The Streets of Diliman

The commute to Diliman is a b***h. I have to take a bus from home to the Ayala MRT station, which usually takes an hour.  From there, I take the MRT to Quezon Avenue Station, another 30 minutes.  Lastly, I take a twenty-minute jeepney ride to the UP Campus.  In total, it takes four hours, at best, to commute to school and back home.  When I reach the campus, I feel icky. I'm all sweaty. The makeup has disappeared like a bunny in a magician's hat. My legs hurt. Spirit almost broken.

But every time the jeep enters the UP Campus, however, the air around me changes. I forget about the sweat. I don't care about the makeup.  My spirit becomes whole again. I see Oble gloriously shine in the afternoon sun. The streets lined with Acacia trees welcome me with falling flowers. I walk slowly, sometimes with a coffee mug in hand, to my classroom; my heart skips with joy.

Studying in UP Diliman for the past two semesters was one of the best years of my life. Every class --despite my sweat-stained blouse, my makeup-soaked face -- was a gift. I expressed myself freely without fear of being judged. I was surrounded by brilliant, witty people who want to make a change. I was always in awe by my professors' passion in their chosen fields.

I am heartbroken that I am taking a break this semester. I'm going to miss the Acacia-lined streets. I'm going to miss the discussions with my batch mates about the future over pancit canton and fish balls.  I'm going to miss the ruckus my classmates and I make before class and how we all fall silent the minute our professor walks in, as if we're still in grade school. I'm going to miss the person I become when I'm in class -- when I'm possessed with opinions and hopes for the country. I'm no longer in the classroom, but trust that those discussions, those moments, those opinions, those hopes will always remain with me.  

All I can do now is do my best with the decision I made and hope that someday or soon, I'll be walking in the streets of Diliman again.