But the pavement lies.

Sometimes it splits
without warning,
like someone forgot to finish the blueprint.
Sometimes it rises, cracked,
like it’s tired of holding everyone’s weight.

And me?
I came with shoes laced for speed,
heart trained for the final lap,
told by teachers, parents, pastors—
just follow the path,
just keep your head down,
just trust the signs.

But the signs change.

One day it says “merge.”
Next day, “dead end.”
Then a kid with a marker rewrites it to say
“you’ll never make it.”

I’ve seen roads where the asphalt peels like skin.
Where people trip, fall,
pretend they didn’t.
Get up. Laugh.
Bleed quietly into their socks.

Expectations don’t always tell you
the road can flood.
That sometimes you build a map,
only for the city to reroute it overnight.

They say success is a highway.
Fast. Loud. Glorious.

But I’ve found more truth
in the silence of narrow alleys.
In the feel of my soles
against gravel.

I expected shortcuts.
Got detours.

Expected green lights.
Got intersections with blinking yellows,
and no one to tell me
if it’s my turn to go.

Some friends flew past.
Engines roaring.
I waved.

Others stalled.
I stayed.
Held their hand while the world honked behind us.

And in those moments,
I realized—

maybe the road isn’t built to serve my pace.
Maybe the road doesn’t care.

But my feet?

They still move.

Even when the pavement cracks,
even when the stripes fade,
even when I’m not sure
if this path leads home or nowhere at all.

I walk.

Not because I’m sure,
but because I can.

And sometimes that’s enough
to lay down
the next stone.

They say,
smile through the pain.
And I tried.
I really tried.
Till my cheeks hurt more than my chest.

“Don’t be so negative,”
they say—
as if naming the darkness
somehow made it darker.
As if sadness were a stain
and silence would bleach it clean.

I was drowning,
but they handed me glitter.
“Think happy thoughts,”
they said,
as if my body were a Pinterest board
and not a battleground.

I learned early—
cry quietly.
Don’t make people uncomfortable.
If you must be sad,
make it brief,
and smile right after
to prove you’re still worth keeping around.

But let me ask you—

Who decided that joy
was more holy than grief?

Who sold us this idea
that to be positive
is to be whole?

Because the world is burning,
people are tired,
bills are rising,
and you want me to
manifest good vibes?

I’m sorry.
No.
Not today.

I don’t want your pastel-colored affirmations
pasted over real cracks.

I don’t want to “choose peace”
if it means denying my truth.

Some days
the only honest thing I can say
is that I’m not okay.
And that has to be enough.

You don’t tell someone bleeding out
to visualize clotting.

You don’t tell someone in a storm
to think sunshine thoughts.

You sit with them.
You shelter them.
You say,
“This is hard.”
You say,
“I see you.”
You say nothing,
but you stay.

So why can’t we do that
with sadness?

Why do we fear
our own reflection
when it frowns back?

There is no growth
without rot.
No spring
without cold.

You can’t keep skipping
to the part of the movie
where everything is resolved.

Some scenes need
to play out
in real time.

Sometimes,
you need to scream.
Sometimes,
you need to cancel plans.
Sometimes,
you need to lie on the floor
and feel the weight of everything
you’ve been pretending
doesn’t exist.

Because here’s the thing:
negativity
isn’t the enemy.
It’s the signal.

It’s the check engine light
on the soul.

And no matter how hard
you try to ignore it,
it won’t go away
until you stop
and look under the hood.

I’m not saying
live in your pain.
I’m saying
visit it when it knocks.
Give it tea.
Let it speak.

Then,
when it’s ready,
let it leave.

Healing isn’t linear.
It’s not a steady climb.
It’s messy.
Cyclical.
Exhausting.

But it’s real.

And I want real
more than I want
“good vibes only.”

So to anyone listening—
to the one holding in tears
because someone told you
they’re “too much,”

to the one exhausted
from pretending that every day
is a gift,

to the one who’s tired
of being someone else’s inspiration
when they just want to rest—

you don’t have to smile right now.

You don’t have to fake light
to be loved.

Let your darkness speak.

You are not less
for being honest.
You are not broken
for being tired.
You are not weak
for needing time.

You’re human.

