Distance

Distance is something that I’m far too accustomed to.

As someone who’s moved from city to city in a span of how many years, I’ve learned to adapt to the changes that distance has offered me. That is mainly being away from my parents and being away from the city that I grew up in.

There was always something welcoming and warm about the city at the foot of Mount Apo. It was something irresistible in a sense that it would prompt you to come back every now and then for a traditional Christmas holiday or New Year’s. From time to time, it would be something that you crave to experience once more, because really, there’s nothing like cold air gently pressing against your face and moving through your hair at six or seven in the morning as you drink coffee and listen to the birds chirp.

Oddly enough, this same charm is what will also drive you away. You will get bored of riding the same tricycle every single day, seeing the same dilapidated buildings, and taking the roads that you have memorized at the back of your mind. Eventually, you will also grow too familiar with the faces that pass by, and no one will ever be a stranger again. Even when you’ve left for a couple of years, the same people are still there, just a little older, maybe with a few more wrinkles here and there—it’s a small world after all. Over time, the comfort of normalcy will fade and the small city will cease to be enough.

As the miles between what was once known as home grow bigger and wider, the distance provides comfort. I remember that my first time leaving was hard, extremely difficult—but I also remember feeling a kind of peace as I was entering the airport. I had one duffel bag and two knapsacks that I could barely carry. My arms were cramping, and my heart was pounding. I constantly kept looking back to see if my parents were still outside, and as I moved further in, one security point to another, they were no longer there.

I remember hurriedly dropping my bags at the baggage counter and riding the escalator up. There were so many people I didn’t know, so many voices I didn’t recognize, too many, if you asked me. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, my breath was heavy, and even my inner voice was shaking. There was a moment when I thought of just going back. My parents were still in the parking lot and I hadn’t arrived at the boarding area yet, so I still had time. I could’ve, but I didn’t. Surprisingly, when I passed the last security point and was already in the boarding area, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. Yes, there were still bouts of anxiety present, but I was okay—that I was going to make it.

I still thought about that even when I was already sitting on one of the metallic benches, just looking around at everyone—all kinds of people, tall, short, dark, light: It felt like a museum of simultaneous events occurring. Then, I felt calm. It was as if looking at everyone and everything unfurling in front of my eyes was somehow therapeutic.

As I boarded the plane, and as it slowly lifted itself from the ground, I could feel the physicality of distance growing — the buildings that were too high to scale now looked so small, the trees, ocean, mountain, everything felt like it was part of this massive diorama that I was making. As the distance continually grew and the gaps widened, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

That happened a couple of years ago. Now, I am currently in the city that’s known to be the Philippines’ gateway to the world. The distance between what has been and what is happening feels more tangible than ever as the tides continue to shift and what used to be daily occurrences now seem unfamiliar. I remember a poem by Heidi Priebe: “To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be.” But rather than a lover, I think about myself and the thousands of miles that separate the version of myself from yesterday and the person I see in the mirror today. I remember how when I was 16 years old and still living in a small city by the foot of the mountains, life seemed to go slowly. The weeks literally felt like months and the months felt like years, and I so badly wanted time to move a little faster. I knew that if I never left, much of life would still be the same, just fewer people, and more silent mornings while drinking coffee.

Just the other day, I was staying up until midnight and I didn’t feel even the slightest bit drowsy. For a brief moment, I was looking up at my teal-colored ceiling, listening to a random song playing on my laptop, and there, I caught it: a wish for time to move slowly, even if it was just for a bit. These days, I’ve been finding it significantly harder to keep up with the times and the days. It’s been deadline after deadline, then the cycle repeats itself. I don’t know what Monday, Tuesday, or whatever day it is. I just know that I’m stuck in a loop of never-ending next weeks for the rest of the year. The mornings, however, are still silent as ever. The pandemic has managed to shush the noisy ramblings of the city that never sleeps.

When I imagine the objective difference between the times, I always go back to where it all began: the airplane, as it slowly lifted itself from the ground and into the flurry of clouds. I think about how measurable the distance between here and there is, but how immeasurable that distance is between what was and what is, and somehow, the distance is comforting. I revel in this awkward gray area of sadness and miss the things that I so badly want to feel again, as well as happiness, as I navigate through the uncertainties that are set before me.

Distance is a constant element in much of the longing, sadness, happiness, and emotion in general that we never really notice, until we have the time to pause and look at the space we have created and actually fathom what time of day it is. To look at the gaps between the hands we used to hold and be either in awe of or in utter disappointment at what we have become or what we are becoming. To notice how much time has actually slipped through the cracks of our consciousness, and whether or not we are proud of ourselves when we reminisce about the events that we have chosen to be part of.

Distance is the silent denominator that ties everything together, so neatly and beautifully packaged, ready for us to unpack when we are ready. But more than that, distance bears the comfort of the emotional intoxication we seek — it is the safe gray area of ambiguity that we need.

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Julyan Ira B. Kabigting, 22, is a fourth year nursing student at Adamson University. She is from Kidapawan City, North Cotabato, but currently lives in Pasay City.