makasarili
“Ang damot mo naman. Nanghihingi lang, e.”
These phrases ever not fear me, for I see no trespass in locking away the things I own. I see no fault in keeping what is mine, nor do I sense a hidden sin which blooms in the garden of my restraint.
Selfish — such a five-letter word has long been the name pressed upon my skin like a brand, yet I have never worn it as a wound. I am proud to make it known. Ever since my first breath, I have held the conviction to choose myself above all.
It was not before a year steeped in dread and misfortune unfolded before me. Being haunted by the terror, I felt a shadow’s touch. It lingered upon my shoulders like a cold hand, until, by slow degrees, my flesh began to sear.
There, I came to realize that there was one thing I could never possess entirely: my own life.
And so I understood — I was never selfish. Had I been, I would have long since vanished into my own desires, leaving nothing behind but an empty space where I once stood. For if I were, I would have chosen myself absolutely without regard for anything, anyone, beyond the borders of my own soul.
Yet here I remain.
Breathing. Enduring. Existing.
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For someone’s grief haunted me more than my own suffering could.
“Is there really any value to this thing we call living?”
Faith may ask for obedience, but my soul has always asked for clarity and reason.
Guilt came in a crucial way — it crept through the cracks of my spine with thorns and reached my mind carrying the voices of priests and believers.
However, my spirit is a creature of questions. I have never been content to inherit a belief without first weighing it in my own palms. If a thought was to dwell within me, it must be born of my mind — never a hollow echo of another man’s truth.
So I sat with the guilt, peeling it apart like the petals of a moonflower.
Beneath it, I found not wickedness, nor rebellion, but a question.
Why was the longing of absence and peace spoken of as though it were the gravest of transgressions? I inherited a fear I was never permitted to comprehend. Because it was a taboo, inward-facing agony becomes betrayal and a breach of religion’s sacred design.
Thus, the guilt felt borrowed; as such, I grew tired guarding a burden I did not create. And though disgrace dissolved into nothing, the question remain anchored.
p.s. we live for others. when will the time come for us to live for ourselves
