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Ambita Krkic Mar 2011
I have always been friends with the rain.
I want to feel it on my skin
and dance with it.
The rain dances, you know.
And I want it's freedom.
Ambita Krkic Jan 2011
he is but one person. i will fall for someone one day, someone who loves me. and it will be like dynamite! stronger than this. but i wont get tired of it because it wont run out. it’ll be like fuel and fire.
scattered thoughts
Ambita Krkic Feb 2011
today, i stalked
a stranger
on the sidewalk.

(or rather
he walked,
into me).

from a distance, i followed
his footsteps –
gentle on the ground.

a rhythm, i follow –
a sound.
we dance.
footfall after footfall –

he walks away
from me.
written in 2nd year college.
Ambita Krkic Jan 2011
“You’re turning eighteen, you know. Have you thought of the things you’ve done with your life? Don’t you think it’s time we get you a life?” Recently, I had coffee with a friend. He looked at me from head to foot in mid-conversation, and made this comment. As always, he managed to drive me into deep thought. After much contemplation, I now realize how much I have truly gone through. I also realize the reason for this paper: I want to tell you about my life. I want to prove to you that people like me, who are afflicted with cerebral palsy should not be demeaned, but rather looked up to for how they face the challenges life brings forth.

    I remember that day. I was a baby and my eyes didn’t move. They refused to follow the finger my aunt moved back and forth. I just lay there, unmoving. My family didn’t really give much thought to it until a few months later when I began to be extremely dependent on others when it came to simple things like getting up from a fall. Right then, they knew something was wrong. I was taken to the hospital a few weeks after, and true enough I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy, a condition that caused me to walk on tip-toe and my legs to look like sticks due to weak muscles.

   The hospital became my second home. By the time I was three, I had grown immune to the stale smell of disease and death that greeted patients at hospital entrances. I sat in wheelchairs and was a patient to three different doctors and physical therapists. Physical therapy was, and still is to this day a gruesome routine that I didn’t look forward to. Those sessions lasted for three hours, starting off with cold ultrasound gel being smeared slowly on my thigh muscles, slowly progressing into the limb-twisting that drove me into screams of excruciating pain, and then finally ending with attempts at “walking normally” with steel bars for support. Soon after, the doctors discovered that physical therapy alone was not enough, and recommended orthopedic surgery.

   I underwent seven surgeries in three different countries: the Philippines, Thailand, and Greece. Although these surgeries gave me the opportunity to see the world, they were not at all full of pleasantries. To this day, I remember how each surgery went: being laid on the cold operating table, feeling as though my body was a pincushion as needles were forced into me. I shrieked at the sight of blood and nurses tried to calm me down, talking to me in languages I didn’t understand. Soon, my vision blurred, my eyes shut and I couldn’t open them. A tube made its way down my throat, and soon I was going, going, gone. Hours later, I woke up groggy, and the sleepless nights in the children’s ward started. Tears clouded my eyes as I stared at the ceiling or the walls covered with Disney characters grinning annoyingly at me as I was under the mercy of painkillers that didn’t even seem to work.

    As I got older, I began to question why things were the way they were for me. I began to raise questions why a certain child in my class could do things that I couldn’t. My early years of schooling were the most challenging ones to face. Like me, the other children didn’t realize how it was like to be in the situation I was in. Bullying and name-calling was common in the schools I attended. “Slowpoke” and “snail” are only some of the few names I was called by. Sometimes, children would even go as far as “crazy” and “*******”. They mimicked the way I walked and called my attention, asking me who it was they were pretending to be. Often times, I did what I was told to do at home and stood up for myself, firing back with a witty, sharp remark. Other times, I chose to ignore them instead.

    On the first days of all my Physical Education courses, I’d try to blend in with my classmates hoping that the teacher wouldn’t notice that I was incapable of doing the routines. I tried to get away with it, to no avail. As soon as I got found out, I was tasked to watch everyone else’s belongings, clear up scattered basketballs, or score a game I really had no knowledge of each meeting. I remember how it felt like to be a benchwarmer, while all the others were doing warm-ups or playing sports. I didn’t look at their faces much, instead I closed my eyes and listened as their laughs echoed their enjoyment into the air. That, or I looked down at their feet, watching them jump, listening to the thumps as their shoes hit the ground again. They made it look so easy.

   During dance rehearsals, I’d stare down at my own shoes, dirtied and scratched from constant dragging. I’d feel a sharp, imagined pain in my stick-thin legs, and imagine them moving to the music they’d be dancing to. Gently. Tap. Tap. Tap.

