For as long as I could think, I etched my name onto surfaces that remained still even as I moved.
The walls are filled with imprints, pencil and pen alike. Names, symbols only they would understand. If one could make their mark, why not I? A pen, marker—whatever I could grasp first from my bag, I soon joined their leagues. For years, centuries to come. We might not know each other, but our marks stand together, with one common purpose:
To remember, and be remembered.
The walk back home was quiet, as it usually was. The late afternoon hour had cleared the streets from students, and I had it all to myself. The route I have walked for years on end from school to the bus stop has never changed. Except that maybe I would have a friend alongside me one day, or I would walk alone in another. This time, it was the latter.
The trees I passed had tarpaulin posters. Advertisements, or remnants of political campaign material from last election, held together by nails tacked onto the bark. The local buildings were discolored, its aging paint melting off due to the weather. I passed through a desire path I found unreasonable, but it was well used, despite its placement. The people who had used these streets before my time left their marks, and those in this age continue their legacy.
Stepping into home, welcomed by the height wall at the door. Multiple markings, of different times of my life. From my days in kindergarten, the kid I was to the height I never grew out of in 6th grade. The tiled floor had scratches from the years of contact with our lives, and those of many others. Pictures hung up on the walls, and those on shelves. They welcomed me home everyday, the past versions of me and my family.
Sitting at my desk, I saw the things that made me, me. Little photos of my favorite TV characters taped onto the nearby surface, their paper faces lit up by the desk lamp. A Rubik's cube sat on one corner, accompanied by the multitude of pens I owned in a pen holder. Multiple sticky notes scattered next to the photos on the wall, reminders I should've removed already, but didn't. Little affirmations, quotes that I loved. The little things that didn't really matter to anyone else, mattered to me. A lot, at that. Even as I aged, they remained with me.
My phone pinged, a message from a group chat with friends. After a long day in school, they could finally send in posts they have seen as they scrolled through their Facebook feed. We lived different lives, but we all met at a common point. Even as other group chats have died and laid to rest in the archive, the moments, laughter, and midnight discussions shared remained constant. They could be erased at any given moment, but the messages were what solidified our friendship together, how we all grew from one thing to another.
As the day came to its end, the city slowly fell quiet in the rural area of the province I was in. I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling wordlessly before falling asleep. In the morning, the birds will chirp, and another day will begin. Another routine will be followed, and another achievement comes alongside it. Maybe a promise will be broken, or a new memory was made. May it be good or bad. As at the end of the day, everyone falls to rest underneath the same moon, before rising to the same sun.
The marks we've all made may seem unnecessary at first, but as we look back, they come to make sense. The world continues to spin, even as a soul would leave, or even as a new one is born. We all create our paths, for us to remember, and for others.
Written by Joni Lopez, Insight PH
Joni Lopez, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
