Mona the Procrastinator:
I have this bad habit of trying to make everything perfect before starting anything. I would spend a very long time waiting for something that we call “the right X.” I want the right place, the right mood, the right coffee, and the right ideas to put into writing. When one of these factors doesn’t feel right, it automatically makes me want to start it later when everything will finally feel right. Just like writing this blog, I’ve spent over a month mulling over the perfect introduction, the perfect ideas, the right tone, the perfect everything. Until today, I’ve decided that perfection is procrastination’s twin sister. What matters most is being authentic because that’s why we’re here, to become ourselves. So, here I go, just being me.
Mona’s Childhood Bliss:
I grew up using books as my pillow while I stared at our houses’ ceilings. Our house was supposedly a two-story house, but it was never finished due to some circumstances. I never minded the unfinished structure of our house when I was a kid because I had fun looking at the Maya flying above. I’m an only child of two hardworking lower-class people. I remember growing up rarely seeing my parents because when they got home, I was asleep, and when I woke up, they were off to work. I was never neglected in terms of needs because they did everything they could, and all I had to do was eat the food my mom made before going to work. And my school was just 5 minutes away so there was really nothing to be worried about. Despite the common misconception, being an only child was never a bore and lonely for me. I had the best childhood just playing with the stray cats and dogs I usually picked up on my way home, reading books that my godfather gave me, and looking at the paintings my dad used to make.
Mona the Artist?
When I’m alone, I let myself drown in the smell of paint, the familiar scent that always brings me to a different dimension. When I look at the paintings my dad used to make, the color of the paintings tells me various stories. Stories that I wished I had written so I could feel and hear them again. It was a symphony of paradise wherein I could keep myself in a sanctuary of being free, a place where my imagination could run freely. I tried picking up the brush just like how my dad used to do, but unfortunately, I was only gifted with the eyes for arts but I hadn’t inherited his talent for painting stories. But I love stories, so I tried finding my own way of telling them. It was a hard slap on my face.
Mona Got Slapped:
It was a strangely windy afternoon in 2010. While I sat beneath the tree near our classroom, a sudden gust of wind brought a piece of newspaper and hit me in the face. I was pissed because I felt a sting from the slap of the paper, but I was also curious about what was written. My attention caught the title “Unrequited Love,” I was just a clueless 10-year-old kid who did not even know that those words existed. But I started reading it, and even though I no longer remember what the words were, I still vividly remember the fang of pain I felt upon reading it. I was confused as to why my left arm felt a tingling sensation that ran through the left part of my chest. I brought the piece of paper inside our classroom and asked my friends what it was. Our teacher noticed the paper I was holding and asked why I was holding a newspaper. I pointed to the part wherein the Unrequited Love was written and asked, “Unsa ni cher?” (What’s this teacher?) and she said that this is common in the entertainment section of a newspaper. And the part that made me feel that tingling sensation was called a poem.
Mona the Poet Wannabe:
A poem…ahhh that’s what it was, I told myself on my way home. Ever since I got to know what it’s called, I have been fascinated by how words, when it’s written, make someone feel something. I started imitating how the format of the poem was written; it was two paragraphs with four lines each (I learned it’s called a quatrain poem in high school). I just randomly wrote anything I could think of, like a rag, a door, a plate, a sofa, or anything I could see inside our house. But none of them made me feel something. Then, I saw my puppy, cotton, and she makes me feel happy whenever she licks my hand. That was an aha moment for me because I wrote a poem about her, and finally, it made me feel something. That’s when I started using words to tell a story, a story of feelings.
Mona Found Her Voice:
When I started my Bachelor of Arts in Literature at Cebu Normal University, I truly began appreciating the power of telling stories not just through poems but novels as well. Getting to know the works of Austen, Dostoevsky, and Woolf, I discovered the power of words when used correctly. It wasn’t even about the technicalities like how the plot was formed, or who the characters were. It was about…how well they were described by words that deeply evoked emotions in the readers. Whenever our class discussion about the different novels on love, money, class, and many other things starts, I can’t help but realize that I found a voice that helps me understand the intricacies of different human experiences.
A Mona With No Lisa:
Of course, despite having a “Mona” in my name, I’m no Mona Lisa. I’m not (yet fingers crossed) a well-known part of the art industry but in my own way, I’ve found a way to express myself. Thankfully, I’ve gotten to know Hive because of my workmate, Jill and by attending the orientation facilitated by Miss 
My blog will be a chaotic mix of my stories about the journey of a lover of the arts and human experiences. I hope to share my thoughts and know yours as well. Let’s explore the world of connection through words.
Disclaimer: Most of the pictures used are from the events I’ve attended. I only took the photo but the paintings are not mine.
