There was a scene from a series I once saw while scrolling—a moment between a mother, her son, and his wife. It lingered with me, not just because of the dialogue, but because it unveiled something I hadn’t quite put into words before.

My mother believes she knows me. She sees me as her daughter, shaped by the experiences she’s witnessed. But that isn’t knowing me—not fully. She knows the version of me I allow her to see, the echoes of moments she has observed. Yet, she does not know the thoughts that have weighed on my mind, the struggles that have unraveled in silence. She does not know the battles I have fought when no one was looking.

She thinks she knows me. But she knows only the reflection of who I’ve been in front of her—not the depths of what has been.

The moment she spoke, the words came without hesitation—an assertion that I had never known hardship the way they did back then. But what was her point? Was I supposed to experience the same struggles to justify seeking work, to endure a job that drains me?

I believe in the seasons of life, in the ebb and flow that shapes each journey. Not everything you wish for will always fall into place. The tide does not rush to meet you at every shore. No—like the dock, like the shore, everything has its own timeframe. There is a rhythm to when things arrive, when they retreat.

Sometimes, the wisest choice is not to charge forward blindly but to pause—to listen to the tide when it rises, to recognize when the storm makes waiting the better path.

To my father, who sees me only through the lens of my mistakes. Tricky, isn’t it?

I was never the favorite—it was never something I felt. And in the moments when I tried to speak my mind, I was seen as rude. You let your wounded pride dictate your reaction, resorting to physical abuse when my words unsettled you.

I wonder why it was always acceptable for you to speak harshly to us, to offend, to joke with a half-meant sting. And when we hurt, when silence became our response, it was dismissed—just as we were. We let it go, swallowed it whole, because if we spoke, we were the ones in the wrong. We were the ones without respect for you.

Respect, it seems, was only expected when it was convenient for you!

But to my partner—the one who sees beyond both my silence and my noise. Beyond my laughter and my tears, my vulnerabilities and my strength. The one who notices even when I am invisible, and who does not need to chase me when I seek attention.

He sees me.

I have never needed to pretend.

With him, I am raw. Unfiltered. Whole.

He knows me from deep within and from outside. He understood the assignment once I kept silent for a while.

He knows me from all of me.

Tagalog version:
ang multo ko
ay
hindi isang tao
kundi, ito ay
isang alala ng pangarap kong
hindi natupad.
mga oportunidad na dumaan lang,
mga panahon na lumipas
at mga oras na nasayang
at napunta sa wala
mga pera na naigastos
sa walang kabuluhang bagay.
multo kung makapanakot, wagas
dito mo masusukat ang totoo
na minsan hindi multo ng kaluluwa
ang makakapag-nginig sa'yo
kundi multo ng kahapon.

English version:
My ghost is not a person, but a memory— a dream that never came true.
Opportunities that passed by; time that slipped away, hours wasted, spent on nothingness, money lost on meaningless things.
Ghosts can haunt with cruelty, and here, you see the truth— sometimes, it is not the spirit of the dead that shakes you to the core, but the ghost of yesterday.

Match your energy
with someone that has the same energy as you.

Never force it. You will get tired.
Just let the vibe flow.
If you click, it will.

Hypocritical hearsays & homilies of the humble & ***
Tricking temptress, ticking time-bomb.
Slithering silver sly snake,
Red-troubled lipstick—
A well-mannered, educated *****.
Oops, I forgot— You never even finished college.

I only spoke to you once or twice,
Yet your mother-in-law bit back,
Told me to back off,
To never insult you.

Tch. A side-eye and a smirk are all I ever needed.
I never touched you, never harmed you.
Your boyfriend assumes too much,
Exaggerates just enough
To make his story plausible,
To pull them all to his side.

Degraded attitude
wasted personality.
Who are we to be hypothetical?
Hypocritical? Pretentious—you are.

Never be humble yet *** at the same time—
It is a tool for gardening,
hence, never an act of immorality.

You flaunted your old, secondhand, silver, ruined car,
Trying to impress,
Trying to boast.

But I was never swayed,
Never struck by how you hustled
To put wealth on display—
All the while, Spending money that was never yours in private.

He found comfort in expensive wine.
She found comfort in cheap hands.
I wasted a lot of years for a molded bread
for an expired milk, butter and cocoa powder
I wasted a lot of time cooking
for your meals—
let it be known— hotdog, sausage, bacon, pork and chicken.
egg and noodles on the side.
fries as appetizers, chocolates as desserts.

You're so good at fabricating stories
to make your mom believe you.
Whenever we're at grandma's house,
you complain to your mom,
acting like you're the victim,
but we never even laid a hand on you.
Excuse me—you should be ashamed of yourself.
Has your brain caught a cough for you to think like that?
Or maybe your mouth has been strained—feed it properly.
Stop indulging in vices like drinking and smoking.
Eat proper food so your strained mouth can regain some health.

Insult me all you want—I don't care.
Fabricate stories all you want
that's what makes you happy, right?
That's what you're good at, right?
To make your mom believe you
and make her think we're the bad ones who lack compassion.

I could knock both of your heads together.
Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the pear tree, right?
Ironically, you're both the same—brains full of mucus.
It really has an effect on you, huh?
You keep ranting, but your words are empty, like a hollow can.

The sincerest apologies are not spoken in words
but felt in the quiet descent of tears.

Maybe because we do not want someone to let us go,
or maybe because it is too hard to put those feelings into words.

The best artist is God.
For creating such a great masterpiece—
flexing like a true work of art.

If you think you aren't pretty,
Honey, you are.
But it truly depends,
since
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Yet I believe, wholeheartedly,
"We are all created in the image and likeness of God."

you knew,
I knew.
we knew each other for 25 years,
but in a single blow, I forgot about you
I forgot that you were even my cousin
I forgot that you even existed.

I could look at you right now
like I never knew you
that even at the back of my mind
I was planning, plotting for revenge
thinking of ways on ******* you
in different ways,
or how many stab wounds will it take
for you to die.

but it was all a blur.
a memory I declined to act upon.