   While I admit that I felt a lot of resentment towards this disability in the past, I now find that there isn’t really much to resent about it. I have grown so much as a person through this disability. It has become part of who I am and how others define me. It is true that I have missed out on a lot of the things teenagers my age have gone through, but how this disability has enabled me to see life actually happen, to discover life’s true essence, and most of all, touch the lives of people I have encountered in the past and those I continue to encounter, makes me feel as though I have not missed out on anything at all.

   As I end this essay, I’d like to leave two challenges. If you happen to afflicted with cerebral palsy or any other disability, I challenge you to be proud and fight. Do not let others look down on you. People will demean you, if you choose to demean yourself. Do not wallow in self-pity. Instead, strive to turn your misfortune around. Touch lives of the people you meet. Inspire.

   On the other hand, if you do not have to struggle with any disability at all, I challenge you even more. Do not take your “normalcy” for granted. Do not look down on people with disabilities; instead aim to broaden your understanding of how it’s like to live life in their shoes. Everyday, realize how lucky you are to have what you have. I ask you the same question my friend asked me in the coffee shop that afternoon: Have you thought of the things you’ve done with your life?
(an essay I wrote in English class, Sophomore Year College, one of my more personal writings)

Ambita Krkic Feb 2011
These days, I am all over the place.
In a daze.
Half asleep, half awake.
Sick-ly, and sick
with mind-noise.
And then,

Ambita Krkic Sep 2011
beneath my fingers: smooth, polished wood, a breath. and they long to make their way to the still beating of your heart.



almost as if unseeing you look past me to flip a page, to paint color over words you must remember,
yet unremembering---

i am here. sometimes i think you remember me. sometimes, like a shade of crayon appearing randomly in your hand, a soft hushed word. silence. no talk of fleeting butterflies today. no sound of your leavetaking.

there, the long silence of an empty hallway.

(for A)

(in collaboration with jacob dominguez)
Ambita Krkic Dec 2010

It is always like this:
waking to a sunless
morning, to a silence
except for the whir
of the fan nearby.

The pen will lie untouched
on the bedside table,
for I had tried forcing
out words
only to stain the page
with lines, shallow


for I do not know
how to feel.

Or so you said
in the night,
while darkness bled
through my window--

and the text message
that just came in
will remain
while your voice instead

eats away slowly
at my brain,

yes, i am  insensitive,
self-centered, i’ll give
you that,

anything you want.
Yes, i am
mourning dreams
tasting your words
of salt water
on my tongue.

It is always like this.
(for e.)
Ambita Krkic Dec 2010
Picture yourself standing on the sidewalk of a busy, noise - polluted street somewhere in the city. Today, these streets are packed with people, all going places (some seem to just be wandering aimlessly, in deep thought), crossing streets side by side. As they pass you by, a fusion of scents greet your nostrils: the different odors of their sweat, some even chance upon passing the unholy stench of gas both ways, from up and down. This makes you dizzy, though you can’t complain (aloud at least). The rattle of a street child’s cup of coins, you ignore that. You have way too much on your mind. Yet, you stand rooted to the spot. Smoke-belching vehicles soon decide to join the scene, emitting thick, black puffs of smog enough to send an asthmatic, or anyone for that matter, to the hospital. Some pass by as slow as turtles. Most of them, however zoom past you, leaving you in a momentary state of disorientation, your heart’s drum-like pounding the only proof of their passing. In the midst of all this, you unconsciously glance at your watch. 2:30, it reads. Suddenly, it occurs to you: The world moves so fast doesn’t it? We all must be racing against the hands of time, seemingly synched to the clicking sounds of a metronome. When does this race end? How much time does the world have? You start to wonder how much time you have left. Flashbacks of your life come back at you like a collage. One second, you’re younger and innocent. The next, you are who you are now ---- and most things you wish you could change. You, as an infant banging your rattle ceaselessly, tugging at your mother’s skirt wiping your tears on the first day of school. A vivid memory of the night you downed your first bottle of beer---too fast. Your first kiss was good (or better said, imagining what it’s like to be kissed). Oh, and who could forget you egg-rolling on the grass --- drunk? Do you remember the day you fell off a chair from happiness and shock as you checked to see if you made it in --- and you did? You can almost feel the weight of the school medals you garnered for speeches and writing competitions on your neck. You can almost taste the menthol from your first and only cigarette puff on your lips. The sound of your coughing says you’re never going to do that again. Heck, yeah. You made some bad choices, huh? Some good, of course – don’t worry. You’re not that much of a mess-up. You continue your reverie on the way home on the LRT (another one of the firsts you remember --- going to Katipunan. You looked so ridiculous, the only one with a huge grin on her face as you held onto a pole, finally knowing what it felt like to be a sardine in a can). Some time in the middle of the ride, still in your nostalgic state, you notice a bumper sticker stuck on one of the windows. It read “Slow down”. Under that, “What will YOU do now?”
Ambita Krkic Jan 2011
a matter of missing: the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on his skin, warm hugs that seem to make everything okay (even if in reality the world is ******, for that split second, you’re there and nothing else matters), the visits that seem to happen when you’re just about to go to sleep on a bad day, having to watch the sunrise, the sunset, the sky (anything that has to do with the sun makes you smile). you know that the most perfect moment is when he holds your hand and you’re drunk on red wine, and the world slips away because he is, and you swear you could die at that moment, happy.

