Bukidnon

where the air is clean and captivating,
where you feel the dewy grass beneath your bare feet;
where the birds awaken your senses at sunrise,
where the trees' roots play with boulders and pebbles alike,
and where the same trees' topmost branches reach skyward to tell the Heavens of your dreams;

where the roads go up and down and up again,
curving toward the hidden inevitability, another magnificent unknown;
where restless souls are given time to think, to breath,
where castaways are welcomed and given space to heal;
where escapists are provided caves to hide their fears and their tales,
and where all abandon and adventure gallop along with the roan horses - unbridled, untamed;

where smiles are free and laughter comes much easily;
where the clouds meet the pale blue mountains in a quiet coexistence,
where the moon and stars shine brightly against the night sky;
where the end starts just like every song's beginning,
and where tomorrow feels like countless of good, harmonious days;

where comfort lies, snugly with a cup of freshly brewed coffee,
where the children play like how our children are supposed to play;
where we sleep, soundly - even dreamlessly,
where the colors are bright and soothingly familiar:
where our true home lies. and waits to warm our tired spirits once more.

Brave weaklings.

Accidents do not happen. My friend tells me such word is only used by those who can't really explain or don't want to understand why such things do happen. There are no coincidences, either. We just use that term to justify the occurrence of subsequent, and usually sinful, affairs.

There's no such thing as a conducive place for sinning. We sin whenever we do. We're the authors, the directors of our own sins. We have no one, or nothing, to blame but our own weak selves.

Weak selves. The adjective resounds in my brain. Whenever we give in to temptation, why do we often call ourselves weak? Wouldn't it be more fitting to say that we dared to do it? So that way, we'd see ourselves as brave wanderers raring for another adventure?

Cliches teach us that we learn from mistakes and that there's no better way to understand a crooked way than to walk along it ourselves. But whatever happens when we've gathered all the learnings? Yes, we learn that plugging an uninsulated wire into an electric socket with damp hands would almost always cause an electric shock. But some of us do that all over again just for the sheer exhilarating conduction. (You never know.)

Doing that doesn't make us cowards. It may make us brave, or, for some, weirdos in our own rights. Sadists, even. But never weaklings.

Or maybe I'm using wrong analogies. And in doing so, trying to justify occurrences, even my own sins.

But there's no way to justify some sins, I know. No matter how hard we try, we can never scrub a midnight black boar clean and turn it into a rosy shade of cream. Unless we skin it. Another improper analogy.

Sinners. Weaklings, since they give in to temptation. It doesn't matter how hard they tried to hold on to their morals and virtues - they give in just the same. Or are they adventurers? Darers? Or reckless hedonists? Maybe. They are brave enough to soak their feet into the bog and feel the grime against their own skin. They are daring enough to pursue their wants and shock the morals and virtues of other people. Maybe.

So, they have sinned. We may call them whatever we want. But let us not cast the first stone. We are no saints and martyrs, though some of us try hard to be. We're neither brave, nor weak. We. Just. Are.

Mountain song

I found a Land in the mountains and beyond
where you cross a river twice,
where blades of grass cut you until you repent.

Up and down I went with a young troop of five
and a wise man who told us stories
of the sky and of the plains.

The wise man taught us a song about journeying
to a bountiful land where welcome would be warm
to a good lady with my own name.

The men joined along but I could not -
not because of shame nor pride but because
I knew the girl was not good, though she tries to be.

On we went, through the raging river, past many questions
until the path ended at a cliff:
across the river stood the sacred Land, the people's Land.

I crossed the river with only the wise man,
his son, and the son's friend. I knew the trip,
like so many others I've had, would change me yet again.

We pitched our tents and swam like kids on summer break
and communed with the natives like it was
our second home. Yes, the Land, like my second home.

The mountains have always brought verve into my life,
a sense of freedom and danger that
no other form of nature could ever give.

Passion. It has always brought me passion.
And in the late hours, I listened to the wise man's tales
of love and dreams. I listened to the cold mountain breeze.

To the constant pattering of the rain.
I listened.
And I listened to Him.


The story ends there, where heaven and hell meet:

across the broad sky, across the mountain ranges
I had come to understand Time and Nature's humor.

The mountains brought me life.
Energy without the usual concomitant weariness.
Questions without the need to find answers.

I found a place I've never gone before
but in hindsight, I realize I'd been mistaken:
I didn't find the Land that I speak of --
the Land found me. And it had the last Laugh.