By: Ron Bariuan
She said look at me
So i looked but did not see
Her face was veiled with shadows
While the sun struck her back.
She asked me if she is beautiful
Asking if she’s even fun
I nodded not seeing
Blinded by the rays of the sun.
In This Circus Called Life
By: Ron Bariuan
Life can either make you or break you; that much we know. How you end up depends on how much of a pounding you took and how that pounding affected you. I have seen the strongest of men cower at the mere thought of a storm, and I’ve seen the weakest come out of one bruised and battered, yet stronger.
How old am I? Not old, but I’m certainly not getting any younger. My heydays are several humps behind me. I know there will be sporadic parties ahead, but you won’t see me headbanging anytime soon. In truth, age doesn’t really mellow you; maturity does. I’ve had my fair share of bruising and battering. Did I come out stronger? The truth is, I don’t know. I sure hope I did—or at least, that I will.
The thing about life is that the bruising and battering comes and goes, depending on the circumstances. The choices we make and the lives we lead create a potent recipe for a pounding if we aren’t careful, or if we simply care too little. This pounding comes in different strengths. It depends not only on the strength of the hands wielding the hammer, but also on how soft you are when the blow lands. Like storms of varying intensities, we emerge from the eye with different lessons learned.
The real journey begins after the storm—when you take those initial steps, when you begin to pick up the pieces. Little steps, piece by smaller piece. A smirk—just a little smirk each day. Strength comes with moving. Keep moving until the steps become a journey, until the pieces become whole, until the smirk becomes a smile, until the smile becomes laughter, and until laughter becomes life.
But until then… we keep moving.
Doldrums
chest heaving,
time ticking
nerves pounding,
heart drumming,
on and on ond on
there’s life
after a storm
it creeps and its drawn
but we can move
on and on and on
there is no turn in this bend
just a streched of a long dirt road
unlit when darkness descends
unforgiving when coldness holds
the sad song plays
and beat skips slow
the strings play along
and the notes dragged
on and on and on
there is no turn in this bend
just a streched of a long dirt road
an eternal stretch without and end
and my back burdened with the load
keep pushin on
on and on and on…
keep digging on
till all the pain is gone
Reflection on Trust and Doubt
By: Ron Bariuan
When you find your trust has been broken by the people you cared for, would you ever trust them again? It took me some time to finally put this into words, for I was never one who could model trustworthiness myself. So here it is: my reflection on trust and doubt.
Trusting again is never easy. Once it has been broken within a relationship, it becomes a choice: try again or let it all go. The years you’ve spent together don’t necessarily bring you closer; sometimes, those years make things too ordinary and familiar. Often, familiarity coupled with routine breeds boredom, and it is when boredom strikes that trust is broken.
The question is: will you choose to try again? And are you sure you want to? I have seen relationships torn apart by betrayal and hampered by distrust. People try to get back together, but trust, once broken, becomes a choice. There is no such thing as “mending” when it comes to trust. Trust is like glass; once shattered, mending it will not make it whole again. Trust becomes disposable once broken because a repaired version will always show the cracks—and cracks mean it is fragile. It is only a matter of time before it falls apart again.
Trust is handled differently by the weak and the strong. The weaker ones attempt to repair what is broken; the strong-hearted can discard the old, broken trust and replace it with something new. It is easier said than done, but it is the only way forward. I hear people say, “It is never easy to bring back my trust once it’s broken.” That is correct. It isn’t easy, so why try bringing it back at all? Instead, try to trust anew. Fully.
“Half-trust” is never a solution. You either trust or you do not; there is no halfway, no half-baked attempts, and no gray area. Trust is something you must give fully, not cracked or mended. Half-trust is just another name for half-doubt. And doubt is a parasite. A sliver of doubt can make every effort crumble. No matter what you do, doubt consumes everything once you give in to it.
So, it is either trust fully or let go. All your efforts will be in vain if they are mixed with distrust. Every action your partner takes will be viewed with suspicion, even the most innocent ones, and that is exhausting for you both. It will destroy the foundation you’ve tried to rebuild, and you will find yourself with nothing left but hate. And hate goes nowhere.
Trust or let go. Those are your two choices. If you choose to hold on, you must let go of your doubt. Start fresh. Take a leap of faith that you have both learned from your mistakes, and that this time, you will get it right.
Equinox
Wandering feet goes far
A wandering heart goes farther
When sole travels in distance beyond trails and harbors
The soul travels through life not gardens and arbors
What lies beyond the mist that thy eyes cannot see?
What’s with the unknown and unseen that beckons thyself to thee?
Was it an adventure worthy of your childhood dreams?
Or just a romanticized folly of a one man’s whim?
