In and Out of Rizal

January 2016 was spent going back and forth the metro and the province of Rizal. Pinto Art Museum slowed down three hours of my life for its collections with a lot of pieces just drawing you in; Batlag Falls made my early birthday celebration extra special because we were the only ones who swam on its cold and turquoise water that day; and Pililla Wind Farm blew our minds off the problems we face at that time by reminding us how big and beautiful the world is (and partly scaring us with its giant windmills).


what lies behind 

Promises behind every look in the eye

Meaning behind every word they say

Secrets behind every scent you acquire

Fiction behind every chuckle I make



Upon looking at my travel albums, I realized I wasn’t able to put the pictures much into use. And when my two crazy-silly-helpful friends listed down the places I’ve been to last year, they jokingly cursed at me for not blogging travel guides. They said it’s not too late to do so but I retorted that’s not really my thing. So instead of guides, I’m just gonna be publishing photo essays instead.

Now, don’t expect too much from the photos I’ll put out as I’m an amateur when it comes to photography, but I hope they could somehow translate the feelings and emotions I’ve felt during my travels, which are all good.

This photo essay project from my 2016 travels will be aptly called #thestrangehertravels and through the following weeks I’ll be uploading them, maybe every Friday. Though the photo essay will probably carry on in this blog for all my travels. And so is the hashtag. Wink


Faraway Heart

I dreamt of flying to a faraway heart of which the distance is just one step apart.

So close in touching the sky and yet so far in holding your hand, so easy to step on the ground and yet so hard for our lips to land.

I dreamt of flying to a faraway heart. But I never imagined dreams could be this short.

I dream of flying from a faraway heart. Your incessant indifference will be my passport.


a gallery 

The beautiful creaking sound of the wooden floor as I carefully tread the empty gallery is satisfying.

It was a territory I have always been familiar with—my well-planned steps on the way to your heart.

And just like the gallery, it’s empty.