The haze over the Metro is thicker today, mixed with the smoke of thousands of candles and the sweat of a million bodies. It’s the feast of the Black Nazarene. On the news, I see the sea of maroon and yellow—devotees scrambling, climbing over each other just to touch a rope or a piece of wood.
They call it "panata"—a sacred promise.
I’m sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling fan, wondering what it feels like to believe in something that strongly. When you’re in your thirties and the only "procession" you’ve joined lately is the one from the bed to the kitchen and back, the passion of the crowd feels alien. I feel like a ghost watching a living world. I’ve tried to start this blog three times this week alone, only to delete the header because I felt I had no "cross" worthy of being carried.
But then I saw an old woman on the screen, barefoot and smiling despite the crush of the crowd. She wasn't asking for a miracle; she was just saying "thank you" for another year of breathing.
Maybe my "panata" for this year is just that: to keep breathing. To keep hitting "publish" even when my hands shake. If you’re at home tonight, feeling like you’ve lost your way while everyone else has a destination, it’s okay. We don’t all have to carry the cross today. Some of us are just trying to stand up.
0 comments:
Post a Comment