By Injelhanna Manalundong
I was humming a song while walking, enjoying the streetlights after an exhausting day. Red, green, and orange dominated my vision. As I flipped through papers and took sips, every bite of my favorite pastry and every word I read were worth swallowing with pride.
Like a lantern, different souls ignited, having the same common denominator: reaching their dreams. Dreams that created bonds, whether eternal or temporary, but still resulting in memories. The various languages spoken made people laugh out loud when a word was uttered with different meanings, yet it was something worth sharing because the differences somehow built a bond.
Describing a sunset as a color of red and yellow meeting an emotion of hope and daring to test limits, challenging one’s abilities to prove themselves worthy of the triumph that everyone anticipates receiving.
Behind its name was a passion sealed with the drip of sweat, sleepless nights, and constant questioning of one’s worth. A wall that bore witness to hardships, laughter, and dedication to passion. The trees that eased breathing and the roots that absorbed hopelessness.
The hallway was filled with the noise of frustration, stories, and getting to know each other. A crowded place where everyone offered a smile, an action that led to relationships that withstood the pressure and roughness of pursuing something.
The bookshelves that heard the whispers of various topics; a mouth that read a word for the first time until it became basic; the ears that listened to various thoughts, speeches, and lessons.
A banner that raised not just the colors of maroon and yellow, but more. Truly, a diverse home that, over time, adapted to inclusivity.
As the clock struck 12, we realized that we were commemorating the birth of the one who made thousands of dreams come true. A day to rest for some and celebrate for others, but for the same reason. A day to reminisce about the stories and a night to tell bedtime stories of success and failure, yet still come out kicking.
It's amazing that someone’s pen can tell a memory of the past that seems to mirror today’s experiences. Building a structure is simple, but making it a home was a task that many took on.
It's been years, but every time I read it, it makes me nostalgic—as if I was once part of the memory written in the diary.
About the Author
Injelhanna Manalundong
Injelhanna Manalundong is a third-year BA-History student and a literary writer at CASSayuran. She chooses to use her pen name to lend mystery to her work, which reflects her nature. She enjoys antiques and vintage items and is a bit of a perfectionist, to which she always responds, "Why would I choose to be good if I can be better, and to settle for being better means limiting myself from being the best?" She does not participate in sports and wishes to learn how to play musical instruments, preferably drums, piano, and guitar. And she hates curry, from the smell to the strange hue. She has exceptional intuition, which constantly saves her time; nonetheless, conversation is required when it is essential.
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