So...

There are questions I’ve been thinkin’ about

And I want you to answer me:

These issues of discrimination;

Just where do they come from? Just who do we blame?

What part of society; or of humanity must we condemn?

Is it religion, the service to God; of the supernatural that we should blame?

Do the teachings of a higher power command me to hate you?

Or is it our ethnicity? Our race? That determine the difference between your worth to mine?

Or is it the fault of our genders that transfixes us to a role that we are born for?

Or maybe it’s about wealth? Power! It is money that differs and incites us to abhor!

Just what part of society do we blame for these- hatred and killings and wars?

Is it how we look? Or how we dress? Or live?

For a few it may be the fault of fate; the game of die and rolls

And gods in sought of fun decide to cause more;

But many believe the sinful nature of man to be the catalyst,

The invoker of crime, of war, of turmoil!

Yet again, I ask;

But this time I’ll ponder;

These issues of discrimination;

Just where do they come from?

Perhaps...

The fault dwells in us, our human nature;

Not by what we are part of, but by who we are as imperfect beings;

Embedded within the depths of our unconscious minds

The prejudices we hold that drives us wild with hate!

And I’ll ask:

Just who do we blame?

Then I’ll answer:

It’s us.

Us!

The messengers of gods!

The advocates of justice!

We put those we feel are different to the edge of our swords and tongues;

Because we see what we want to see;

Because we hear what we want to hear;

Like how men sought success so narrowly that they saw nothing

But the goal ahead, holding nothing but burning passion and belief!

Like prowling beasts taking heed of sounds they only need;

We are fixed by nature to be so fierce, so intelligent, and so unique

That we end up battling within ourselves with such heroism and cunning!

And with legacies like these we bear prideful smiles

The remnants of the past be our standards,

And with standards like these, we set ourselves the higher power

Over those who cannot reach, over those who never knew

Our ideals and beliefs that we see like ants seeking food;

And that we act upon it! Upon our convictions which are often unchecked and untrue!

And that, my friends is my answer to my own question.

Now,

Tell me yours.

It has been a year since the parsonage has received its last general clean-up and surely that time would be immensely heavy, with the rooms being filled by thick layers of dust and grime wherein every step and stomp would form little dust clouds; the unused boxes made full by religious texts and pamphlets, which used to be intact and complete are now crinkled by the passing of time and wrinkled by the onslaught of heat and the occasional dripping water from the ceiling; cobwebs, in variety of shapes and sizes, veil each and every corner of the interior and even the spaces in between are seized with no reservation; and the scent of deadwood stemming from ruined books, boxes, and the termite-infested walls fill the entirety of the once pleasant home.

It is a shame, really, after we brought a unit in a suburb, and for a year, furnished it with fancy furniture and decorations, my parents then decided that instead of living in the parsonage, we should occupy the unit so that all their investments would not go unused and wasted. During that time initially, I used to stay at the parsonage each time I return from Davao; and not long after (a month or so), I grew tired of keeping the place clean by myself and went on spending my every weekend in the suburb. I liked the parsonage for where’s it at, in the center of the city itself, in the main commercial zone where sari-sari stores, retail warehouses, bakeshops, and the trade center are just within walking distance; and it’s a relief that a new pastoral intern will be occupying the 2-storey parsonage for the time being; and because of that I committed myself to do some heavy clean-up.

The living room was a mess; the seats were full of different kinds of papers; picture displays of my mother and father were lined up atop the bookshelf while religious books and photo albums were sorted into the racks; the stack of boxes containing Sunday school textbooks and lessons were disarrayed, and tools, such as the cutter by the study and the laser printer beside it, remained uncovered ever since; all of which are blackened with grime and are in dire need of rearranging and dusting, and perhaps some wet wiping for the non-paper. The classic window panes of glass were brimmed with dirt and the curtains that was once so blue have lost their radiance. So I headed to the kitchen and took a cleaning rag from the cabinet and the tabo from atop the water drum; and dipped it in so I could have some water to soak the rag into, then walked back to the living room and lifted the curtain rod, pulled the dirty curtains out and rediscovered a scenery of which I am very familiar with: the Church and the courtyard, which used to be completely shaded by the Talisay tree that now has been cut down and been replaced by the tarpaulin tent. And by that very moment, as if by divine call, could I remember with vivid clarity; the time I used to refrain from attending church service, back when I was in High School; and as fresh as how I seem to recall it, I could feel the hatred, the disdain I felt as a kid growing in age, but I could not remember why exactly, and how? As I stared out the screen of the window, the wind rose up along no sound of leaves shuffling and sprinkled the dust out the glass panes, and reminded me of the place where I currently stood, far away from the past I have invoked.