a matter of not forgetting. everything will remind you of him: street children, smells on your street, coffee and pasta (something you will never do again), mentholated cigarettes, the lines about him you attempt to write, the lines that you don’t write, neruda (the only book that stays untouched on your bookshelf. you try to read it, but all you can really hear is his voice reading you “body of a woman”, from the night you didn’t sleep because the air in your dorm room was thick with something you’ve never really felt in that room, air used to be so stale. but he was there, and you watched him sleep thinking he’s beautiful that way, and you smile.

(something i cannot bring myself to read anymore, random journaled thoughts)
Ambita Krkic Dec 2010
over coke

i can no longer drink coke
without thinking of you, my sister.
i sip, and it spills itself
over me, into me
just like you do.

i too spill myself
over you, over coke.
we sip straight from the bottle
and i keep your secrets,
each a warm wind in my ear.

we turn the frothy
fizzy liquid salty
but swallow without question.

this is how we are,
spilling ourselves
unto one another, into one another
over one another —

over coke.
(for d.)
Ambita Krkic Dec 2010

“I’d like to think, dear sir
that his eyes are made of stars.
But of course,
that’s just me talking.”

“It is time to move from this place,
this space,”
Release says, showing up
at my doorstep.

He tells me what a mess
I have made of my room,
as he moves through piles of clothes,
on the ground.

He begins to arrange my bookshelves,
disposing of unsent letters
that hide themselves
between pages,
as secrets.

He changes my sheets.

For at night, I sleep
on moons.
And hold stars close,
for want of your skin,
your lips --- a lisp,
whisper, in my ear.

I hear
the breaking
of a wine bottle
the splashing
of paint
over walls,
over you.

At last, after madness –
a rage!
He leaves,
and silence hangs
in the air.
(for j.)
Ambita Krkic Jan 2011
books of love tucked under my arms
sweat from my armpit on their covers
because the wind is not with me
i walk on an open field
and trip on a rock
a image of falling
only to kiss the hot hard earth
i get up, and wipe the dry soil from my lips

(a renga with e. , many moons ago)
Ambita Krkic Dec 2010
“The Moth”

   My mother always told me that the easiest way to walk was in a straight line. It would always get you somewhere, she believed. One night, I chose to follow her somewhat twisted philosophy. Twisted, because there are no straight paths to walk in Manila, a maze of a city.

   The streets were lit with small, flickering streetlamps that gave off weak glows. I followed a few night shadows, hearing nothing but soft whistle of the January wind. The sidewalk was uneven, my shoes, scratched and dirtied from constant dragging. This was how it was walking aimlessly over the remnants of the day --- cigarette butts left crushed and scattered by the numerous strangers and university students, empty plastic cups, crumpled bags of chips and multi-colored candy wrappers bathed in murky puddles of floodwater from the rains that happened in the afternoon. Strange street smells hung sleepily in the midnight air. I stopped only to make sure I had not wandered too far, or rather, if I had wandered far enough to get away --- to get lost, until I finally crossed to Antonio.

   In the daytime, it is alive with movement and idle chatter, Food hawkers manning their stalls, homeless children begging for their next meal, and stray dogs rummaging though the garbage dominate the scene.

   It was the darkness that enveloped this street that gave it its eerie magic that drew me in, a stillness that was never there in the day. I was surprised at where my feet had taken me. I sat the curb, relieved that I could finally hear myself think.

   I wasn’t always like this you see. I wasn’t always lost, wanting to run away, always feeling the need to move, to leave. I was a good girl, someone who knew what it was she wanted, I colored inside the lines, and people loved me for doing so. You would never find my old self wandering recklessly at such an unholy hour.  A Dean’s Lister, my late nights were spent at a desk in a world of hi-liters and coffee instead of partying under the bright lights of Manila, a beer bottle in hand.

   In the deafening silence, Antonio’s mystery slowly unraveled itself to me. I watched insects as they scurried up and down the chipped cement walls. The existence of little lives, unseen, but felt in the darkness. Eyes, I was quite certain, eyes were watching me.