The steps taken that brought you smile and wants
Are the same steps that bore angst and grunts
Now you stop moving as the tide ebbed and sways
Hereto we conclude who goes and who stays
Some steps cannot be retraced as they usually do,
So I’ll plow ahead, painfully, haltingly pushin’ through
Travel in arches and curves and rings and circles
Till I find myself again, right next to you.
How A Tulip Came To Be
Drip drop like drizzle on the window pane
Clear puddles forming, gentle, silent, sane
Drowning little marks of age left on the glass
Prints vanishing ever slowly along with its bitter past
As the tributary makes its way to the darkened ground
Parched ground moisting, and breathes and bursts
Flowing through wounds that healing latterly found
Once devoid of certitude now hopeful with trusts
How time have forsaken this seed so small
Taken for granted, discarded and remembered not at all
Now embraced by moisture, the seed loses all fear
Touched by love and it begun to stir
Maybe the seed that was once bashful is now opening to life
Maybe a small drizzle opened its colorful petals to thee
Maybe love has erased her pain and hurt and strife
Maybe this is how a tulip came to be.
Ortigas Center, Pasig City, 04/24/16 3:42 AM
Autumn Of Our Lives
I could think of so many excuses why I refuse to grow old. And why not? It seems only yesterday that we were in college. The “prime of our lives,” people call it; back when we were fun and cared little if the air-conditioning system was blowing a winter gale right into our young faces. How long has it been? Six years? Seven? A decade? I’ve lost track. Honestly, I stopped counting four years ago—or was it five? Maybe six. Truthfully, I’ve lost track of that, too.
Several days ago, I learned that a close friend of mine from college had fallen ill. My immediate reaction was to ask myself: Are we really that old? Or has this thing called life finally found a way to catch up with us?
College was the glory days—back when we were leaner and never had to check ourselves for love handles. We partied like there was no tomorrow; we were bulletproof, cocksure of our steps, and found music in our own laughter. All those days are behind us now. We have gained several pounds and grown a little heavy in the middle.
We have lost contact with most of our college friends. The roads of life lead to different destinations, and we face them all separately. We’ve been tested by people, by time, and by circumstance. We fought different battles, waged our own wars, and found hate even among friends—and love in the most unlikely places. When we found ourselves adrift, aimlessly wandering in uncertainty, we learned that family will always be home. Looking back now, I realize how far apart we are from our college selves. We have drifted so far apart, indeed.
We never thought of sickness back then. Back then, we were immortals. But that was a young man’s folly. I’m beginning to feel my Achilles tendinitis now, more often than before. I’ve started dropping into gyms every now and then because I worry about my blood pressure.
How time flies—but then again, time is expected to fly. Right now is just temporary; the present will soon be tomorrow’s past. Gone are the days of “come-what-may,” but who ever said our best days are behind us? There are always two ways to look at things: with a smile or with regret. I choose to smile at my regrets and choose to believe that the best days are still ahead. I could find so many excuses for why I refuse to grow old, but why should I? I’m having too much fun getting old each day.(11/06/13 6:42 PM, Ortigas Ctr, Pasig City).
A Reflection on the Sun
The dawn is a promise, painted in hesitant watercolor. The sunrise does not arrive with a bang, but with a slow, gentle exhale of light, pushing back the cool, formless shadows of night. It is youth: all potential and fragile hope. The world is new, soft-edged, and anything seems possible under that tender, pink-and-golden sky. We stand in that light, feeling its gentle warmth, believing the day ahead is infinite.
Then comes the fierce, clarifying heat of the midday sun. This is the long stretch of our lives—the labor, the passion, the building and doing. The sun is no longer a suggestion but a statement, a brilliant, blazing force that banishes all ambiguity. We work under its weight, feel its intensity on our skin, and are defined by it. This is the era of growth, of strength, of casting long, distinct shadows. We are so busy being alive in this brilliant furnace that we seldom notice the sun’s slow, imperceptible arc toward the western horizon.
But it does move. And the sunset, for all its spectacular, fiery grandeur, is defined by loss. The light, now slanted and rich, gilds the world in a melancholy beauty, a poignant reminder of what is passing. The vibrant oranges and deep purples are breathtaking precisely because they are fleeting. We watch, hushed, as the light surrenders, not with the hope of dawn, but with the quiet dignity of a conclusion.
The cycle is the lesson. The gentle promise of sunrise must inevitably burn into the demanding heat of noon, which must, in turn, soften into the letting-go of dusk. Our youth, that dewy dawn, is not lost to the heat of our prime; it is transformed by it. And the heat of our achievements is not erased by the sunset of later years, but is instead remembered in its warm, fading glow. We come to see that a life, like a perfect day, is not measured by the endurance of its midday heat, but by the full, breathtaking sweep of its light—from the first silent blush to the final, grateful surrender to the stars.
