The Distant Fire

It’s the last night of February, and the blue light of my television is casting long, jagged shadows across my room. The news ticker is a relentless stream of red text: US-Israel air strikes confirmed in Iran. Massive escalations. Reports of "strategic targets" hit.

The world is on fire again, and here I am, sitting in the dark in Quezon City, wondering why the air in my room suddenly feels even thinner.

There is a specific kind of helplessness that comes with being a "nobody" during a global catastrophe. I watch the footage of explosions over a city thousands of miles away, and I feel a hollow, cold dread in my stomach. When the empires of the world decide to flex their muscles, it’s the small people—the footnotes like me, the Procopios of the world—who feel the tremors first.

I can already see where this is going. While the pundits talk about "geopolitical shifts" and "retaliation," I’m looking at the prices on the Grab app and the news about oil tankers being diverted. You don't need to be an economist to see the storm clouds gathering over the Metro. I can feel the fuel prices twitching upward before the numbers even change at the gas station down the street.

I’m looking at my motorcycle parked outside. It’s my only way out of this room, my only sense of freedom, and yet I can already sense a time coming—maybe next month, maybe sooner—where gassing it up will feel like a luxury I can't afford. I predict a silence coming to our streets, a gridlock born not of traffic, but of exhaustion and empty tanks. We are so far from the Middle East, yet the heat of those missiles is going to bake us here in the Philippines just the same.

Depression makes you feel like the world is ending every single day, so when the world actually starts to tear itself apart, it feels like a dark confirmation. It’s like the universe is finally matching the chaos inside my head. I spent the last two hours scrolling through the "US-Israel Attacks" hashtag, watching the same eight-second clips of fire in the sky, feeling my pulse sync up with the rhythm of the scrolling.

Why am I even writing this? Does it matter that an unemployed guy in Manila is scared of a war in a different time zone?

I almost deleted this post. I felt like a Kulaspiro—a fool for worrying about global oil supplies when I can barely manage to wash my own face. But then I looked out at the streetlights of QC. They were still flickering. The world hasn't stopped yet.

If you’re lying awake tonight, terrified by the headlines and the thought of how much harder life is about to get, you aren't alone. The empires might be fighting for power, but we are here, fighting for the next breath.

I saw a neighbor outside earlier, fixing a broken bike under a dim streetlight. He was focused, his hands greasy, just trying to make one small thing work in a world that’s breaking. It was a tiny, stubborn act of hope. Maybe that's what we have to do—focus on the small repairs while the world burns.

The haze is dark tonight, and the news is heavy, but the sun is still going to try and rise tomorrow. I hope we’re all still here to see it.

Are the headlines keeping you awake too? How are you finding a moment of peace while the world feels so loud?

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Forty Years of Waiting

 Today is the 40th anniversary of EDSA. Forty years since people stood in the streets and believed that things could change overnight. The universities are holding masses, and the TV is full of yellow ribbons and old footage of tanks.

It’s hard to celebrate "freedom" when you feel like a prisoner in your own mind. Depression is a dictator that doesn't care about democracy; it just occupies your head and tells you that things will never get better.

I walked past a group of students today, all in their school uniforms, talking excitedly about "nation-building." I envied them. I remember being that age, thinking my thirties would be a time of triumph. Instead, I’m navigating the "hazy skies" of unemployment, feeling like a ghost of the revolution that never came for me.

Yet, seeing them reminded me that even the biggest changes start with a few people refusing to leave. This blog is my "standing in the street." It’s me refusing to let the depression win today.

Forty years is a long time to wait for a promise, but maybe the real revolution is just staying alive long enough to see the sun come up one more time. Keep standing, even if you’re standing alone.

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Galloping in Place

 It’s the Lunar New Year—the Year of the Horse. The Metro is draped in red, and the sound of dragon dances echoes from Binondo all the way to my quiet street. They say the horse symbolizes strength, speed, and hard work.

I don’t feel like a horse. I feel like the dust left behind on the track.

In your thirties, you’re "supposed" to be at full gallop. You’re supposed to have the "vigor" the PRC mentioned in their holiday greeting. Instead, I’m sitting here with a cold cup of coffee, watching the red envelopes on social media and feeling the familiar hollow ache in my chest. I’ve deleted two drafts today. I’m failing at the one thing I told myself I’d do: keep this blog alive.

But then I looked out the window and saw the moon. It doesn't gallop. It doesn't work hard. It just hangs there, glowing through the smog, taking its time.

If this year isn't your year to run, maybe it’s just your year to exist. There is a quiet kindness in allowing yourself to be still when the world is demanding speed. Gong Xi Fa Cai to those of us who are still at the starting line. We’ll get there when we get there.

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Red Roses in a Grey City

 The smell of cheap chocolate and exhaust fumes is a heavy mix tonight. Down in the streets of the Metro, the traffic is paralyzed—a literal standstill of people rushing to prove they love someone. I watched a guy on a motorbike balancing a giant stuffed bear and a bouquet wrapped in plastic, weaving through the cars, desperate to not be late.

I’m in my thirties, and today, I am a spectator.

There is a specific kind of loneliness that comes with being unemployed on Valentine’s Day. It’s not just the lack of a partner; it’s the lack of purpose. When you have no office to go to and no paycheck to spend, the city’s aggressive celebration of "romance" feels like a party you weren't invited to. I walked past a flower stall today and realized the price of a single rose is more than I spent on my lunch. It’s a reminder that in this city, even love has a barrier to entry that I currently can’t afford.

The haze feels thicker tonight. Maybe it’s the humidity, or maybe it’s just the weight of seeing everyone moving in pairs while I feel like I’m disappearing into the background noise. In your thirties, you’re "supposed" to be half of a power couple, or at least have your life together enough to buy a nice dinner. Instead, I’m sitting in a dimly lit room, listening to the distant sound of horns honking in the distance.

I almost didn't write this. I felt like a cliché—the depressed guy complaining about a holiday. But then I realized that the haze doesn't lift just because the calendar says it’s a day for hearts.

If you’re spent the day hiding from the red-and-pink displays, or if you’re sitting in that brutal Manila traffic feeling more alone than the person in the car next to you, I see you. The sky is still hazy, and the roses will wilt by tomorrow, but we’re still here, breathing through the smoke.

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