did it now. I was wallowing in what if’s when everything was feasible in its own time. I was a few steps away from my house’s doorstep and my body welcomed a comforting numbness I haven’t felt in years, moreso, this was my first time being granted its touch. Tomorrow came like a unwelcomed guest and brought me back upon a classroom that never ceases to be raucous. In the corner of my eye, everyone was silhouettes, but her. I sat sitheless as I fawn over her at a distance. The time may have been wrong, but loving her was right, I protested.

The Embrace of Blues

As the sea breeze dances around whilst the sullen white sand slowly succumbs me further and further, my head gets vulnerably drowned, not by the crystal waters before me, but the dwelling thoughts of the day the reaper stands before me.

"Bluer than the blue skies, blue seas, or that foreigner over there with crystal blue eyes" I recall telling myself.

Wave after wave did I realize those roars were of my beloved mother's calls, calling me back to the hotel. I decided to continue my conversation with the beach shore as I realized I am in confrontation with the hotel door. Neither did I want to enter nor stay outside the hall, thus I stare upon this inanimate object until my sister broke the tension between me and Mr. Hotel door. A room so well-lit, lures me to rest. Who could resist? I did. I knew by the moment I close my eyes or might as well simply blink, comes 'tomorrow', whom I loath to acknowledge. I hear the familiar waves prancing on our hotel window, I turn to just be greeted by nothing but pitch black. The once beautiful horizons of blue was nothing more than an abyss. The embrace of nature was more humane than those of my family. Regretfully, I shake tomorrow's hand if by all means I'll be embraced by those blues.

The navy skies of a Makati morning robbed six faces ridden in worry and thrill of lengthy slumber as we embark on what one could say, another typically family trip. Took a plane, Took a bus, and took a boat to simply arrive at the treasured islands of Boracay, Aklan. Yet, as exciting as the destination was meant to be, the trip towards it fulfilled it rather. We had a week-long  luxury to venture the nooks and crannies of the island which some could say is small compared to the shores they have been to, I beg to differ. I was a fellow who preferred to watch rather than perform, yet nonetheless had desires, like the embrace of those seductive saline. Its scent that was far from the smoggy atmosphere of a city made me greed for it, I found myself sooner or later in its arms. Its sea floor took more than a mile before depth unfolded. Its what made this location a beloved destination. Brushing off the worry of ever floating afar from the sea floor I can only reach, I took upon this opportunity to let these waters carry me. 

    I hated how I trusted it at an instant rather than my own flesh and blood. Nature tamed me its palm. I realized as I threw time out of the window by gazing at the bright blue above whilst carried by the calm blue below. Never once did it beg for me to sweat, the vacation I’ve longed for. However, my five companions had something else in mind. Mother, Father, Sister, Grandfather, and Grandmother weren't as ecstatic as me with the same film of waves. Thus, we jump from an Island, to another, and one more. We were like birds migrating for the winter. They were thrilled, I was drowned in dread yet glee. It parted my mind from the day before our island hopping ignited its travels. The day before, at the hotel room of a white wall after a white wall and a white doors took me to a sea that yearned to drown me. There I lay on sheets no more darker than a pearl nor whiter than the clouds, hand in hand with non-existent exhaustion anchored me. I was enraptured by blues I was firm to have abandoned in the urban alleys. I was gasping for air that I already have. The seas of thoughts and questions bullied me, a plank afloat, with guilt.

“So fortunate for me to be able to set foot to such a paradise, yet its beauty makes me bereaved”.

The sound of familiar chatter brought me back the air I dearly merely missed. I was pulled back to a room who’s floors were a maze of bags. Nothing but a bedroom with commodities. Barely a home. I scurry the melancholic painting above my neck lest I ruin their sublime smiles. 

After the tumultuous tour, I ran back to arguing aquas and stain disdain upon my reflection disarrayed of an image whilst my other half of a body submerged. I went upon a paradise to release worries, they increased rather. Oh how I failed once more to see the beauty of life. This was no more different than who I was under the skyscrapers who stared upon me with disappointment. The sun greeted me with burns yet I was too numb to even think she was there. I walk further to find the depth many fear to be near, my mind was lost, my heart was at the brink of its last thathump! Anything that wreaked of beauty became baneful to my eyes. The tips of my fingers traced salines. My palm trailed upon the railes of the balcony of a school floor. The clouds passed by above. Students of all kinds passed by below. My toes felt the end of the shallow sea floor that kept me safe. The tips of my shoes left the concrete and passed through grills of steel. It was all the same, until an unfamiliar yet familiar creature shattered my reliving of that memory at the school. There came it again, then another, and one more! Sooner or later, I was in the eye of a tornado of sardines!. In between my legs, through, and around it they come and go. I came across the right amount of length to step into a paradise I never thought I would come across. This was entirely unworldly that of the scuba diving we did in that packaged of a tour. I rushed and hushed to sneak crackers no more whiter than the powder sand upon the shore into the waters. I dropped bit by bit pieces where more and more did these fellows kept adding up. This was all that took, the delight I sought I had failed to forever have found was brought upon me by an anticipated interaction of two worlds. It was as if I was a diplomat meeting another world leader to grace peace bestowed on two countries. There and there was two worlds in a non-verbal communication. A pact connected merely by thin slices of processed grain. The interaction with Poseidon's citizens was the missing piece to pull me back into life’s light. Life brought by life. “My crackers!” my mother had a distasteful expression that neither Leonardo Da Vinci or Van Gogh can paint. The roars of waves clashing were later on in symphony with the laughter of my companions whom one by one came to where I was.

