Love is beautiful in serenity, devastation or ruin. 

I discovered something about myself in the past few months of relative independence. It has been like clockwork, a routine that seemed to repeat itself endlessly, yet with each cycle, I found myself unraveling a little more.

Wake up at 6 AM, the world just starting to unravel. I'd slip out of bed, my feet meeting the cool tiles, and begin my morning ritual. Exercise, a dance with the weights and the treadmill, as if trying to outrun the weight of my own thoughts.

Prepare my food for breakfast, a simple meal that tasted like solitude. The sizzle of the pan, the aroma of garlic and onions, a fleeting moment of comfort before the day's demands beckoned.

Go to work, a journey through the bustling streets of Manila, where the air was thick with exhaust fumes and the promise of adventure. I'd watch the city come alive, vendors setting up their stalls, jeepneys weaving through traffic like colorful metallic serpents.

In those quiet moments, between the rhythmic thud of my footsteps and the cacophony of the city, I discovered a part of myself that had been dormant, a yearning for something more than the monotony of routine.

It was as if I had stumbled upon a secret door, leading to a world where dreams and reality intertwined, where the boundaries between the ordinary and the extraordinary blurred.

And in that world, I found solace in the simplest of things – the laughter of children playing in the streets, the warmth of a stranger's smile. It was a world where I could be anyone, do anything, and the only limit was the vastness of my imagination.

So, I embraced the clockwork, not as a prison, but as a canvas upon which I could paint the colors of my own existence, one brushstroke at a time.