The scars of 23

A couple of weeks month late, but relevant all the same. As I’ve said a few times earlier, 2013 stands to be the one of the worst – if not the worst – years of my life. The year I’ve spent being 23, however, wasn’t as bad. There were lessons I’ve learned, some for the first time and some I had to learn again, and I have them to thank for making 23 better (while still painful) than 22.

(I’m in the middle of writing this and I just realized something very dire – I’m gonna have to apologize beforehand if this sounds way too much like Thought Catalog. That tone definitely wasn’t the intention; this list is for my own personal consumption as much as it is for anyone stumbling across this, needing any advice.)

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To the world

I’m alive! If anyone’s still coming here and looking for me, that is. I’ve just been terribly busy. There are things I’ve been meaning to write, but it just so happens that some priorities win out more than others.


My memories of Baguio are defined by the night. The journeys always seemed like longer, more entertaining affairs than when we were out and about in the city. Thus, I know and love Baguio better through the cold midnight wind, the only warmth being the orange of my beloved streetlights standing watch over the winding roads and their ghosts, and the sparse, quiet music that played on the radio in those wee small hours of the night.

11 years had been too long. I missed it so.

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When the world was new

This used to be great, you know – it was less about the heat and more about having fun together, doing as children do.

But time passes, leaves fall, winter winds come and go, and people grow up. Out of their old whims. Maintaining connections over the air instead of on the ground. Summers of old shelved away in boxes of memory.

Only the heat from the white-hot sun remains, stoking the flames of love that’s long lost its innocence; up until the wheel turns ’round again.

And it will; only you’ll be watching this time.