On Kahidlaw
“Kahidlaw” is the inaugural art and literary folio of the Spearhead Publication. Its purpose is to harness creativity, transcend the boundaries of journalistic formality, and enhance the artistic capabilities of the University of Science and Technology of Southern Philippines’ Senior High School department.
“Kahidlaw” focuses on the lived experiences of students as they approach the culmination of their senior high school journey. This period, marking the apex of adolescence, is filled with a multitude of experiences unabridged emotions, midnight soliloquys, and star-vealing woes as our youth slowly sets behind the edge of the world.
Editor’sNote
Its joys slipping away like transient moments that soon fade into memory. These memories stretch into oblivion, only to be yearned for and relived in the echoes of the past.
Youth blurs into a mosaic of intense emotions, where, at the zenith of exhilaration, you confront the piercing reality of its end. As you plunge headlong into the twilight of this era, you grapple with every precious moment, desperately clutching at the threads that tether you to these resplendent days. Youth, in its final throes, becomes a wistful hiraeth—an ache that is agonizingly near yet perpetually beyond reach. Standing at the precipice of this memorable chapter, we gaze at the waning sun, drenched in the bittersweet glow of our past splendor and consumed by a profound longing to relive those once more.
Youth is fleeting, radiant moments * * * * * *
-Edior in Chief
Embedded in every page, is , immortalised, archived, and bound to be remembered. Each a heartfelt craft, a tribute to our past, reminiscent of the spirit, magic and madness then. They are the rays set by the parting sun on a blue sky, the reaching beams of light, the tight grip of the inevitable goodbye, the orange lit by a sunset sky – Kahidlaw (?).
May every page flipped be a reminder of it. May it carry laughter, joy, grief, rage, the scent of classrooms, the company of friends, the green of trees
a memory etched and sparks of orange. -Feature Editor
sunsets, friends, and the temporariness of youth
-Caitlynn Raro
Solace Amidst Rainy Night
-Akusuieshiiu
Gentle whispers of the in a place, cold wind
There sits an empty bench in solitary under a rainy night’s embrace. Witnessing silently the pouring rain’s soft sigh, Underneath the melancholy of the crying sky
Noise of busy streets, has gone lost in the mist
Here, used to exist. of memories hushed tone * * *
Street lamps flicker, casting shadows along, A harmony of rain amidst solitude, shape melancholy song.
The bench, a sentinel of stories so old yet untold, Silence in solitude, thousands of secrets unfold. Raindrops spatter on concrete bare, Leaving fragments of dreams linger in the atmosphere.
No lovers’ snickers, no chuckle’s delight, Just the pit-pat of raindrops at rainy night. Yet in this voidness, lies a beauty so rare, An endless serenity under the damp night’s care.
So let the sky’s gentle rain continue and cease its pain, As the solitude of unattended bench and street remain. In the center of the night, in the softest plea,
Lies a moment and tranquility, for you and me of solace
Love Spring-Ralp
A seed planted on summer end Endures the fall and the winter cold, Until spring came and it fully blooms, But summer’s fast and the flower falls. * * *
One glance and a seed was planted, And it’s me that’s standing at the floor concrete That sank onto the that’s
At an event that was meant to meet and greet. foundation inconcrete.
As fall came, I, too, deeply fell
That was found in the most little interaction Of ours, that almost felt like there’s a certain
On this foundation of unstable attraction reaction
winter
And as came, i spent the cold thinking What I should have done better, when fall ended so did we observer decide
So as the flower reached its end, Was my just tricks on me? mind playing
So I tried to do more but it’s just hurting you and me
So spring came, and the flower fully blooms It shows its self’s beauty and imperfections. The truths and the lies of all those interactions
And let its its actions.
When summer came, the blossomed flower starts to wilt, All those poems and sketches that dried the ink and quilt. Was given without remorse and guilt.
I’m glad I
felt it to the hilt.
in time
There’s beauty in somber peace and quiet; that, the second most important thing in memories are the places that have been.
Now, forever immortalized.
Just when things are Oblivion struck.
Silently disrupting everything, Evidently, letting all things run amok.