“Who told you lot to give my bits to the fish?” mother was neither fuming nor grinning. 

It was her way of conveying humor. She didn’t sound as though in anguish, thus we continued the exchange with our friends with fins. 

“Your swimsuit looks beautiful on you” my mother picked it for me, doubt she would degrade her own choice of clothing. 

The compliment gave me an undefined expression. I was torn between whether this was mockery or genuine. I was at that age where I cared less for what people see me for, but they seemed to care a lot. 

“You’re joking, I don’t have any money, best you take back your compliment, mum” 

my eyes were glued to the fish as though they were an escape for me to look at my mother’s expression from my response. I sought that every compliment that is given upon me was of nothing but pity, thus results to my awful response to any that would be given. 

“Why is it as though you are in distraught than delight?”

 the familiar youthful voice of my sister came up from behind me. I could also ask the same to myself. This day was drenched in interactions I thought.

The bright horizon was later cropped into an airplane's window who I now am displeased to see.

“I believe I can fly” chimes my sister with sand in her sandals.

My mouth was dry, my eyes shied, and my hands neither felt alone. It was over. Down, one by one bags of all kinds kissed the blue tiles who greeted us with a familial welcome. I sat upon the rag of a  couch whose creaks filled the living room. I found family in creatures of different minds. I found home in a world I didn’t belong. I felt a warm embrace from a world I wasn’t looking for. I went on a trip to a paradise I didn’t foresee. I learned that most of the things we yearn for will be given by those we least expect to have it.

The Embrace of Blues (Introductory Paragraph)

 As the sea breeze dances around whilst the sullen white sand slowly succumbs me further and further, my head gets vulnerably drowned, not by the crystal waters before me, but the dwelling thoughts of the day the reaper stands before me. "Bluer than the blue skies, blue seas, or that foreigner over there with crystal blue eyes" I recall telling myself. Wave after wave did I realize those roars were of my beloved mother's calls, calling me back to the hotel. I decided to continue my conversation with the beach shore as I realized I am in confrontation with the hotel door. Neither did I want to enter nor stay outside the hall, thus I stare upon this inanimate object until my sister broke the tension between me and Mr. Hotel door. A room so well-lit, lures me to rest. Who could resist? I did. I knew by the moment I close my eyes or might as well simply blink, comes 'tomorrow', whom I loath to acknowledge. I hear the familiar waves prancing on our hotel window, I turn to just be greeted by nothing but pitch black. The once beautiful horizons of blue was nothing more than an abyss. The embrace of nature was more humane than those of my family. Regretfully, I shake tomorrow's hand if by all means I'll be embraced by those blues.

Sunday's hug of strings and voices.

 Submitted and Succumbed...

T'was the Sunday before the last week of First semester, there, Waking up to the morning barks of hounds was me with loads of work accomplished, accompanied with a spontaneous reward. 

    We let go of the glistening tickets that has yet to stay on our hands for more than minutes, as the man in attire welcomes and accommodates us to our seats. There we sat in silence, below us was a stage drowned in blues and navy with small tones dancing around the theatre. I took out a shawl that complimented my navy sleeves as the cold starts to bite, I started regretting wearing shorts. However, this did not deter my excitement. "5 minutes before the show" a voice echoes through the corners and walls of the stage. The guiding gold lights started to dim, seats that were once empty were filled, and my ears were on all their toes. A man or two comes out with a violin in their hands, a cello on some four, and several with started to flood the once lonely stage now in warm hues. The Manila Symphony Orchestra. The name introduced to the fellows formed as a Clam or a Paper fan. Blacks and rustic reddish color greeted each other. Its as if they were the only colors that would get along at all. 

    Out comes a man with a stick so thin it looked like a stiff silk. The Conductor. Up a pedestal he goes and absorbs the applauses as he bows. There I, a friend, and another friend, sat and succumbed to sublime symphonies. After a brief ocean of strings, came in Voices that is beyond what anyone can describe.  The once dull and gloom strings waltzed with the soprano opera singer. They sang a piece that sounded like chatters of ducks. It held a story, one can't comprehend yet still I follow. It was lovers bickering at each other. Comes next is another narrative, then another, then another. Comes in the tenor, then the soprano. Struts the Alto, toddles the baritone. Each had their fair share of the spotlight. Then came a moment of which only the instruments from brass to wood were to sing alone. 

