Your Author, Ruri

I heard a bird when I passed by the dining area this afternoon. I looked for the sound because it was louder than the usual bird songs I hear, then I found it perched on our gate in the terrace—a stunning bird with green and yellow feathers, a curved beak, and a parrot-like feature. I was cooking instant yakisoba, so I checked the boiling cabbage for a second but when I came back to look at the bird, it was gone.

Masyado kasi tayong nasanay sa mundo na kailangan may lagi tayong patunayan.

  The more I grow old, the more I understand that love really is a choice.

We can only look back to the past with fondness. The youthful energy. The vibrant joy of simplicity and innocence. And even though we can’t go back to simpler times, the happy memories we have is a testament that we can find joy wherever we are in our timeline. Believe that the past you and the future you are cheering you on. You got this.

We work on ourselves every day that we tend to forget how far we've come. We’re so obsessed with what we can do more, in what we can improve more, that we often forget to appreciate the reflection we daily see in the mirror; the mind we’ve cultivated through storms and seasons. We forgot how we used to be until we came across a post or a photo or a page from our journal years ago. And that’s when it hit us. That’s when we knew.

Seventeen years ago I wasn’t like this.

As a Filipino, the last few days had been difficult for me. I once wrote: If only tears could do something then I'm willing to cry every day if it means we, as a nation, won't have to suffer again. 

Looking back, I began thinking... Was there anything I had missed out? Was there anything worth holding on to? Was there anything I'd rather do? Would it bring me comfort if I say I have no regrets? It's not that difficult because there's no use thinking of things that were already done. I used to think that way, and it's become much easier to look at where I am today, who I am. What can I do more? Do less? I'm still learning how to love myself. This year I'm cleaning my closet again, asking the same questions: What do I not need? What do I need to let go? What is it that holds no value to me anymore? I allow myself to receive by giving. I'm freeing up the once cluttered space, and maybe, slowly... it's not the only thing that's gonna open up. Time flies quickly. It passes by whether we like it or not. Whether we move or not. Better make the most out of the days, and sleep at night as much as you can. The steps are steep; the road, long and winding. ...

My pages are coming to an end I have to learn to write with my left Do you notice how the heat stays even After the sun has left? As if the sun hasn't gone at all As if the sun wouldn't be gone long My back hurts too I feel so old Why is it As we age we turn into gold? Why is it, when I was kid I felt as if I knew every little thing? (This handwriting tells me only half of myself is an adult; the other half is always a child) Looking at this makes me ask myself: Did this really come from me? Did I really make this? Is this mine?

The last time I wrote in the dark, the only light coming from my phone's screen, was in our province, January of 2018. I've liked that piece since then, no matter how tragic it looks at the beginning. But no matter how tragic it looks at the beginning, it ends on a hopeful note. And it's good enough for me. And now that I'm in a similar situation, I can't help but think that I could write something like that again. Somehow, I'd like to prove we can still make something beautiful out of the dark; something good out of frustration; something comforting out of the discomfort.

I sometimes wake up at 1 or 3 a.m. and I write. The moment I meet with my thoughts, I write. Write each day, as if it's the only thing you know. Write, even if you don't know how. Write still, without feeling sorry for yourself. Write, to release the frustration of not being good enough. Write, to ease the longing of not writing. Write, to make a promise. Write, as if telling your day to someone you love. Write, because it means so much to you. Write, knowing it's a suffering you choose, maybe for the rest of your days. Write, knowing you just have to do it. Write, but don't forget there's as much happiness to it as despair. Write, and not forget. Write, because you were made to.

As a fellow writer and a reader of her work, I can't help but to think of Ssamba, the author of Fluttering Feelings.

There's this interesting memory where I lied to my teacher in 3rd grade.

The beauty of a shooting star is that it shows unexpectedly.

In the early times, there was only darkness in the World. Alongside Low Spirits or humans, High Spirits were born in the Land to be nurtured as light entities, whose duty was to give light in the sky when the time comes. Certain humans were assigned to assist each High Spirit until they reach the right age to fulfil their tasks.

The first time I remember hearing Debussy’s Clair de lune and Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy was during games of Solitaire,  Hearts, and FreeCell with my sister in the old desktop computer at home.

The only thing I'm proud of is my cooking. My writing needs more exercise, though.

My mom, as I've seen is not like a typical mother. My dad, in his own way, is a different father.

There came a minor tremor a few minutes ago.

Meditation is like the bridge connecting the spirit and the physical. It's where they meet. (Written:  13Dec2019)