Until the Finish line

December 13, 2025.

I woke up late today. 10 a.m. The sun was already high, painting my small room in Barangka with a light that felt heavier than it looked. I ate heavy meals. I know what my diabetes whispers in my veins, and the latest tests shout it back. But for a moment, I chose the simple joy of taste. Sugar sparks my mind; it fuels these big, unwieldy dreams of a better world. Sometimes, you have to feed the dreamer, even if it troubles the body.

After eating, I looked outside my window. Living here, on the side of Urban Bliss, is a constant contrast. There’s a resilient beauty in the community, in the families making a life with so little, but it’s edged with a quiet depression. This is the "minimum bare life," as I call it. How long will I stay? I don’t know. But destiny isn’t a place you wait for; it’s a path you wear in with your own footsteps. I am not always happy, but I am always trying. There’s a difference, and in that difference is where hope lives.

Living alone isn’t the fantasy they sell. But it gives you time. Time to read books that stretch your imagination across galaxies. Time to sit with my thoughts, a cigarette for company, with no one to dictate the rhythm of my solitude. There’s a power in that silence.

Then, I face the computer. My portal. Here, I write for my blog, the words a steady stream against the chaos. I let a Netflix show play in the background for company. I’ve mostly stopped scrolling social media. The political shenanigans, the lies treated as truth, the corruption that eats away at our country’s future—it’s all too much. It creates an astronomical stress that my 40-year-old heart and mind struggle to orbit daily. Sometimes, I dream of a simpler comfort, like a hug from a hunk like Matt Damon, to momentarily shield me from the storm. But comfort alone doesn’t change things.

My mind is a busy place. A torrent of ideas, fears, and questions with no one to talk to. Is this still okay? To feel this overwhelmed? The answer, I suppose, is that the planet keeps revolving on its path. The sun rises in Barangka, and in Malacañang, and in cities far away. Life insists on going on. And so must we.

So today, I choose to read. To research. To fill my mind with articles, books, reviews literature that aligns with my soul’s intent. I am a sociologist, a social science teacher. Research is my passion; it’s the raw ingredient for being a catalyst. A former professor in Community Organizing once told me, "Changing the world is impossible alone. But changing your community is a revolution waiting to start." He was right. The utopian dream isn’t a single grand event; it’s a mosaic. It’s built by countless hands choosing, every day, to add one small piece of kindness, of understanding, of collective work. Improving yourself and helping the person next to you is the foundation of changing the world.

That’s why I write. It’s my tool, my therapy, my rebellion. In a world that often tells a 40 year old gay man to be quiet, writing says, "I am here. I feel. I matter." It makes the invisible, visible.

My dream of finishing graduate school sometimes feels galaxies away. The path is long, and the resources are thin. But impossibility is just a word used by those who have stopped walking. As long as I hold the desire to learn, to contribute, to add my piece to the mosaic, I am already on the path. The finish line isn’t just a degree; it’s the person I become on the journey there.

So here I am. In Barangka. Dreaming my utopian dreams, one word, one thought, one day at a time. And perhaps, that’s where the real change begins—not in a dramatic leap, but in the quiet, persistent courage to dream forward, together.

Yes. I am a diva.