Kataxilan
May allergy ako sa salitang tax. Pagnakikita ko ang salitang ito sa aking sa dyaryo or sa tv at lalong lalo na sa aking payslip parang di ako makahinga, naninikip ang dibdib na para bang pinipiga unti-unti ang kaluluwa palabas sa aking magandang katawan. (Emphasis on Magandang Katawan) Libre po ang mangarap, at habang walang patong na tax ang pangangarap, nilulubos lubos ko na.
Kanina napabalita na itatax na daw ang government contributions katulad ng SSS, anak ng bibeng duling, muli akong inatake ng aking allergy. Biglang nangati ang aking lalamunan na para bang gustong sumigaw, biglang nanakit ang aking mata na parang naluluha. Tax nanaman, lahat na yata ng bagay ay tinatax ng mga taga BIR ngayon. Kulang na lang pati yung kakarampot na kita ng mga nangangalakal ng basura ay bubuwisan pa nila.
Gusto kong linawin na walang mali sa pagbubuwis, obligasyon yun ng kahit sinong mamamayan para tulungang umangat ang ekonomiya ng bansa, at para pondohan ang mga proyektong pang imprastraktura na kailangan ng bayan ( nalulunod ako sa aking tagalog, dinudugo ako) ang siste lang eh sa kaninong bulsa ba aabot ang buwis ko?
Ang pagbubuwis ba sa lahat ng kinikita at ipon ng taumbayan ang solusyon sa problemang pinansyal ng bansa o ang korapsyon sa gobyerno. Ang BIR na nagpapaukala ng bagong buwis ngayon ang isa sa pinaka korap na ahensya ng gobyerno. Ang dapat po sigurong gawin ay linisin muna nila ang kanilang bakuran bago magisip ng panibagong pasanin para sa taumbayan. Or kung di pwedeng tigilan ang korapsyon eh baka pwedeng Itax na din ang mga kinukurakot ng mga mapagsamantala, mas malaking tax ang katumbas niyan kasi malakihan din naman ang ninanakaw ng mga yan eh. Ang akin as suggestion lang. Kung ayaw, okay lang naman.
Imaginariums
Nagising ako ng ala una ng umaga. ang ingay ng pusa ng kapitbahay namin, naglalampungan ang mga hinayupak. Siguro talagang wala sa bokabularyo ng mga pusa ang salitang “discreet” o talaga lang mahilig magpasikat ang mga hinayupak at nang -iinggit lang talaga. Oo alam kong wala akong sex for a long time pero di ko kailangan ang iba para ipamukha sa akin yun, much less, pusa! Ang ingay, pinilit kong hagilapin yung airsoft riffle ko sa dilim. Sa isip isip ko, maistorbo ko lang tong mga to at mabitin silang pareho amanos na kami.
Pagkahanap ko ng riffle pumuwesto ako sa bintana pero sa kasamaang palad, hindi ko makita kung nasaan ang mga hinayupak, siguro dahil sa madilim or siguro mali ako, alam din siguro nila ang salitang “discreet”. paksyet! Bumalik ako sa higaan na masama ang loob, di ako makabawi, di na din ako makatulog. paksyet talaga.
Naglalaro ang isip ko. Ang di ko mawari ay kung bakit sa lahat ng pwedeng isipin, naiisip kong Happy place ang imaginarium ni Vincent Van Gogh at Nakakamangha ang imaginarium ni Guillermo del Toro. wierd. nababaliw na yata ako.
So bumangon ako para manood ng TV, nanood ako ng documentary about EDSA 25 years after the people power. Naisip ko, aantukin ako sigurado nito, medyo boring ang narration ng dokyu. Ang daming mukha ng edsa ngayon, naisip ko tuloy yung kunduktor ng bus nung isang araw na nagtatawag ng pasahero habang nakatayo ako sa crossing, Panay ang sigaw niya ng ” Buni, Guadalopi, Ayala, Buni, Guadalopi, Ayala” Sa isip isip ko, “Buni? di ba makati yun?”
Hininaan ko ang volume ng TV, wala na yung mga pusang umaatungal. Pinatay ko ang TV, bumalik ako sa kama. Humiga at pumikit, mayamaya parang may naghahabulan sa bubong ng kapit-bahay, maya maya ay katahimikan sinundan ng atungal ng pusa na parang baby na umiiyak. Round 2 na nila. Paksyet talaga.
Buhay nga naman!
YELO'S WORLD 
