I consider myself lucky every day that I am only a few seconds away from streaming movies and documentaries online. Unlike in the golden days of physical piracy, when you had to go to Quiapo to catch up and buy old and new films on DVDs and CDs. Which, might I add, was an experience back then. After lining up at the street stalls, one would eventually find themselves digging through a pile of plastic DVD packages trying to find a good film. After you found a film, the store vendor would usually play it on a small TV to “test” whether the film quality was good and if it ran smoothly. We would usually buy about four (4) movies, which I would then watch repeatedly for the entirety of the week. Almost to the point that I would get scolded by my grandmother, saying, “You’ve already watched that.” Then again, we did not have cable TV, so what choice did I have?Although, if there was one film franchise that I repeatedly played, it would be Jurassic Park. I had a fascination with the franchise because, unlike my other DVDs and CDs, it came in a larger package. Larger package DVDs usually meant that the DVD contained more than one (1) film, usually a film franchise or a set of movies produced by an actor/actress. Additionally, the visuals for the first installment were nothing short of magical to me. I could still vividly remember hearing the satellite phone ringtone of the third installment and getting goosebumps. Obviously, playing the film repeatedly would lead to damage. It was my most damaged DVD, next to Barney, who, might I add, was also a dinosaur. It came to a point that the film would slow down and stop at a particular point, and my heart would start to beat faster and faster because the moment that I saw the DVD logo again, it was definitely a goner.

While writing, I learned that there in fact is a Dinosaur day celebrated every 1st of June

As the last days of my studies at Morayta are numbered and my college years draw to a close, I find myself reflecting on the special reason I chose to study in this area.On an ordinary day, I am often out with friends. Yet there are moments, during long breaks or at lunch, when I suddenly and speedily disappear right after class. I turn off my cellular data and become unreachable. Even if you ask me about it in the next class, I would rarely explain why. Many have tried to follow me, but I only lead them to familiar places when I know they are trailing me. In those moments, I detach from the world, emptying my mind and heart of whatever burdens they hold. I do this at San Sebastián or in the FEU chapel.When I began my college journey, immediately after receiving my certificate of enrollment, I went to Baste and prayed silently before the image of the Blessed Virgin and Saint Sebastian. I asked for the grace to face the years ahead with courage despite fear, joy despite troubles, wisdom despite trends, and unshakable faith amid uncertainty. This practice was not new, as it reaches back to seventh grade, when I would ride my bicycle to the nearby church and quietly contemplate in the adoration chapel almost every day.One might easily say I have always been prayerful, although I must admit that one of the reasons I went was for the air-conditioning. Still, it offered both physical and spiritual comfort beneath the scorching afternoon sun. I also visited the chapel dedicated to the Holy Child at Aurora Pijuan, where I offered my dreams and ambitions for the coming years. Most, if not all, came true.

The Fatima Chapel of the university is surrounded by the works of National Artists Francisco, Abueva,
and Manansala. More than the spiritual aspect, I have always been glad of the opportunity to be there; Studying and praying, yet at the same time feeling as if I were inside a museum.

I have always liked the architecture of this shrine despite its somewhat modern style, as the walls of the entire structure narrow toward the altar, emphasizing it even more.

Besides Baste, every Thursday, especially on the first of the month. I would go to St. Jude near the palace to attend Mass. Sometimes, on ordinary days, I would simply sit in silence, detach from the world, and observe my surroundings. For instance, I noticed that the placement of Christ’s feet on the crucifix at the altar was uneven on the suppedaneum. I also loved the walk to and from St. Jude, as the greenery of Mendiola provided a quiet relief.On Fridays, I usually went to the Nazarene Basilica, and on Saturdays I would visit a Marian church, whether at Baste, Sta. Cruz, or Santísimo-UST. During midterms or finals, I often traveled farther, to Antipolo. At those times, deeply immersed in review sessions and late-night studies, sleepless, at most, I would go to the Shrine of Our Lady of Good Voyage to conclude it all. I always made sure to get a window seat for the ride up the hilly terrain so I could look back at the metro below. I found it easier to pray when I was away from the places I was used to and at a higher altitude. Perhaps it was the thought of being closer to heaven, where everything below, whether intrinsic or extrinsic, seemed small.