   And I let them watch,

   It was as if they owned me. They watched with penetrating stares, just as they had watched me as I lost myself to the city. Little by little they waited for me, to crash. Here, I became the city’s plaything, clay that had been molded to conform to the world’s alien norms. I came to discover what it really meant to be lost; that lost was not just an adjective one uses to describe something that has gone missing; the absence of small, insignificant things taken for granted. Getting lost, I realized, was an act I slowly succumbed to.

  With a sigh, I stood up to stretch my aching limbs. Looking around I noticed a moth flirting playfully with the streetlight. As a child, I often wondered what it was about lights that attracted moths. Was it the glow? The warmth? Or simply because they had nothing else to do? No place else to go?  

  I felt much like that moth. Once so free, yet sadly misguided to a senseless existence of cigarettes, alcohol, pretentious friendships, and unrequited love. The first time I had smoked was with a boy I had fallen in love with. His voice echoed in my head.

  “You have to breathe it in,” he said. “Taste it.” Inhale. Exhale. I coughed as my throat itched and a bad taste began to spread in my mouth. He snatched the cigarette away from me saying I was never to do that again. He smoked the rest of it and lit another one.

   It was a quiet kind of love, unspoken, instead written down and locked away; a love whose voice I kept hanging at the tip of my tongue; a love that was a different kind of lost, a different kind of lost, and a different kind of lust altogether. It consumed me, all of me. Entirely. And then, he left along with the rest of the world. The word “lost” then became synonymous to a kind of drowning --- to drown, and I did: in beer, in tears, and in thoughts.

  “Cruel, isn’t it?” I asked in the moth’s direction. “How this world has a way of making us fall in love with the wrong people? How people never seem to stay in one place for too long? How we all wake up one day and realize that we have just completely lost ourselves? That our souls have wandered off?”

  Everybody gets drunk to forget, or at least I do. It was in one of those hole-in-the-wall eateries at the far end of the street that I first discovered the wonders that beer had on a person who had no desire to remember. I went there weekly, dragging whoever was available along with me. I listened to them as they told their stories in drunken slurs. Soon, our bodies reeked of alcohol, our faces red. The round table drenched in spilled beer and cluttered with greasy plates and peanut shells.

  I watched as my friends walked haphazardly around the room, cursing under their breaths. Some had forced themselves into a zombie-like stupor and had taken to some sort of sleepiness, their heavy heads hung low. Others sobbed hysterically in corners. I, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling. With my chair toppled over, I watched the swirls of dust and thick smoke form in the air and knew I was somewhere I didn’t belong. I wanted to forget, to figure out why I was living all to fast, who it was I was becoming, where my old self had gone. In those moments, I looked for myself, Instead of forgetting, I remembered.

  Someone once asked me if I have ever regretted losing myself, a question I have yet to answer. To say yes would be to lie. To say no, would also be to lie.

  That night, I thought: Maybe, at some point in life, getting lost is something that everyone has to go through, a trick that the universe plays on everybody --- shaking our worlds out of order. Maybe, we are all moths flirting with the deceiving light of life. Maybe we really are supposed to lose ourselves to the people we love, letting them leave and take a piece of our world with them when they do. We must let them leave and freely become figments of our being, where they tuck themselves away neatly, quietly along with distant memories of laughter and sadness. Maybe we are all meant to walk aimlessly at night, our heads down, as if in search of the broken pieces of ourselves, amidst the remnants of the past. Perhaps, we are just too blind to recognize that indeed, these remnants are the fragments we are looking for. Maybe, if we all just walked straight lines, we will find our selves waiting right where we left them.

  I looked in the direction of the light, only to find that it had gone off and the moth had flown away. The breaking of dawn signaled me to walk toward home.

  The city would soon wake.
Won 2nd Place (Essay Category) in the 26th Gawad Ustetika Awards at the University of Santo Tomas.
Ambita Krkic Jan 2011
sits under a book
i am reading.
it is waiting to scream.

Ambita Krkic Dec 2010
the puppet poet
will set you
Ambita Krkic Jan 2011

by Cezar Ruis Aquino in collaboration with Sooey Valencia

For the longest time I have always thought that the most beautiful thing in the world is a blank page.
Perhaps next to a page where some words, innocent as birds, have found their way to.
Ambita Krkic Mar 2011
it rained without warning
the world outside
a gray, unhappy look.

continued to fall.
she, telling herself
not to lose her way
that night of confusion.

wind had began again.
whipping in eaves
above her head.

a man’s voice sounded
at her shoulders.

all at once,
alone with the world.
this man---
wildly against her.

her ruffles wet and wilted,
she turned to him


(words from Kerima Polotan’s “The ******”)
Ambita Krkic Feb 2011
The world’s eyes own her now.

We stare
at her ocean
foam body
to crash.

I see my eyes
speak back
as I
into hers.

You would

thing ----

How I am
to pose
she teaches


the world’s

every time.

— The End —