Growing Thorns

I always look back to my past self, 2 or 3 years ago. Not to romanticize the heartaches and pains, but to reflect on my scars. How they were formed and why they were there in the first place. Whenever my mind takes me back to that very same ground where I lost every single thing that mattered to me, I always look at the palm of my hands – either, to shake me up off my senses and remind me of reality, or to calm me... as the blade-cut wounds have already healed and grown new covers.

It was a blood war I have never imagined to conquer. That scene – where bullets were raining right at me and my arms were wide open without fear of death or oblivion. But still, fear lingered. Was I at war because I am brave or was I at war because I wanted to run away from something?

I always thought wars were waged because of the absence of peace but mine was different, for peace was there but purpose was not. So, in search of greater meaning, I tricked myself in believing every single lie that I have weaved upon this damned existence. I pretended that my life was glitters and rainbows when it was actually not. But I have to ground myself again; check my palms if the wounds have really closed.

But to my surprise, out sprung crimson red roses, not blood or the filthy flesh within me. “Did I survive the bloodbath?” I asked. “What are these thorns trying to tell me?”

Little by little, I grow more each day, thorns harder than ever before. But I know I have won the war. So, I look back at my past self, maybe often when I needed testaments – stories of triumph that made me the garden of beautiful roses that I am now.

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Words by: DM Gasparillo Adil II

Artworrk by: Art With Kuya Ben