WE WERE victims of early morning shifts and late night duties. We would wake up before everyone else and arrive home when everyone was asleep. We were at war with the duality of our bodies, confused about which consciousness to follow.
A piece of paper was plastered on the wall like a quiet decree—yellow for our work hours, red for our absences and green for our availability. Among the three, green was what we coveted the most.
Availability was sought desperately in every idle time. It could be a 15-minute lunch break used for a nap, praying at noon or simply lounging around when the clock hit three. All of us clung onto the fleeting moments, such as our supervisors on leave or the holidays, in pursuit of our dreams.
We worked with the pain of knowing that our body and sanity were our collaterals for our aspirations. We wore labels like medals that dignified our servitude.
But what use were labels if we were excluded from most narratives? While our friends forged memories at the peak of adolescence, we were counting hours waiting for the bell to ring. We became outsiders in a place we once belonged to.
We moved through time like shadows chasing a day that always slipped away. We used to stand below the platform watching the tassels being turned except ours. We bid goodbyes to such bitter memories, it was now our time.
At last, we were no longer at the periphery. As early as three in the morning, everyone woke up to prepare for this day, not just us. And there from afar, we belonged to the sea of blues. And together, our bodies moved in unison.
The fruit of our labor finally dropped into our open palms. The silent contract, which once defined our hardship, was torn by the golden light of a morning we could call ours. F