I have long held the conviction that I should weigh the value of things before committing to them, for the value I assign determines the effort I am willing to give. This applies to life as well as to every achievement. Before high school competitions, I would often visit the cemetery, wandering among the graves to remind myself that everything gained in this world is fleeting, subject to decay and judgment. Passing the tombs of people whose names endure on bills, schools, and books, I would reflect on how death is the ultimate equalizer and the final destiny of humankind. It is exactly there that much of my persistence and courage are rooted; it is another thing entirely to remember such truths if one is never directly confronted with them.Immediately after high school, the pandemic arrived. Continuing a four-year habit, I found more time for frequent church visits, almost daily at Santo Domingo. Walks or bike rides were accompanied by liturgical songs; reflection, prayer, and quiet observation followed. The image of La Naval was gazed upon, and the Despedida played upon leaving. In those days, when resources were scarce, when I had to make do with what was available, and when rapid adjustments in responsibility and judgment were required, it seemed best to entrust time and work to a guiding hand.That guidance persisted throughout my college years. Each work and study was offered with the hope that it might contribute incrementally toward a vision of the future and that, when redirection was needed, I might be granted the courage to continue moving forward.

Although considered morbid by many, I have always had a fascination with cemeteries, as they offer lessons in history and poignant moments of reflection and imagination through their very visuals.
Then again, Memento Mori.

As the last days of my studies at Morayta are numbered and my college years draw to a close, I find myself reflecting on the special reason I chose to study in this area.On an ordinary day, I am often out with friends. Yet there are moments, during long breaks or at lunch, when I suddenly and speedily disappear right after class. I turn off my cellular data and become unreachable. Even if you ask me about it in the next class, I would rarely explain why. Many have tried to follow me, but I only lead them to familiar places when I know they are trailing me. In those moments, I detach from the world, emptying my mind and heart of whatever burdens they hold. I do this at San Sebastián or in the FEU chapel.When I began my college journey, immediately after receiving my certificate of enrollment, I went to Baste and prayed silently before the image of the Blessed Virgin and Saint Sebastian. I asked for the grace to face the years ahead with courage despite fear, joy despite troubles, wisdom despite trends, and unshakable faith amid uncertainty. This practice was not new, as it reaches back to seventh grade, when I would ride my bicycle to the nearby church and quietly contemplate in the adoration chapel almost every day.One might easily say I have always been prayerful, although I must admit that one of the reasons I went was for the air-conditioning. Still, it offered both physical and spiritual comfort beneath the scorching afternoon sun. I also visited the chapel dedicated to the Holy Child at Aurora Pijuan, where I offered my dreams and ambitions for the coming years. Most, if not all, came true.

The Fatima Chapel of the university is surrounded by the works of National Artists Francisco, Abueva,
and Manansala. More than the spiritual aspect, I have always been glad of the opportunity to be there; Studying and praying, yet at the same time feeling as if I were inside a museum.

I have always liked the architecture of this shrine despite its somewhat modern style, as the walls of the entire structure narrow toward the altar, emphasizing it even more.

Besides Baste, every Thursday, especially on the first of the month. I would go to St. Jude near the palace to attend Mass. Sometimes, on ordinary days, I would simply sit in silence, detach from the world, and observe my surroundings. For instance, I noticed that the placement of Christ’s feet on the crucifix at the altar was uneven on the suppedaneum. I also loved the walk to and from St. Jude, as the greenery of Mendiola provided a quiet relief.On Fridays, I usually went to the Nazarene Basilica, and on Saturdays I would visit a Marian church, whether at Baste, Sta. Cruz, or Santísimo-UST. During midterms or finals, I often traveled farther, to Antipolo. At those times, deeply immersed in review sessions and late-night studies, sleepless, at most, I would go to the Shrine of Our Lady of Good Voyage to conclude it all. I always made sure to get a window seat for the ride up the hilly terrain so I could look back at the metro below. I found it easier to pray when I was away from the places I was used to and at a higher altitude. Perhaps it was the thought of being closer to heaven, where everything below, whether intrinsic or extrinsic, seemed small.

