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Ibones, Philippines. Silapan, Indonesia. How does your personal history shape who you are? In wild solitude underneath the stars, Cebu dances to the beat of the night — the howling wind ebbs and flows, grazing the surface of calloused skin. Outside, the roar of the city punctures a cavernous wound within its already deteriorating palisades — the ruggedness of bare hands pulling against flesh and bone, against indestructible sinew. Cebu, in all its glory, is an unforgiving fusion of fuss and clamor.
The scent of violence buries itself underneath. My mother would often endlessly muse about her fading and, ultimately, forsaken dreams of leaving home — aspirations washed away by vicious, undulating tides. Longing laces the edges of her throat and translates the words that surge into the familiar resonance of disappointment — meanwhile I remain still, labored breaths concealed within the darkness.
In that moment, words became futile devices; my silence was the only solace I could muster. After her passing, I felt as though every corner of my hometown was yet another place with a waiting room I had once sat in — the sudden beeping of the hospital monitors, the piercing screech of hardwood doors pushing against tiled floors to welcome yet another patient, the mindless clacking of the cash machine accompanied by the monotonous narration of jumbled numbers.
Tell me, what was there left to be desired? To feel the tenacity of remorse tugging against the longing to forget. When does foolish longing turn to grief? I found myself hopelessly and utterly enticed by the same longing that plagued my mother. I felt as though I could swim out for miles, stirring even the untouched ripples of the ocean.
