What is mine? What can I call my own? These are echoes rampant and bouldering through the confines of my mind.
There is a war: self- doubt is throwing rocks at external assurance. Throwing rocks and shooting bullets and heaving misery at the innocent with good intentions.
Am I deserving? But I am nothing but an open door; an usher of potential to their greatness. No cause for celebration there for it is the most ordinary thing in the world.
There is no accomplishment. There are insignificant late nights. Mine are smooth hands that have not felt the grind of hard work. Walang bakas ng pinaghirapan.
But war is relentless.
I am a door, but a door is useful in its purpose. Isn’t purpose victory in itself? Maybe I’m more than a door. I am an oar in all its simplicity and non-existent glamour. And sometimes, at my best, I can be a steam engine—pushing the boat through the rough waters. Pushing my own limits, toward a destination, the goal. At the dock I can rest in this realization: the contribution to the arrival is a contribution to the success of the journey.