Yesterday I learned that our senior-year project won an award in an eye-triple-E contest. The award is nowhere near prestigious, but the fact that our hack of a project somehow earned us a small recognition is, well, nakakakilig.
And then I thought about the word kilig, how it’s been a while since I last used this word in its proper context. I don’t even remember the last time, to be honest. In the words of philosopher Joey Albert, “I remember the boy / but I don’t remember the feeling anymore.” Charet.
So anyway, I decided to answer these pabebe questions from Tumblr just to inject some kilig in my day. The world is crumbling and my life is slowly disintegrating along with it — I might as well distract myself by doing this, whatever this is.
James Mercer sings a song about moving away, drinking cheap beer, and listening to rock ‘n roll. It’s New Slang 2.0 but I dig it. It’s an origin song too, I believe. A song about how he got to where he is, to making music, to making a living out of it.
Press play, kind stranger. Now read.
I wonder what my origin song would be, if I could even write songs. Why did I even start playing music to begin with, if I could even play at all?
Ah, Grade 4. My mom wanted us to learn how to play music but we were too poor to buy a keyboard. One day, though, Ma came home from Cebu with a guitar. It’s worth 900 pesos, she told us, but I was too young to gauge whether that’s mahal or not.