13/07/2025
(2,3/5) Thesis painting
Nap time
20x30
Watercolor on watercolor paper (framed)
2025
After hours of playing outside—running through the grass, chasing each other barefoot, and letting our imaginations lead the way—my friends and I would always find ourselves winding down beneath the old tree near the edge of the lot. We were a little wild, a little reckless, with hearts full of adventure and laughter that echoed through the neighborhood. Our games were rough and carefree, the kind that left us breathless, scraped, and sore, but always smiling. When the sun began to dip low in the sky, we’d finally collapse under that tree, letting its branches shelter us from the remaining heat of the day. There, we’d talk, laugh, tease one another, and recall the funniest or most exciting parts of the afternoon. We felt so alive in those moments—so free and young, like the world was made just for us. Sometimes, when the wind was gentle and the fatigue settled in, we’d doze off side by side on the grass, our laughter fading into soft dreams. Now, as I look back, those memories carry a quiet wisdom. They remind me that in a world that constantly asks for more, it’s okay to pause—to take a breath, to rest, and even to nap after giving your best. It's a small but powerful lesson: rest is not a weakness, but a reward for living fully.
Breezy
20x30
Watercolor on watercolor paper (framed)
2025
As a child, my favorite time of day was always sunset. There was something magical about it—something that made everything else fade away, if only for a moment. I still remember how my friends and I would climb up to the cliff behind the junkyard just to catch a glimpse of the sun sinking beneath the horizon. It wasn’t a beautiful place by most standards. We were surrounded by heaps of trash, rusted metal, and the sharp, sour scent of waste that clung to the air. But none of that mattered to us. Even in the middle of all that decay, we sat in awe, our faces lit by the golden rays of the setting sun, as if the light itself didn’t care where it landed. That cliff, covered in discarded scraps, was the highest point in our barangay—our only window to something greater than the city’s chaos. We lived in a place where corruption ran deep, where land meant for life and growth had been turned into a dumping ground. No trees, no grass, just waste. And yet, somehow, in that ruined space, we found peace. We found beauty. Looking back now, I realize that memory holds something deeper: a reminder that even in the ugliest, most broken corners of the world, light can still find its way in. And maybe that’s what we all need—to hold on to the pureness, the small glimpses of beauty, even when we’re surrounded by everything that’s wrong. Because in moments like that, we remember that hope is real—even if it’s hiding behind piles of garbage, waiting for the sun to touch it.