But not even by a slightest margin could I compare the progress I have made to how filthy the living room originally was, and so I decided to do first the bedroom by the stairs where the intern is intended to be placed. The parsonage is on the second floor of the Church wing, and on its ground floor is a room so large and spacious that it’s used for multiple purposes and occasions. The whole building is multi-functional so to speak, explaining how its structure is oddly built. The bedroom by the staircase is further elevated than the rest of the rooms, and within that bedroom is a portion of its floor elevated even more, making the windows inside provide a slight overhead view of the Lapu-lapu street.

I started first on clearing the underside of the wooden bed; and so I held the edges of its side and lifted it to reveal the scattered pile of junk technology and bags full of paper; and went on to check the papers to see if they were bound to be thrown away, and later realized they were mine: my old elementary examination papers, back when I was unbelievably diligent. I, with the passionate fervor to study all the time and hence, received those almost perfect marks, wanted to impress my parents, to prove to them that I could be like my brother. I could see the innocent, eager me, sitting and studying by the bed so furiously while hoping for God’s great consideration, as I have strongly believed back then, in my early youth that God confer prosperity to those who intend to do good. I would attend Church without ever getting late, and I would sit beside my parents at the front of the pulpit itself; but it was all in the past. I threw all the papers on a sack and yet I felt no sigh of regret; was it because that I have changed so much? So far from what I was told to be, thought to be, or expected to be? And I asked to myself: just where did it go wrong?

After throwing all the throwaways and other worthless scraps and carrying all the remaining unusable or broken devices and the cables along them outside, to the living room, I set my eyes toward the shelf where my late grandma’s novels were lined up and realized there are notebooks and pads mixed up with the latter. I pulled out all those that are out of place, and opened them one by one; but I, who has forgotten the escapist that I was, was met by a wave of nostalgia; by worlds, by magic, by fantasy; by the absurd characters, edgy backstories, magic systems that I’ve written when I reached high school; by how I would lay down the floor, as I listened to the Warcraft 3 soundtrack, mimicking the goofy voices of dwarven characters, reimagining the geography of a world of magic and adventure, and scribed all these, everything that I could imagine into a series of used notebooks and long sheets of paper; and how proud I was for creating those. I opened another drawing pad, and carressed the graphite texture with a thumb; and it occurred to me that time when my uncle, who is an artist, visited when I was in my third year of high school. My mother showed them that exact pad and told them how they were depictions of demons, and to prove her point, pointed at my humanoid drawing of the Tauren, my eerie sketch of the Treant, and my entire art of Nagas and the Underworld denizens, all of which I admit to be inspired by videogames, which my mother also accuse as instruments of the devil. And to add, she never did realize that a majority of my vocabulary came from playing videogames. As speechless as my uncle was, I was wrong to expect that they would praise me; and looking back, I should have kept the drawing for myself and never showed it to anybody else. And I thought to do the same, and decided to carry them all back to my room, stuffed them all into the cabinet, and placing them underneath folded clothes.

I went back to resume cleaning, and found, once again, a memorial of the past. I dug my hands into the cellophane bag and arose with slings in both hands, flailing through my fingers were the cards and IDs reading the names: JORAM and JEREM scribbled with black permanent markers. They were from different youth camps that we (with my brothers) attended every summer back when both my brother Joram and I were in high school, and both of us probably had different perceptual experience throughout all these Church-related events because for me, the idea of mixing in with those crowds were unbearable. The youth that I knew back then, that I thought to have Christian hearts, to have pursued the path of Christ were slanderous, quick to ridicule, and just there, attending, to find other “Christian” youth to choose from and flirt on; but I did not mean judge all of them to be like that, it's just that most of the people I see in camps acted like those I've mentioned; maybe those kind of people were just easy to notice or just capable of easily overshadowing those who are genuinely kind and good-natured. But even after many years that have gone by, I could still feel this sense of disgust; and I could recall the time when the councilors conduct activities that everyone is required to join in, forcing companionship with other campers; when I would retract to my snobbishness and attempt on hiding away, refraining from all invites of roaming councilors to join and play with the others. I dug deeper into the pile and pulled out medals, which a large portion of the pile belonging to my brother and the rest belonging to me, which were just a handful of four; and remembered, in clarity, the times I’ve been compared to my brother; the times when members of the Church ask how different was I compared to my brother and how disappointed their gazes were when they learned that I attended a public school, while my brother, by God's grace, the genius son of a pastor, went to a prestigious high school in Mintal further into Davao. All these experiences resulted to me bearing little to no benevolence towards them, only resentment. As I grew up, I learned to deal with people so quick on judging, on ridiculing, on imposing- with hypocrites who harm others in whatever manner.

