I can still remember when I was in high school, I told my self I wanted to die at the age of 25. I thought, “This world is so cruel, so why would I want to live longer here?” But as I age, the thought of death became more and more frightening. When I was 24, I was totally freaking out. I thought, “Baka huling taon ko na ito.” Crazy. But I did not die hence this post.
Now, I am married and a mother of a little girl that my husband and I named Cinnamon, and in contrast to the idea that I should have understood life more by now, I don’t. I don’t understand the idea of death. I don’t understand why we are given life, pushed to work hard just to live through it, and then at the end just die. And what happened to us when we die? How do we know we’re dead? We have no idea. What do we call that? Is that life?