    There, I sat anticipating another classic, yet found myself enraptured to the Giacomo Puccini's 'Intermezzo'. Every fiber of my being was embraced with music that sunk me back to the place I had just escaped from. I lost someone whom wasn't even mine. From that moment on, I lost my grasp on every senses I had or every senses any human could only have. Slowly I drown into memory lane, unable to come back to the surface as if I was already anchored at the far down sea floor. The melodies had mixed intensities. It mirrored my heartbeat. It told a story. It told mine. Embraced like a small child in its mother's loving arms, tears streamed down one after another. Anything before my eyes were a blur, aside from the music, it remained crisp and clear. Its as if it could never be disturbed by anything. 

    Someone's face that was once familiar, now foreign, was all I could make out off through the cold and dimmed theatre. Stiffed, I felt sorry for myself from the thought that I finally thought I was loved. I was left, again. The piece was coming to an end. Neither did I want it to end nor keep it going. Like what I had with her. Yet just like time, I do not hold, nonetheless control. I snapped back into my senses to the tune of joy and vivid glee. Note after note, Tune after beat, and there ended my first experience of being in a live opera show. Out the doors of the theatre did we, three students, bid our goodbyes and parted ways. It was me, my blue shawl, and thoughts that walked the empty yet crowded streets of the night. 

    Alone, was I, in the same road drenched in piercing creams, noisy gold, and violent orange of beams. The trashy sound of my shoes against the uneven pavements accompanied my thoughts that I beg to forget. I was both in delight yet in shambles, neither happy nor sad. I am once again a park bench echoes through my head. I feared that sooner or later, it might echo through these streets as well. What could have I done? Could things have been different?

Were thoughts that I've already answered, yet to accept. I've arrived home with nothing but the thought of forgetting these thought once more in mind..

A Preparation of Sunday's hug of strings and voices

 Submitted and Succumbed...

T'was the Sunday before the last week of 1st semester, there, Waking up to the morning barks of hounds was me with loads of work accomplished, accompanied with a spontaneous reward. 

    Saturday night, stayed up with the stars hidden, to accomplish the burdensome of a task. A film about out respective advocacy. I didn't entirely see it as a burden, rather, a challenge. I enjoyed a great challenge, that is, if your peers had the same vision. Clip. Copy. Replay. Redo. Undo. The only thing a can recall from a Saturday Night was me half asleep at 9 A.M. Pling! Prong! and beams of radiation emitted through my phone. To my surprise, it was adviser Mr. Chan, with an unexpected offer. "Who would like to go?" he followed with a poster of an tonight's Opera at my nearby theatre. As a fan of musicals, theatre, music, and artisan interests, I was in ecstatic, an opportunity! One, two, and me. Took the opportunity. Sunday 8 P.M. 

    Back and forth I went through group chats and to-do list, ensuring that this evening, is free of clutter. With the sigh of relief was me, and my completed submissions of academic work. All that's left is to reap what I have sowed. Preparing for the anticipating event, Lied my neatest navy sleeves, stuffed shoulder bag, and steaming bath. Despite being an Avid fan of Opera's and Orchestra's, never once have I attended one live. I would witness recordings rather, thus, my interest in classical music grows. I myself love the company of classical symphonies, grand ones at that. They turn my o' shabby of a room into the ever breathtaking swiss fields. Rich greens, fresh breeze, and a clear blue horizon was the illusion such pleasant pieces would appear before me as I ponder, alone, on any chance I get.

    The air blower shuns any evidence of a shower, sleeves cover excited arms, and perfume wafts around the room as I prepare to leave our comfy abode. The mall was a walk away, yet enough to make a sweat drop. As I walk through rays of orange and yellow, I contemplate of whether I wore an appropriate outfit to a theatre. An Opera at that! I've learned aristocratic etiquettes enough to know that these sleeves and white shorts would make heads turn if we were in the late 1980's. But I was confident that won't be the case. Upon arriving, there I met was one of the two others who agreed to go upon this event. Aljohn. Stands there with an outfit neither informal nor formal. He caught many eyes. In we go through the theatre as we wait for the other, Sophia.  

    We took our tickets whilst nervous as neither three of us has ever experience such, more so of the mesmerizing interior of that Samsung theatre. The soft champagne lights complimented everyone in that bustling lounge. Tick, goes an hour before the show. While wait for Sophia, my mother called me and Aljohn to go by the restaurant in front of the theatre for dinner. With stomachs full and Sophia with us, we are as evermore as ready to let go of the tickets that hasn't stayed for more than an hour in our Hands.