But by a sudden click, clank, and creak of the swiveling door, my attention flew towards the direction of the door, aware that someone has entered the house. A series of smacks and thuds went up on the flight of stairs, and by judging by the rate and heaviness of the steps, I was sure that it was my mother’s; and as strategic protocol, in one swooping action, I stooped down, grabbed the pile of name tags and medals with my left hand and the cleaning rag with the right, and paced one step nearer to the door by where I placed the water-filled tabo, and hurled both the pile and the rag; with the pile out the door where my advancing mom could see it fly out, and with the rag into the container; then proceeded to lean down to reach and squeeze out the water from the soaked rag and went to the nearest window to wipe the grime off the pane. My mother stood by the door, unfazed, as if she expected all of it, and said gently, ‘Erem, it’s near worship service, dress up now and attend.’ And I looked out the window and saw the orange sky, and answered.

Voices rang out from the Church in angelic medley, echoing and piercing through the walls that separate me from the holy service of God. As I wiped all the panes of the room, I looked on the rims of the Church, and felt a familiar sense of guilt; but since then, every time I see that scenery, I remember the Talisay tree which I was so fond of, and realize each time that it was the people of the church who cut it down.

Year: 4th year Section: AB Lit3

Creative Writing - Creative Non-Fiction

How jolly and merry does little John bound!

Right after a non-existent winter, which everyone loves;

Over the toppled brightly-lit plastic fig blown!

By where rain been falling, instead of lustrous snow;

In the festivity of a snow-themed party;

There is longing, hidden beneath their happy faces;

Wrapped in with halls of happy red and cheery green,

And the unsung blue, stuck on their laces.

Or so I thoughtlessly sung? Listen:

For by green;

I feel the festive vibe of lush leaves and trees!

And by red;

I see the nostalgic face of gifts and fey.

But by blue;

I meant the sadness they left by parting from you.

I ask you, for now, as a thought or maybe as a reminder:

Should we not value just the feast, the joy in Christmas?

Like the purging of emotions, in setting ourselves anew;

Men should reassess ahead a new year, for proper redo!

I am eager to teach, to let you know,

That Christmas shouldn’t be felt by only one emotion;

Like my first two staves, be of alternate songs;

First, by happiness; then by sorrow.

It was that time; when I glanced and found myself in a field of flowers, blooming with all kinds of grandeur, swaying beautifully in the bask of sunlight; where I thought, all my life have I kept chasing at his back, pacing further, and further away from me, and I would find a rock and graze it against my knee and claim that I have been unfortunate. But there, for the very first time, I realize that I've ran so far unaware of the life around me, along the trail of what I've been chasing and I stopped to dwell in that thought, panting for a rest that I had not taken for a very long time, and for a moment I felt peace. I found peace, I sighed, and watched the patches made brilliant by myriad colors across the lush fields of green. They're flowers too precious to pluck, too awesome to not be noticed. But a gloomy part of me still remained hounding; running on a treadmill of grudge and hate, imposing that mere plants are expendable; common, and that revenge is the best I could offer. So I took a second breather and looked ahead of me, the future that I wanted, and chose the path enlivened by flowers that I may dwell in affection; in endearing hope that I may, one day, walk alongside him; the same pacing, the same breathing; brothers in different paths but heading to the same direction.

Breezing against my cheek is a chilly afternoon wind;

Dusty may it seem but the unusual cold took my attention:

Shady, and cool; the sky is blue?

Ominous, yet there is comfort the way the clouds glow.

The bus has arrived and quickly, I took a seat;

Grey, white, and various others; moving in organized flow:

Lively? Busy. Duty calls, but no flame was lit.

The soulless move but the living remain.

Perhaps it was progress' fault that stunted spirits;

Our minds, expanding, but never yielding delicacies,

Hearts are rotting, shrinking tighter;

And tighter;

Till hands can no longer grasp, even cease;

And left Death to be the sole redeemer.

I looked up the window, the clouds above spew veins of lightning;

Storms come and they come violently;

They leave tracks of unwanted loss, of broken things;

But don't you think being broken is necessary?

A wave of droplets fell:

Well, rain falls suddenly;

Though we're aware that they soon will;

We never cared, never knew exactly when.

