Tinig ng Timawa

XVII Angel A.

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Tinig ng Timawa

I have been a slave of my own thoughts and emotions. Caged inside an endless pit of what if’s and insecurities. Chained by the idea of trying to be someone who I’m not. It was as if I am living in a shadow. Perhaps, a puppet of my own misery. However, those gloomy days are over. I have grown strong, learned to love myself and embraced my imperfections. I am now a Timawa—a freeman. We need to make a noise for us to be heard. This is my voice—Ang Tinig ng Timawa.  

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During this pandemic, we must..

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One with the Sea

The moon and the stars above serve as our light as we lay in front of the peaceful sea. It’s just me and her under the beautiful full moon of November. We can hear the music from the club, even when we’re a few meters away from the resort. It has become my hobby to sneak out and stargaze with her here. This place has a big rock forming a letter C and has some coconut trees surrounding it, making it look like it’s hidden.

We used to spend our time here together. From our mini picnic dates to random talks about our future. I could still remember how she was so happy receiving the promise ring that I got her on our anniversary. Her hooded dark looks so happy, and the freckles in her cheeks and her smile from ear to ear moved me.

 I love her.  I adore how she handles people and become the light to the people around her. She’s always full of energy and surprises. However, she looks different today. She looks tired and unhappy.

 I used to feel calm whenever I hear the sound of the waves. However, tonight, I can feel the rage that is awakening within me. The storm that is running through my veins and the thought of longing for someone struck me, like a hundred volts of lightning.

 The coldness of my system has embraced the whole of me as I look at her. Waves of memories keep rushing in that I fear I cannot handle my own emotions. As I look and examine her, I am slowly filled with questions and what-ifs. She’s not even wearing the ring that I got her. How cruel.

 “Is this our end?” I finally ask.

 She only looks at me gently and smiled weakly. She’s hurting. And so am I.

I’ve been holding and keeping, trying, and fighting. Only for her to let go because we were drowning? I know she loves the ocean but I never knew she’ll choose to be one with it. How unfair of her to think that I would still want to live knowing that she’s gone.

 “I love you. Please, let me go.” She cried.

 I wake up feeling the heat from the sun. I look around only to find no clues of her. She left. I watch how the trees dance in the rhythm of the wind, how the birds fly so freely, and how one wave clash from one to another. I will let the storm pass away. Letting the waves take this heavy burden.

 I will always look and yearn for her. For even if she’s now one with the ocean her memories will live within me. Like a tattoo inked in my skin and sketched in my brain. I will always remember her kindness, love, and sacrifices, enough for me to live—and for her to die.

Written by: Angel A.

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The Pride of Jane: An English Novelist in Action

An English writer who first gave the novel its distinctly modern character through her treatment of ordinary people in everyday life. Published some novels that are now famous and vividly depicted English middle-class life during the early 19th century. She’s the author of the romantic novel Pride and Prejudice that is quite popular for over two centuries after her death— she’s known as Jane Austen.

 Among her completed novels are the Sense and Sensibility (1811), Mansfield Park (1814), and Emma (1855). Her works are published anonymously and gained recognition among readers and scholars in the 20th century.

She was born in Hampshire village of Steventon, where her father, the Reverend George Austen, was rector. Their father was a scholar who encouraged the love of learning in his children. His wife, Cassandra (née Leigh), was a woman of ready wit, famed for her impromptu verses and stories. Jane Austen’s lively and affectionate family circle provided a stimulating context for her writing.

Austen died on July 18, 1817, at the age of 41 in Winchester, Hampshire. Although she died, her literary works are still living and her styles have been so widely adopted and adapted by other authors up until now. Now, this is what we call the Pride of Jane Austen.

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Isasayaw kita..

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Those memories of last December night.

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Let bygones be bygones.

Keep in Mind

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What did the bee say to the rose?

Hi Bud!