Words unspoken, thoughts concealed, Feelings better left unrevealed. Emotions like fragile glass, Reflecting shadows from the past.
Regrets whispered in the dark, ending, Actions leaving a lasting mark
In the haze of fleeting nights, Glasses raised, we chased the lights. Rationality left behind,
If only silence had prevailed, Perhaps our hearts would be unbind.
In moments we wish to untrammeled.
-nyx amidst the blurry shrubs
Love now dwindles into “like,”
A flicker in the fading night. How I wish those words unsaid, Could lie dormant in my head.
Memories now shrouded in regret, Paths crossed we’d rather forget. What was once so vibrant, bright,
Fades into the night. slowly
If we could turn back time’s hand, Leave our thoughts where they stand, Would we find a different way? Or still be lost in yesterday?
Silent echoes of what could be, Haunt the spaces left in me. Maybe some things are better unspoken, In a world where remain unbroken. -nyx
feelings
sunsets, friends, and the temporariness of youth
-Caitlynn Raro
Sunshine -Ralp
* * *
In every bright noon that you outshine, I often see you bathe in sunshine
Even at the people’s crowd or line
All I see is your beauty that’s sublime
In the corridors of the SHS building
The anticipation to see you keeps me going
Even with the academic stress that keeps on building
One glance at you eases that feeling
Comfort
-Ralp
There are hands ready to wipe and calm you down You’ll smile and aim back for the crown through their humor As teardrops and heart rate goes fell fasts
In the corridors of the SHS building The anticipation to see you keeps me going Even with the academic stress that keeps on building
in time -catsup
Mom, Dad
-Nari
I miss the that me, arms cradled and sought to console me when I wept.
The soft voice that lulled me as I slept. I miss the times when you did see
Still, I write . My wounds bleed in black ink on the page, But it will never perfectly encapsulate my hurt and rage. only way
As it is the you’d see me anyway.
You will never hear my thoughts, But you will read them on a piece of crumpled paper, Mom.
I was six, And you were turning forty-nine, I got older, I turned twelve, And you disregard when I tell you I didn’t feel fine.
Living in an with an
Would you feel fine? angry house angry man
Even the lourdes boom of thunder feel inferior when he roared, His harsh temper shook the family pictures in the corridor. Dad, please don’t feed your fury any more. * * *
“For Noble White” -Joaquin *
* *
Your beauty rivals that of Aphrodite
Your elegance—blessed with Athena’s grace
It’s no wonder you bewitched me
But it’s a miracle you welcomed my embrace
For you’re known to be as cold as winter
But your presence me brought warmth
My once bleak world—now with you—is
With you, I wished to live my life forever adorned
But you called it quits—left my soul scathed
You made me swallow a bitter pill
You broke my heart on the eighth
But you—I love you, still
A fool, I am, to believe in youthful love
“My salad days, when I was green in judgment.” Once wished for immortality, now yearning for the grave Fruitless—for my body may lay ‘neath the earth,
Now my heart crosses the river Styx Singing songs of its plight Hoping to find our love but my heart would still beat for you And bring it back to life
But I know if I had the chance As I take your hand and walk out of Hades Like Orpheus with Eurydice before I would—by instinct—mess up By taking a at your beauty glance once more
-Caitlynn Raro
Essays
Pag Handuraw -Ji Ponce
Six Ago
Summers
-Jelly
A sentiment—one that familiar aches and persists.
It gnaws on the heart, seemingly feeding on the ticking hand of time. It boggles the mind at night as if the fate set in stone can be changed by a single plead of a yearning teenager.
It is one thing to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with friends on a creaking blue bench; it is another to sit there alone on a random Monday and do nothing but feel the cliché of an almost finale. One can only look at a scratched keychain and remember the daily stops of their lively group at the arcade. One can only glance at a fast food menu, and like clockwork, set their eyes on the usual meal they ordered after a tiring meeting. Six summers ago, on a childish bucket list made by an equally childish preteen who wanted to hop-skip the years toward adulthood, a written daydream is found in bold, red letters. Now that my feet are only a step away from tedious ID procedures and the looming college applications, I retreat.