Beads of water slide down the window; racing;

Jolting down, each overtaking another:

Life's a race? Like the racing waters? No, it's not; though it seem to be.

They never race, they just seem to be.

Nature is mesmerizing, but humanity? Perplexing:

We make machines to do our bidding but we scowl at those who dictate.

What matters then? Intention? Belief? Idea? Postulate?

Like plants, we are invasive, ever-growing;

But what do we nurture exactly? Uncontrollably. For what aim?

One thing's certain, nothing is certain. Uncertainty.

When good times come and go,

Love may also fade, heck, everybody knows

But I’ll tell you something obscure for many

Love isn’t the feeling most people believe in.

I’ll ask this for the hundredth time

What is love exactly?

Is it love whenever my heart flutters?

Oh, you’ll know when you feel it, you say.

I ask not because I do not know

But to know what you think it is

I’ve felt it before, even until now

And I’ll tell you what love really means

Remember;

The days you’ve felt cheerful because of her few kind words

The hours you’ve spent patiently, knowing that she’ll return

And the moments you share together without worries

That it may no longer be the same for tomorrow or ever

Love is when you feel happy for her

Worry for her, feel sorry for her

And feel content in doing things for her

But please do not misunderstand

It isn’t a form of obsession

But a kinder, warmer kind of commitment and dedication

I’ll wrap it up simpler for you to understand;

Love can be one-sided, actually it should be

Because lovers dedicate themselves to each other

There will be no place for forsaking, or whatever bad may be

For love is a willful decision, done to foster the other.

Bring me a bottle-opener, I’ll drink the night away.

I want to feel light and carefree,

Say,

Are you willing to drink with me?

I’ll tell you in advance because I care,

This drink’s cheap and a little bitter;

But,

Will you bear the flavor for me?

You might vomit on the fifth and pass out after,

You might wake up late with your head feeling battered

And it’s late at night,

You might get in trouble:

Don’t worry, I won’t force you,

The thing is,

The drink’s just too much, for me, to handle...

Hate me, despise me for I am naught

But a pedagogue whose methods unbeknown to you

Bring it on! I’ll bring out your worst.

I’ll usher you to your drawn-out display of flaws

Where your prideful ego stars the show

And hands smeared with avarice clap alone

Perhaps, your ass-kissed fellows can come along

To woo their cheers, unaware of your goals

Show them the glint of your eyes!

Like spotlights they loom! Over affluent others

Sing! With your voice so smooth, such power!

Empowering your slothfulness unto others

Dance! Dance! Like you did with hearts

For the sake of yourself and delight!

Fill the theater with a fete of cakes and booze!

That you’ll gobble up the second they arrive

Hate me! Despise me! Let out your wrath!

Thrash against the bars you’re caught in!

The exposed verdict has been called

And now the world judges you guilty!

Young man, can you see it now?

The darkness you’ve surround yourself with

The cage you’ve put yourself in

It’s only a matter of time

You’ll spark your own light!

You’ll make your own key!

Break out from the prison which you’ve caused

Come out anew and fight against my tyranny!

Hate me, despise me for I am naught

But a villain whose methods so cruel for you.

Have you ever had the feeling when you see the one you love?

Your heart beats faster and your lips can't seem to laugh.

Your eyes lock unto her as if the whole world stop.

Only getting back to reality the moment she stares back.

But does she feel the same way as you do?

This is a question in which you have no clue.

You try to look, you try to site.

Yet in the end you cant, you are afraid of the answer you might find.

Stuck in a stalemate, your brain and heart were.

The best way to know is to ask her resolved, no fear!

But you run! you cower! Because it was never really clear.

About what might happen if you confess how you feel.

If you love a person, what are you supposed to do?

To go and be with her until death comes to both of you?

Or to watch her from afar, being content and happy too?

The answer is obvious! Just do what you feel you want to do!

The world is lit, bathe with brilliant spectrum,

Unified and split, controlled by divergent colors.

Some adorned with bliss, with gloom.

With different shades, with different hues.

The mirror shows a figure of purple royalty,

Yet kinsmen see a pale yellow that swerve and sheer,

While others see a skin of dark blue sagacity

Does this mean I am not honest and sincere?

Man has only one color true within,

But multiple in treacherous pretense.

How can one determine his answer to his own riddle,

If the one who questions is falsely genuine.

Who am I? Am I good? Am I evil?

Keeping up facades destroys the soul.

Now I am nothing but an empty vessel.

Just a kaleidoscopic shell awaiting its refill.