I understand the dialect on how the sky delivers suffering. Today it weaves a landscape that translates into pain. The light settles grandly on the shore where I come from, and the clouds are faint of blue and purple, almost drawing a bruise. Careful not to step on the puddles where the saltwater accumulates, I start to walk.
I think about this space—with its infinite varieties, its potential to wound and preserve. I am unable to define the distance occupying the ocean’s nervous waves. I remain gripped with fear that something in me is permanently broken. I begin to swim. F
Words by ANDREA JAMAICA H. JACINTO
Photo by KATRINA MAE H. MARCOS