The Crown of the Dove and People. (My Name)

 

Stephanie is a feminine name derived from the Greek name Stephanos, meaning ‘Garland Crown’—Crown of glory. A popular name among daughters within the nobility. Followed by my second name Collinette, according to my parents, meant ‘Tiny dove’ in French—a gift from above. Google, on the other hand begs to differ, defining Collinette as ‘Victory of the people’ in French as well. Combined, my name could be interpreted as A Tiny dove with a crown, or perhaps ‘A crown for the people of victory. Albeit knowing this for many years, I’m still left appalled of how can someone like me hold a name basking in splendor. I felt obliged yet motivated to fly like a dove with the mindset of a queen.

 According to my mother, I was to be named as Therese Marie Shane. As a tribute to her name, the Virgin Mary, and her father. Nonetheless, it was no longer considered when my father was watching a show that had a character named Stephanie—his ears perked from the elegant name. I take pride in my abilities in poetry, music, and art. Some of the abilities that suggest to be connected to the nature of my name. I adore tranquil scenery, isolation accompanied by classical symphonies, the showers of light in hues of champagne and gold as the clock strikes three in the afternoon, and the company of those I hold dear.

That Hotel Window

Love is wonderful, but it can turn for the worse.

Cupid seems to be drenched in joy shooting arrows to intertwine hearts. The new semester greeted me with couples left and right. One's hand over the other, another has one on someone's shoulder. The Campus' hall was drowned in festive energy. Boots that varied designs from one another. Lovely might I say. Yet I couldn't help but imagine me being in those situations if things went differently that time. I dated someone. Someone familiar yet foreign. She would sometimes sit, sometimes running. This single day made me remember that heinous and chaotic 2 months. It was between October and November of 2022, when my family decided to have a staycation at a hotel as a post-celebration of my birthday and the celebration of my mother's birthday. Just 3 days apart. Such a day of  celebration was accompanied with a sour memory. 

That night, I stare into a plane filled with plain planes that come and go. The cold coffee watches nearby, new yet old specs mirror each sigh.

x

1, 2, 3 I count the parked cars,

 But they couldn't outnumber my film of scars,

A moon, no stars,

Maybe they're just far,

11th floor but I still feel under,

Under the weather, roars of a weeping lover,

Everything goes back to dull,

Anything that comes next will be null,

A porcelain doll with a tear on a cheek,

Stained tear will be called unique,

Your sadness will be art, 

Love will no longer include your heart,

Restless it will be, what's in it for me, 

Nothing is seismic anymore, 

Nor look forward to what's in store, 

Here at this hotel Infront of the airport,

I wonder if it was worth putting any effort, 

On anything, 

on anyone at any time. 

Makes me want to commit a crime,

Fool we were to want to climb.

Climb a wall too tall,

it's getting cold, I think I need a coat

I can't seem to jump out of this boat, that is sinking. 

What was I thinking?

Second Semesters may sore, but I yearn to Soar.

 I told myself I wouldn't hate tomorrow's anymore, Looks like that isn't the case. Its a Monday.

Papers. Quizzes. Listen there. Listen here. The fourth floor. Passed. Failed. Stand up. Ask. Answer. The Semester break of which lasted for 5 days definitely wasn't enough to make me forget such scenes of the first semester as a graduating Senior high student. 12th grade isn't forgiving, never has it been, never will be. 

a 9 A.M. drenched in hues of blue,  blankets drown you in coziness as the atmosphere ceases to make it any better. I felt like an Ice cream in a fridge, But I was the ice cream that wishes to not be eaten. Waking up and sleeping became a chore, says the youthful one. My mother would chant the same old words about how I'm not even halfway in life if she hears me groan for such. But let's admit it, everyone and so did my mother herself said this herself in her prime. The weather wasn't a delight either, scorches the sun that should be complaining more than me for doing the same thing all over and over again for how long when. Humid was a room at the 4th floor building of an education institute. Someone by the corner wipes, another by the side fans, another just arrived. 12:42 p.m. screams by my wrists. 3 more minutes, starts a new series for me to watch it reveal its chaos. 

My back hurts, I can't wear my glasses, The sun's rays tells me more things than the white board, the whispers are louder than the teacher's voice. Sensitivity started fading in the room. Sooner or later I found myself walking under a familiar path drenched in gleams of orange and gold. Shoes leave my feet, to the room I rush to retreat. There, a moment of comfort was what I wanted from this demanding day. 'What a sore, I don't like it anymore' wails me, who is barely halfway the first week of semester. I found myself staring back at what was watching me, my whiteboard with lists of colleges and universities I still need to apply to and a photo booth of a family of four. I recall telling myself that this time I wanted to live this time around.