I have long held the conviction that I should weigh the value of things before committing to them, for the value I assign determines the effort I am willing to give. This applies to life as well as to every achievement. Before high school competitions, I would often visit the cemetery, wandering among the graves to remind myself that everything gained in this world is fleeting, subject to decay and judgment. Passing the tombs of people whose names endure on bills, schools, and books, I would reflect on how death is the ultimate equalizer and the final destiny of humankind. It is exactly there that much of my persistence and courage are rooted; it is another thing entirely to remember such truths if one is never directly confronted with them.Immediately after high school, the pandemic arrived. Continuing a four-year habit, I found more time for frequent church visits, almost daily at Santo Domingo. Walks or bike rides were accompanied by liturgical songs; reflection, prayer, and quiet observation followed. The image of La Naval was gazed upon, and the Despedida played upon leaving. In those days, when resources were scarce, when I had to make do with what was available, and when rapid adjustments in responsibility and judgment were required, it seemed best to entrust time and work to a guiding hand.That guidance persisted throughout my college years. Each work and study was offered with the hope that it might contribute incrementally toward a vision of the future and that, when redirection was needed, I might be granted the courage to continue moving forward.

Although considered morbid by many, I have always had a fascination with cemeteries, as they offer lessons in history and poignant moments of reflection and imagination through their very visuals.
Then again, Memento Mori.

Although it's usually not allowed, my daily habit of arriving before opening and leaving near closing earned me permission from the librarian to eat and drink at my spot, provided I kept it clean and didn't let anyone see me.

Even on days when we only had online classes, I preferred to go to our college building, to my favorite spot: the window-panel seat at the library. It had a smooth study table for one, a comfortable chair, and a huge glass window to look down from. It was everything I had dreamed of years earlier.Looking down through that glass still reminds me of another scene. In seventh grade, I stood on the second floor looking down at my friends and knew my time with them was running out. They didn’t know. I paid close attention to those final months: the feel of the metal bar I leaned over, the smooth floor under my feet, the noise of conversations.It was an easy life. I could ride home, make a Nutella sandwich, turn on the aircon, and watch PewDiePie until dinner. On weekends, after shopping, we ate out at fancy restaurants in Alabang, Makati, or Taguig, unless we were out of town. On those night rides, I would watch the tall buildings of the business district through the car window and promise myself that one day I would own one of them, or at least an office in one. After two years, the life had consumed me. It was sweet, and it was lacking. I once thought: perhaps the real hell is not failing to get what you want, but getting everything you want and never being satisfied by it.

The first sign came from an old red bike. Throughout seventh grade, I rode it to school. I think it was even a girl’s bike, but I did not complain. It was given, it was practical, and I told myself I didn’t need to show off. I am confident with the fact that I would go home every day to a big house with a fishpond, a garden, a full pantry, and a music room, and to my air-conditioned bedroom with its water bed and Nutella.The bike was so old that one morning, late and rushing, the brakes failed at an intersection just as a car was passing. I could no longer stop, so I sped up to avoid the car and hit a wall instead. My tires flattened, my basket broke, and my dignity took some damage too, because the car stopped beside me. This happened at the corner of W. Tecson and Aventine Hills. A man got out and tried to help. I ignored him. Because I always carried my bag in the basket, the whole load had gone down with me. The handlebar was so stiff that I had to wrestle it straight while the man watched. I got back on the bike anyway and cycled to school. In class, I put on the jacket I had stuffed in my bag to cover the scrapes.

The wall in question. I aced the exam and earned a scholarship offer from Westfield, a school nearby. Had a private tour with the principal, the atmosphere felt too contained, so I passed. I still wonder what would’ve happened if I’d said yes.

