Hello, 2016

I'll be the first one to say that the past year, 2015, was more than a freaking roller coaster. It was the whole damn circus.

It was all types of beautiful: tragedy, love and losses.

I had lost the fire of writing here even before the real fire, and it sucks that I part my life between before and after the fire, but now, I am back to say that I am currently on a writing hype in my Tumblr--you can check it out if you want. I write about sorts of things a 15-year-old would feel. At this moment, I don't want to let go just yet. I like being 15. And being 16, I admit, appears to be a huge leap to me. I know it's only a number, but come on, you get my point.

I posted this to share my regard for this new year. I know it's going to be another ride, and I am here to remind you to buckle up, and make it all worthwhile. You were given the tickets. Don't let them go to waste.

My life's been huge, and I am grateful to you for being a part of it.

Keep going if you want to see what I'd written on November 25.

November 25, 2015: FIRE

When I learned about the fire that burned our house and everything inside it down to ashes that day on November 25^th, I constantly told myself, “This was supposed to be a good day.” I prayed and I wished and I hoped. I closed my eyes for a couple of times, hoping I was only in one of the bad dreams I encounter at night. But I wasn’t. Because that day, on November 25^th, I was devastated, and I felt it in my bones.

Never in my life did I expect something as tragic as this would happen to me and my family. The night before the fire, my only problem was how to get inside our house, because I didn’t have my keys with me and no one was inside. The day after that, my problem was how to put the keys in if I didn’t have a house anymore. I thought of my English essay about my favorite part of my house. I thought about the eulogy I made back in the APEC week, because I was sure that if there’s anything I want to write a eulogy about, it’s my own home. I thought about Christmas. I thought about how wrong the timing was. I thought about how happy we were just a few days ago because of our celebration. I thought about the things I had, and my parents had, and my family once had. I thought about my dad and his newly-started businesses, effort and projects for us—all burned down, nothing left. I thought about my mom and her 33 years of living in the house, where she was born, where she spent every moment in her life in. I thought about my aunt and her frightening, nerve-wrecking condition when she was there, woken up by the screams of people and the obvious smoke. I thought about my brother, and all his books, his most precious collections, those that he actually cared about. I thought of all the people, all my relatives and family who stop by in the house when they’re in the city. I thought about the moments we shared together as a family right there, at home.

I thought of everyone but myself.

I couldn’t think, and all I could do was cry. From that time on, I knew life wasn’t just a game-time anymore. I knew that life was giving us real challenges now. I knew we all had to be strong, and my I-don’t-care attitude will have to change, because life wasn’t as boring as I thought it was. Life is tough, but it’s reasonable. Finally, I knew God had a purpose, because He always does, and so I knew how tight my grip on Him should be. Hold on, it will pass.

My father told me, we can be brought down to ashes, okay, so we’ll continue to fire up. Because when we’re down, and we’re back to zero, back to square one, the only way we’re ever going to is up. However, this isn’t going to pass without a lesson. The most important thing about this barricade is we, my brother and I, get something else—something that teaches us to be more of people, more of son and daughter, more of responsible humans, than we really are.

Nothing is permanent, alright. I’m saying this now not because I’m overpowered with bitterness, but because the fire has taught me, probably proven, that no matter how hard you try, if it isn’t for you, then it isn’t. But then again, if you don’t try, you never win—you always lose. Losing always comes with acceptance. Surely, it will sting at first; it will hurt you more than you possibly thought it could; it will make you feel like you’re all alone; and it will make you think it’s easier to give up than start all over again—but it will come to that point where you are going to have to move on and do everything to continue living and fighting.

Thinking of it now, we practically have the same when we started. We have everything to gain and nothing to lose. Despite the tragedy, I realize how lucky we still are, that we have relief, and a roof above our heads even just for a while. Just because we’re affected doesn’t mean we do not have to give help. Many other people have no one else to turn to. Most of them don’t have enough; most have less. Some need more help than we do. My father used to tell me, “It is better to give than to receive; giving is a blessing. But don’t you think, that when you refuse to receive, you restrain that person to give, therefore you do not allow the flow of blessings? Receiving is a blessing, too.” This is the art of receiving and giving—it’s a cycle, and it doesn’t stop. It shouldn’t.

And so I want to thank all of you. I want to thank circle—you know who you are, my classmates, and all of my friends and teachers, and all of the people around me. Thank you for making me strong. Thank you for asking and considering. Thank you for helping me and my family get back on the road again. I want to extend more of my gratitude to the rest of my family, who are always there to back us up. Thank you for crying. Thank you for accepting. Thank you for making us happy despite the tragedy. Thank you for helping us move on. Thank you so much. Thank you, mom and dad, for standing still, and staying strong. I feel the pain behind your smiles, laughs and weak eyes. It hurts, but we’ll be back on two feet again, someday. I love you, all of you.

I’m sorry for the loss of everyone caught in the fire. We’ll be back there again. Have a little faith.

I thank You, most of all, for staying with us side by side, for letting us know that, ah, we’ll be okay again. 

We will. Thank You for keeping us safe, for saving everyone’s lives. Thank You, Lord, for the blessings we receive. Thank You.

And here, you might think I lost everything. But I didn’t. I have my family and friends—and they are my everything.