And that is enough.

Apples and oranges.

I don’t know who decided that.

But you’re only likely to like one.

Or that liking both means you’re indecisive.

That’s kind of dumb, right?

Apples are easy.

You wash them, bite in, that’s it.

Crunchy, clean, done.

They’re dependable.

Oranges…

They take more effort.

You have to peel them,

your fingers get sticky,

and sometimes there’s that one stringy part that just won’t come off.

But I like them.

I mean—sometimes, anyway.

There’s something about opening an orange

and getting that sudden burst of smell.

Feels a little like summer.

I used to think I was more of an apple person.

I could eat one every day back in college.

Red Delicious, usually. Even though I low-key hated how mealy they get.

But then I started eating oranges, too.

Mandarin oranges.

My wife bought a bag and left them on the table.

And I would love eating those.

Didn’t plan to. Just happened.

That’s the thing, isn’t it?

People want to make it neat.

They want to say—this or that.

One or the other.

And maybe that works for some things.

But not fruit.

Not people either.

I can like apples for what they are.

And oranges too.

Even if they’re not the same.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe you don’t always have to compare.

Maybe you just eat what you’re in the mood for.

And stop pretending your choice means something about who you are.

Or maybe I’m just overthinking fruit.

I do that sometimes.

So,
thank you.

Not the type I say when someone gives me an extra straw.
Not the sweet kind, wrapped in ribbon.
Just—
thank you. Full stop.
No smile. No fanfare.

To the failure I carried like a worn ID,
thank you for making me sit still
long enough to hear my own voice
when it wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

To heartbreak,
thank you for making food taste bitter
so I’d finally notice the times it didn’t.
For the way I now pause
before swallowing.

For that one jab during COVID—
I flinched harder than I needed to.
Not because it hurt,
but because my body remembered
how it once didn’t want to keep going.
Thank you for that.
Strangely.

I sat on a bench once,
in a plaza that didn’t care about my story.
I watched people pass like nothing in them was breaking.
I felt invisible.
Which was painful—
and oddly,
safe.

Thank you to that silence.
You didn’t hug me.
You didn’t fix it.
But you stayed.

To the taho vendor
who called me “boss” when I felt like anything but—
thank you.
I didn’t know you were anchoring me that morning.
I just thought I was hungry.

To the girl I wrongly accused,
I’m sorry.
Also—thank you.
Because the shame of that moment
made me think twice
before assuming again.

Some pain arrives loud.
Mine was soft,
like fog.
Like sitting in a cold room waiting for warmth
but forgetting to stand up and switch on the light.

And when I was too tired to even think of getting better,
I told myself:
Padayon lang.
I didn’t always believe it.
But I said it anyway.

Better days ahead, right?

Who knows.
Still—thank you
to the weak body,
the unfinished prayers,
the stutters in my voice
when I tried to say something honest.

On the last day of med school,
I wasn’t proud.
I was just relieved.
Which, honestly, felt better.
And maybe that’s gratitude, too.
The quiet kind.
The kind that doesn’t clap for itself.

So this is not an ode.
Not a lesson.
Just a small, personal ramble.
A nod to all the aches
that didn’t kill me,
but didn’t cheer for me either.

Just a soft
thank you.
Full stop.
That’s all I’ve got.
And somehow—
it’s enough.

II.
My old soles bore the stains of toil,
Threadbare, but steady in the fray.
These newcomers first kissed the soil
Of Iloilo’s Christmas Day.

III.
Blood on the toe box, subtle red—
From patients reaching for relief,
While I knelt low or bowed my head
Beside a pulse, beneath their grief.

IV.
They walked where fields and city meet—
Through rows of trikes and rough terrain,
By sidewalks cracked beneath my feet,
And alleys washed with evening rain.

V.
The stairs that creaked in borrowed homes,
The Latin chants from church nearby,
The sewing hum, like whispered poems,
The silent nights I’d question why.

VI.
Now here they sit on colder floors,
Across the world, but not estranged—
Though gout once kept them near the door,
They’ve borne with me through all I’ve changed.

VII.
Baskug, like faith, they held their ground—
Though scuffed, they kept my purpose true.
A quiet strength, without the sound,
They marched with me. I march with you.