Why We are Alive

we, waves of the sea
basked in anonymity
wearily waving

It was the morning rush hour and I was in trasit from one site to another. Ayala Avenue was my stopover. I felt stressed from working all night and working 12 hours a day. Early in the morning, the workers of Ayala Avenue looked like glassy-eyed zombies who walked the streets in skirts or long sleeves with neckties.

I could have just passed. Instead, I wrote that haiku in my head. I could have been just been dead, dead as everyone in this cold, artificially beautiful place. But the writing, the writing is what separates us and makes one feel alive.