Balara

There are no fields of amber grain, no stalks of rice that bend with the wind, greeting you as you begin the day with the sun just a little above the horizon lines. Save for the trees that surround the neighboring houses and the few bushes that line-up through the narrow sideways of the road, this is the closest you can get to nature in this bustling city where the only things immaculate are the concrete jungles that spread towards the sky. In this small lot in a seemingly forgotten area in Quezon City, a wooden house with patches of cement blocks will be my home for the next four years. Four years at the least. At the most, Bathala knows until when. Professors be kind? I can only regress into wishful thinking.

CONTINUE

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