Six summers ago, a girl used to run and play the chaser in a short game of tag after the ring of a rusty school bell. Years after, she’s facing a colorful calendar with packed deadlines she has to tail after. Six summers ago, she would play in the rain, basking in the pitter-patter of the cold. Years after, she’s standing in the same place, yet sheltered under the lush cover of a growing tree, and thought how everything is slowly changing.
But these are simply musings of a young heart beating along the thrum of time. It races, thought after thought; memory after memory. It whispers, telling tales of yesterday, urging once more for a do-over of spontaneous hangouts and late-night shenanigans. Yet such wishful thinking stays engaged in the premises of youth, only to be relived once again in reminisce.
sounds of lullaby
the waves kissing the shore as little feet patter in the waters rang in my ears like a
-cottonfruit
Memory Frame
Trudging through campus, this sight encapsulates a familiar scene where snippets of university life are captured and cherished.
-Yang
“Malayo pa, pero Malayo na”
-Luminous
I’ve called home
for the past two years, countless memories flood my mind. From the moment I met my first friends, classmates, and teachers, who would accompany me through the final years of high school, everything felt vivid. Who would’ve thought that the once shy, meek girl, who preferred to stay “lowkey,” would emerge as a talkative, bright young woman with numerous goals and dreams in mind?
This school has challenged me in ways I never imagined (cause like, the school system was very challenging as well tbh-). It made me question my capabilities and life decisions. But do I regret it? Not at all. Despite its shortcomings, this school has taught me so much. I’ve met incredible people and they helped me become a better version of myself.
Together, let’s say, “Goodbye, USTP!” So long to the countless homework assignments rushed before deadlines, the nerve-wracking oral recitations, and the self-imposed gaslighting. Farewell to the moments we cried over grades or dealt with those frustratingly annoying team members who barely contributed. Goodbye to all the heartaches and rants we endured. And together, once again, let’s greet Hello to the new challenges ahead as we enter our first year of the next phase in life.
To my fellow Trailblazers, never let giving up be an option. No matter how tough the homework, projects, or recitations get, always remember to never let grades define you (I’m jk, grades really do matter */cries in tres). This is not the end of our journey. Despite the hidden errors and faults we have (shout out to the cheaters, gaslighters, backburners, rebound, second-option, paasa) each
one of us deserves to live life to the fullest. “Malayo pa, pero malayo na.” There’s still a long way to go, but we’ve come so far already. Now is not the time to give up. Think about the sacrifices, tears, efforts, and hard work you’ve exerted to reach this point. Do you think giving up now or even later on would be worth it?
“Kayanon kaha nako ni?” “What if di nako dean’s lister this college?” “What if..”
Isa lang ang answer ana: eyy ka muna
Trudging down the familiar concrete path of the school eyyy
A dream I Owe -Jelly
What do you see when you close your eyes and think of the future? Of the past? Does it play clips in hues of sepia? Or does it remain a blank canvas, devoid of a single streak of tomorrow?
A lone thought travels the night. It seeks comfort; it seeks a companion, but never an answer. Perhaps it feels it too–that finding an answer means baring itself naked in the eyes of reality. And so it cowers, only ever dancing around the flame, never nearing a speck of ember.
The nights she knew were almost always of the sighing of the house after a day’s bustle, the groaning of crickets, and the gentle gasping of the late-night air. But there came a night in the identity of one that only visited her on an encounter during the summer of 2024. It smelled of the hot asphalt of a teenager-laden boulevard under pink skies; sounded like the tune of trivial joy from winning a costly worth-10-token keychain at
the arcade; felt like the after-school fatigue and the high of finally catching a sliver of attention from the person you have long pined for.
Hidden under the covers of her mind were memories of her youth. Each replay of a favorite followed another that she almost forgot existed. Her youth held answers to the questions of her present. Her youth is a hug to the pains she bears today. It was hours ago when her parents asked her the golden question. Unsa imong plano sa college? It was days ago when she took another turning point with just a click of a mouse. Officially enrolled. But it was years ago when she thought she had it all figured out, a cheat sheet in hand as if it would stop life from happening. She thought wrong. The passing of memories almost devastates her; will I ever be this young again?