It's crazy to think how ten years and hundreds of hours of work all started with a single 'no', just so I could have a few letters added to my name and finally say three words: 'I made it.'

On rides after school, I wanted to discover more of the area, and one day I reached the edge of the region, where a river marked the boundary. Modest houses crowded the riverside. I stopped my bike and stared at a man cooking something on a charcoal stove. I thought: that man is preparing a meal paid for by years of sweat, and I don’t even need to prepare mine, nor pay for it. When he looked back at me, I cycled away fast. I did not understand his life, and I did not want him to see me staring. I have wondered since whether I was seeing him at all, or only seeing myself beside him.I kept passing houses, big and small, noticing every detail. I found the small chapel on Pijuan Street on those rides too. So many of those places were full of trees, which is perhaps why I love tree-filled places years later.Those rides broke the monotony, and the man at the stove gave a face to a question I could not outrun: did I deserve the life I had? With every meal after that, I asked whether I had ever worked for the spoonful I was about to eat. I savored every bite, as if I already knew what I would decide.

I also felt I was not growing. The life I had offered little hardship to learn from. One rainy afternoon at an ice cream parlor called Ice, I tried to imagine the next ten years. I sat by the glass window eating vanilla ice cream. I was the only customer, and the ice cream man, cheerful, asked what I was doing. I told him I was trying to imagine the next ten years. He laughed and asked if I liked what I saw. I did not answer right away. I watched the rain slide down the glass and thought of what I may gain and lose.What I did not say to him, and what I decided right there, was that I would leave. I did not tell anyone. I had only moved there in sixth grade, after my grandmother died, so I always had the option of going back to a simpler life. I would leave the Nutella afternoons, the hum of the aircon, the water bed, the weekend dinners, and the easy promise of an office in one of those towers, handed to me before I had earned a single floor. I did not know how hard it would be. I only knew I could not keep asking the spoonful question without changing my answer

More than ice cream, the most memorable thing I can remember from this place is a corny sticker joke about seafood diet.

Me in college, striking a pose in the maternity ward where I was born right up until I realized how foolish I looked with doctors and patients walking past.

I wish I had spent more time with my friends in those last weeks. But I also wanted to be cold. I did not want to be the topic of conversation, where I was going and why. I wanted them to think we would still meet a few months later. I told myself I was protecting them from a long goodbye, but I was also protecting myself from watching them become people I no longer knew how to stay with. I miss the small things too: the cheesy bacon rice at the canteen, which cost around 80 pesos and which I saved up for, and the staff, like the janitor I always shared my perfume with as I prepped in the men’s room before class, the kuyas and ates at the canteen, the guards I joked around with, and the teacher who believed in me most.So I left. In the new city, I made friends with people who reminded me of the ones I had left behind. I learned the culture and the hustle, and I befriended both those who had reached the highest and those who had reached the lowest. My first small win came in class presentations, where I won over my classmates and my teachers. I loved many different subjects, and I kept pulling one into another until they formed a single picture. Many of my teachers told me they had learned side facts about the lesson from me. I remember that more than any trophy.

In my high school years, I discovered Aquinas. He wrote extensively about God and the Blessed Sacrament, the very presence I had contemplated at the adoration chapel, as I wrote in an earlier essay. Now I belong to the same fold, the Dominicans.I finished junior high school there, winning competition after competition. I then sat the entrance exam for FEU Senior High School in Manila and landed among its top scorers (if not the highest), earning a full scholarship. I went on to study Information Technology at FEU-Tech for college and built technological solutions across various domains. Today, I have been admitted to a university abroad.None of it was smooth, even on the days I sat looking down through the library glass. I was so broke that I ate once a day, at dinner, because I was always saving for something. Later, even when I had money, I went whole days on a McMuffin and coffee, and I did not eat until the work was done. In my first year, my friends did not see me eat until the end of my second semester. I began by asking whether I deserved my spoonful, and I ended up treating every meal as something to be earned, with the work as the price. I still do it.

Up until the campus tour, DLSU-CSB/CCS was a very close second choice. This moment right here was what sealed the deal for FEU.