Embedded Files
this morning,
i rode a jeepney on the way to school—
just like any other day.
but today,
it wasn’t the usual quiet,
half-asleep ride.
the jeepney was full of kids in uniform,
probably on their way
to their own classes.
they were loud—
laughing,
shouting,
passing snacks,
teasing each other
with that kind of chaotic joy
only children know how to carry.
it filled every inch of the jeepney,
bouncing off the metal walls
like music made of memories
i forgot i had.
at first,
i was just tired.
but something about their noise
made me pause.
it wasn’t just noise—
it was lightness.
the kind you lose slowly.
they don’t know yet.
how heavy life gets.
how birthdays grow quieter,
not because they matter less,
but because we do.
how silence begins to mean survival.
how laughter has to be earned.
how even joy starts to feel expensive.
they don’t know how the world
chips away at you.
how one day,
you wake up
and realize
you forgot how to be excited.
i was forced to grow up too early.
life didn’t wait for me to catch up—
it dragged me forward.
and in the process,
i misplaced that version of myself
who used to laugh like that.
loud.
whole.
without fear.
and maybe
that’s the thing no one warns you about.
not the bills.
not the heartbreak.
but the slow fading of wonder.
the quiet death of lightness.
but maybe—
we don’t need to be kids again.
maybe we just need to remember.
remember that there was once a time
when noise meant joy,
when the world hadn’t taught us
to whisper our dreams,
when we didn't carry
the weight of survival
in our bones.
and maybe,
in a jeepney full of laughing kids,
we can still hear echoes
of who we were—
before the world got heavy.
before we forgot
how to feel light.
with love, ligaya | 032525
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