Youth is raw. You feel so strongly. You laugh so loudly. Youth is a playground. You jump from puddle to puddle. You graze your knee, yet still run after your sly next-door buddy. Youth is a one-call-away friend you ring when the world strips you to the razor cold. And so as you settle under the comfort of your sheets, dim the light, and rest for the night, it visits you.
It brings with it the warmth of yesterday. When she closes her eyes and thinks of what has been and what will be, she thinks of this. There is no dream yet. But one day there will be.
-Caitlynn Raro
“Lan. tsada na siya!” “Dean, wala na koy kwarta.”
At the boiling scene of crime.
-Ji Ponce
The Influence of Deanna on Budol-Prone Individuals’
Financial Wellbeing
-Allan
This evocative exploration distills a twenty-page dissertation into an eloquent narrative, crafted by a panel of experts from prestigious institutions. It stands as a testament to academic rigor and artistic reflection.
She was a force of nature, a siren song pulling us into the heart of the Cogon night market.
Though I often described her as peculiar, each night we surrendered to the market’s embrace, enveloped by its dazzling lights, eclectic food stalls, and the watchful crescent moon. Her eyes burned with an intensity that promised our ephemeral youth would blaze into a vivid, unforgettable streak.
“Night market, tah!” she’d beckon. “Ngi wala naman koy kwarta!” Herbie, our resident budol-prone friend, would lament. I was budol-prone as well, but I had better control!
I often pondered if it was truly the food that etched those memories in our minds. Was it the twenty-peso ice shake? The buy-one, take-one shawarma, with a caution to skip the sauce if you couldn’t handle the heat? The tulo-baynti proben that never quite satisfied?
When Jane’s phone buzzed with her parents’ inquiries, a ripple of anxiety passed through us. I worried Herbie might be in trouble, figuratively bundled up in the night’s excitement. I discreetly checked my wallet—not stolen, but still considerably lighter. We all turned our eyes to Deanna, silently acknowledging the toll of her influence on our finances. Yet, amidst the golden glow, the symphony of flavors, and the exhilarating plunge into the market’s labyrinth, it didn’t seem to matter.
Even now, as I stroll past the market’s alleyways, recounting to my parents the myriad street foods, the taste differs from the vibrant memories. Perhaps if I’d been warned about the fleeting brilliance of youth, I would’ve embraced it more boldly. The night market now takes me once more to a home I am unable to return again.
For at the night market, it’s not just the food you savor; it’s a bitter aftertaste of freedom, a sour reminder of relentless time, and a kaleidoscope of
the flavors of youth.
Gallery
sunsets, friends, and the temporariness of youth
-Caitlynn Raro
Fleeting Youth
drowning academe
-Ralp
heart that bleeds orange
-fatima
Editor’s Choice Ender
-cottonfruit the way home
pri(i)sm -camera
in your decimals, brittle blues, and delicate reds,
I tend to forget in your chambers of columns and rows, you are still a prism.
You are a prism. A glass, a shard, dimensions intact, breaking beam into blades, taking light just for it to refract. You divide an into multitudes, entity you diverge its identity into decimals
It was always your nature. You were always a fraction, never the whole. You were always a step, never the goal. I just simply forget there is more to you and beyond you. behind you,
Beyond you, there are oceans, cities, and sunsets to photograph
There are malls, sunny days, and my friend’s laughs. There are rice meals to eat and art to create. There are achievements to achieve and mistakes to make.
Dreams beckon distance from you, singing–medals, honor, trophies, amount to little victories to: earlier rising from the bed, an hour more studying, an apology not through text, and marching brave to tomorrow, and the next.
Behind you, I refract, bend and disperse Into a kaleidoscope of red, blue, and numbers.
I am the light that pierces through you
I am a brewing supernova, I am a growing glory. I am crooked constellations, I am a thousand stories. I am a billion flaws, I am a million dreams,
But I am not a point average, or a final remark I am a damn star. and not a single pinpoint decimal can reflect me. refract or
Inevitably, undoubtedly
you’re still a prism
YOU DO NOT REFLECT
ME.
Folio 2024
Art