Mourning of the Mornings

My hollow, dark under-eyes remain entrenched in my face. Darkness may mean quiet, but never rest. I have been a night owl since childhood. I always stayed up late. By habit, it has become the hour of my rituals.

I looked up. The moon glows just enough to light my otherwise dim and gloomy room. I pick up my journal and sharpen my pencil. It is time for my nightly writing.

Most people describe me as a laconic, yet beyond being taciturn, my penchant for writing letters has become my outlet for self-expression. Writing has become my confession, and every line in my notebook feels like penance.

I must confess.

I lacked awareness of my family’s financial condition. Things I once thought were normal later became my shame. I grew envious. Seeing other children with better status, I silently developed resentment.

I hated it whenever school asked for our parents’ backgrounds. A doctor. A teacher. A seaman. Professions spoken with pride. Then there was me—hesitating to write mine, as if I were confessing a sin. 

I hate lies.

They say dreams are free, so dream big while you are young. Later, I realized they never truly were. Society sells hope, but silences those who dare to spark change. Those who aspire for people like me to have the chance to live beyond mere ambition. 

Some people are butterflies, admired the moment they spread their wings, while the rest of us are treated like pests—swatted away, unwanted, seen only as nuisances. 

Who listens to us? 

We are the ones constantly overlooked, forced to survive on the bare minimum. Like everyone else, we hunger too: for justice, for equality, for representation.

Who will speak for us?

We are neither noises nor nags. We were never in a predicament that simply needed resilience. They were the hindrances that held us captive from becoming who we are meant to be. 

No, this is not a disgrace.

Guilt engulfs me like a tide that never recedes. I dreamt without ever looking back at my roots—the people who fed me with the same hands I now use to inscribe my desires. Dirty hands, restless necks, aching backs. Even if I looked away, it is still from these palms that I learned how to hold my own becoming. We may be poor but we are not scum, burden, or less. 

Why should I be ashamed?

I pick up my eraser and turn the page of my notebook. I look at myself before the sun takes its first glimpse of my atonement. When morning comes, I hope I become a liberious bird—one that can speak, transcend, and remain undetainable, echoing the utterances of those who mourn. My parents, my family, and those like us—not diminished, not humiliated, but perceived for the courage it takes to endure. I imagine not solely writing to mask my existence, but to carve an outlet beneath the unspoken.

Written by Susa Incion