The hands of Ang Suga | Moalboal, Cebu, Philippines “Te Jo, paita gyud diay aning atong kinabuhi,” said Wang. We were sitting on the shore, with my thoughts being carried away by the waves and reached the ranges of Negros. However, other serious matters occupied Wang. “Tan-awa, magsuwat ko,” he said and drew a line on the sand. Not later than five seconds, the waves claimed the line. I kept on staring at the place where the line was once. Stared. Stared. And his point sank in my feverous head.
We were fortunate the minibus bound for Moalboal was about to leave. Virhenia secured a good seat in front while I was stuck in the inconvenient middle. Yes, window seats are the best. It gives me the feeling of being confined yet continually moving. The life outside the window only lives for a split second. It makes me think that moving—to move on—is not for the self to decide; rather the place dictates oneself to move on. The bus conductor handed the ticket.