99/100 Going Home

By now, I’ve gotten used to explaining to people how my origins are from Quezon but we live in Baguio, that I work in Manila, and that our shop is in Mt. Province. For someone who likes to talk in the shortest phrases possible, it’s a drag, and there’s more to it than just the speech.

Places could be lonely especially if one has to move around just to feel his roots buried in a safe ground. Home has never been a single place for me as it is for most people. Home is when my parents and sister and I have dinner together for only about thrice a year. Home is with my friends, or in their absence. Home is along the mountain trail, or on the peelers of ocean. Home is the road; like my life has always been in transit — in a moving vessel — always trying to get to a point where I can say “I am where I’m supposed to be”. Anyone who experiences this will agree that it’s never about the distance, but the implications of it. Distance is one thing, culture is another. This is a small country but the nuances are ironically, big. We always end up seeking parallels of what we already know and eventually adapt. What one must become, so he could Be.

I guess I’ll never be quite the full-on Baguio folk, Manila resident, Quezon descent, and Mt. Province local that a part of me always wants to be. I will always mispronounce a vernacular and forget names I should remember. I will always be a friend and a stranger for I have chosen to be of a multitude; always arriving, always departing.

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