5:12 Nov 14th, 2013 | 7 notes
Said the artisan who turns soft earthen mud into a wonderful craft of art. With every spin, with every touch, with every mold, he brings forth the beauty that no one else can ever see, that only he can perceive. In his eyes, I’m a strong vase — unbreakable and worth of a beautiful corsage.
Welcomed in his studio as a clay, I’m excited, yet to be molded. His first spin, started off with his subtle touch enveloping my chestnut-brown skin. Round at the bottom, elongated in the middle with slight curves on top — he slowly outlines the body of a wonderful vase. Am I, the clay who came from the stingiest hole ever carved, worth the beauty he molds me into? Am I, a soft deposit of unsupported kaolin, worth of the art he turns me into? The artisan knows I am. He knows.
The artisan continuously adds water to make me more flexible, to give him the benefit of molding me from his own eyes. Water — like obstacles and struggles in life — is thrown at me to help me to adapt to the changes in every spin of the clay machine. Water will strengthen me. Water will be my guard. Water will be my shield.
Spin after spin, I see myself — I’m liking what I see. The artisan who trusted me, the artisan who molded me delivered his promise. I am now a beautiful vase. Still, the artisan is not yet finished. He then tucked me away in the corner and creatively decorates my exteriors with lustrous designs of the world. The artisan adorned me with images of happiness and glee, with bits of sadness and melancholy. He’s making me experience life in full emotions etched in lines and swirls.
“It’s done.” the artisan said and he left.
I can’t thank him enough for what he has done. I want to return the favor back to the artisan — and the only thing that I can do, is to flourish and share the art to the world. I am a vase worth of a beautiful corsage. I am a vase capable of breaks and falls. I am a vase.
And I’ll be supporting the other young vases too.
We, the young vases of this prestige collection, may look fragile and flimsy. But strength isn’t measured on how we look outside. We are molded with that great capacity to be strong inside of us. We are strong jars capable of whatever you put us through, and whatever you put inside of us too.
Vases are an art — and an art, touches lives.
Yolanda8:01 Nov 7th, 2013 | 5 notes
Halos lahat ng kamag-anak ko nasa Eastern Samar at karamihan sa kanila ay pinapa-evacuate na. Ang bigat sa pakiramdam pag naririnig ko ‘yung kaba sa boses nila Papa habang kausap nila ‘yung mga tito ko sa Samar. Wala na daw kuryente sa lugar nung isa kong tito sa Borongan tapos naghahanda na sila sa Lola sa may Dolores. Naghahanda na din ‘yung parokya ng tito ko sa may San Julian. ‘Yung mga kamag-anak naman namin sa side nila Mama sa Natividad eh lumayo na sa may ilog.
Ang bigat sa pakiramdam pero alam ko makakaraos naman sila at magiging ligtas sila sa bandang huli.
Mornings in Starbucks11:51 Nov 7th, 2013 | 3 notes
I met Mr. F at that coffee shop.
It was 6am of that Thursday morning. A quiz was due on that day so I decided to stop by at my favorite coffee shop and review my lessons there. I mastered the art of “cram study” and with that method, modesty aside, I aced the quizzes and tests I’ve been studying on. I was ready.I was ready to face my written intellectual adversary —all I needed was the time to review.
“Excuse me miss, is this seat taken?”
In the middle of my focused studying, a voice suddenly surfaced from the coffee silence. I hesitated to lift my head up from the notes I’ve been studying but something urged me to look at this man. From my quick physical estimation, I think he’s in his 30s. A crisp office suit in black, with a blue necktie. His pants were perfectly ironed and his shoes were clean. His brown-colored hair was styled in the most appealing manner — waxed and yet, it was breathing. His face was smooth and white, sans the fact that his cheeks and forehead indicated signs of aging — fine wrinkles and dark spots. His eyelids delicately outlined his eyes in the most attractive way. His lips were thin and his nose was perfectly shaped. He was beautiful.
But something was wrong. I looked around the coffee shop and saw a lot of vacant tables and seats for him to be on. I was baffled. Why would someone like him share this small round wooden table with me?
I humbly allowed his presence in that same table. He carefully placed his cup of espresso in front of my notes and started talking his English in a fluid British manner. His accent was adorable, he sounded like Harry Potter. His words were perfectly spoken and his fluidity was evident. I never heard such man talk to me before. He was the first.
A quick exchange of basic information initiated a profound conversation. He talked about his love for coffee and his experiences when he was still a college student. To tell you the truth, I showed no interest in listening to him for I still need to study. But he just kept on talking and rambling. Being the most polite and obedient woman that I could be, I nodded in response and uttered short word phrases of “Ahh.” “Ok.” “I see.” and “Really?”
He smiled occasionally, and his cheeks would display the cutest dimple and then he’ll continue to talk again. In between those words, he would sip his coffee, breathe and talk again. He went on about that for like, 10 minutes or so? I couldn’t remember.
“You know, I just need someone to listen to me, so thank you, R.” then he left quickly and disappeared in my sight.
I sighed — then I continued to study.
Cubao12:00 Nov 6th, 2013 | 5 notes
I was with my two guy pals earlier in Cubao when I caught a climpse of two familiar faces. Oh yeah, that’s right… They’re from Tumblr! I was about to go near them and introduce myself when suddenly… I froze to where I stood. I walked back and hid behind a car. My friends were asking me what was wrong with me. Knowing that they’re the goofy type of friends, I didn’t tell them about the two bloggers that I’ve been dying to meet since I started as blackandwhitepanorama. I could almost imagine what could’ve happened..
They themselves would go to those two bloggers and introduce me and tell them all the shit and crazy things that exist in me;
Or they would push me to them, leading to a more awkward introduction.
Brrr. I shivered to the thought. "Nakita ko ‘yung mga ex ko." (I saw my exes) then I gestured to where those two bloggers are. They felt awkward about it and they didn’t bulge to make the scene any worse. We continued our walkathon and they could sense the uneasiness inside me.
They asked what was wrong, if I was still off with my “exes” and I just told them a common plot for meeting an ex type of story that is mostly depicted in novels and movies. I also added a personal "bakit ganito chuchuchuchu" thoughts which made my quivering and uneasiness justifiable. They bought the idea and we all went to the terminal where we always ride our bus home.
Before crossing the street, I stopped and told them that I prefer to be alone for the rest of the night. They looked worried but they eventually left me and they went home. I walked for hours and hours, wondering what happened to me back there.
I was this type of girl who is confident, always smiling, and friendly to the people that I meet but what… why…. ugh.