[3] I cover my wound with a bandage and take it off before I sleep

[inked on 30 march 2023]

You all know the feeling of being at the lowest point of your life to the extent of being comfortable at being rock bottom but apparently, somehow, you can still get buried deeper? Yup, that is me now.

I am in my bedroom, but it feels as though I am being sucked into a blackhole. I am not claustrophobic and there is still room for ten people to dance; yet for some reason, my heart is constricting, my head is spinning, and I can barely move a limb in my body. I am shed in pieces tapered with silicon glue—any moment I can crack. It is not a matter of when but how. I hear my neighbors watching an old teleserye; I know very well we have cable access here. Perhaps it is being comfortable in familiar storylines, kind of like binge-watching a series I rewatched three times already because I know what is there to come. Sometimes I may anticipate a new film, but I have been disappointed in hangers that I am not to settle with a direction I am uncertain about. I am buried in my satiated desire for stability; for lying comfortably at the rock bottom that I know when to walk away and when to bask in it. I guess I can say this is a win I shall declare:

I know when to sit with silence, with solitude, with sadness. I know when to embrace desolation with ease.

This is why I have learned to live in the moment. to be happy with the little things. A resolution I made this year is to do and find one thing each day that I never had before—no matter how mundane or minute.

I saw a black butterfly as I walked across campus.

I ordered a strawberry matcha with double shot espresso.

I met Jackie and Alex.

And since then, I wrap up at night and never miss a day to say I enjoyed living.

Then, when the time comes—when my body yearns for it—I bask in silence, in solitude, in sadness. As if a rest, not for the dread but for being comfortable in both living and not living. A reminder of a part of myself which I am healing—a quench for the inner child begging for sour gummies and ice cream cones.

See, I have learned not to resist the silence, the solitude, the sadness. I have accepted it as a silhouette that traces the footsteps I leave behind. I must learn to invite it in once in a while, for it bears the parts of me that were once forgotten, sheltered. And I cannot do these again to her as she once was: neglected and plunged to an abyss. It all led to a spiral to the underworld, with giant roots that crawled into my skin to lash a scar. I still see it every now and then, as if whispering to me to never close the doors for any of my parts—for even these painful remnants are pieces that embellish my being. I am not here to partake even the parts of me that are poisonous and prickly, rather to recognize how their toxicity is not my own doing. The world is already cruel; I do not need to be anymore cruel to myself. Wounds heal faster when you let them, after all.

To end, here is a poem I wrote a few years back that encapsulates these unexpected guests—not anymore unwanted but simply unannounced. funny how the writer turns to be her work's greatest disembodiment. For after years of dropping by, I have learned to unexpectedly expect their arrival; when these times come, I let them in, for I have already prepared a space for them.

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[inked on 30 September 2019]

Taming of the Shhh…

Of all the sounds I hear every day, the one sound I’ve always loved, is silence.

For the silence is a calm mentor that appears when everything else disappears:

The quiet tiptoes of the wind, excusing itself as it passes by.

The low humming of wired devices—because they say the world now cannot live without them.

The open space that is meant to be filled with my voice spreads its arms before me;

it is left waiting like a pot of succulent inside a room where no one enters except for when the lights are off, or when the pot needs to be watered.

I embrace the wind. I let the whirring run on. I let the open space be open.

Of all the sounds I hear every day, the one sound I’ve always loved, is silence.

But it's just for today that I hate it.

I’ve always been alone with my thoughts and my thoughts are cruel

yet I tame them.

But the taming is not as sweet as squeezing the hand of a loved one, and looking at them in the eyes, saying, "Things will be okay."

And it is definitely not as kind as seeing a wilting flower, but not plucking it right away, for you hope that one day it will still bloom.

I’ve always been alone with my thoughts and my thoughts are cruel

yet I tame them.

But even I am scared of taming

because in taming, I have to face the truth

and I am scared of the truth.

The silence invites them.

Some would immediately knock on my door, and say, "Hey, do you still remember me?"

They will carry a basket of laughter, ones I will gladly put on my table.

I will let them rest their feet and wash their faces.

The door will always be open

and there will be days I will leave it hanging,

just so they can peek and drop by my doorstep, carrying their basket with smiles on their faces

and I’d say, "Welcome to my home."

But the silence does not choose.

It invites everyone in, even the ones who do not knock. They barge in and rummage through my things without saying a word.

I will have to follow, and ask ,"what are you looking for?" no answer.

"What do you want?" No answer.

"Why are you here?" No answer.

"Please go out." Slowly, they will lift their heads and show their faces.

No lips were parted, not even a word is said.

They will only glare, as if wanting to spite but they can only stare.

From a distance, I will hear footsteps leaving the doorstep. slowly. slowly. until the door is closed.

And I am left with my thoughts I cannot speak with.

They will look at the table, at the basket that the others left

while I, frozen, am trying to remember how to breathe.

Their soles will squeak along the wooden floor, making sure that you are aware of their presence—

that I am aware of their presence.

They will touch the basket, put it down

and reach in their pockets a crumpled letter I remember throwing away five, six months ago.

At first, I know I do not want them inside my home.

I drive them away.

I lock the doors so they can't enter.

I laugh out loud so the silence can be drowned

and they cannot be invited

for I do not wish to face them.

I am afraid of the crumpled letters they will find,

of the letters they will remind me of.

I hate the silence

because the silence invites everyone in.

The ones that heal my wounds and

the scars that I still try to conceal.

I hate the silence because as I was trying to forget,

it rummages through my things and hands me a note that says…

(I don't even knew what it says because I’ve never even read it.)

I hate the silence because as I open the note,

it reads, "You will be okay."

And the silence knows the truth.

So it invites everyone in. The ones that heal my wounds and the scars that I conceal.

The silence does not need to be the loudest voice

because it knows everyone will listen to it.

The silence is a calm mentor

that knows our wounds heal not because they are hidden.

Wounds heal because

we look at them,

caress them gently,

acknowledge that they are there—

with us, wait for them to turn into scars.

And these scars are not to be afraid of.

The silence shows these scars to remind

that our wounds healed because we are strong enough to let them.

That we have to face our fears;

even when it drives away our favorite guests

even when it puts down our basket of laughter

just to read a crumpled paper.

I’ve always been alone with my thoughts and my thoughts are cruel

yet I tame them.

And when I do, I sit with the silence.

I let it invite everyone in.

I let the wind caress my skin.

I let the murmurs of nothingness echo.

I let the open space that is meant to be filled with my voice, finally, hear me.

This is when the silence disappears

but I know that the silence will never forget.

It will come back with baskets and crumpled papers

to mend

to break

to show it is okay to sit with the silence.

And I’d say, "Welcome to my home.”