The best thing I ever did in the past decade was finally embrace my anger issues and mental illness. I realized fighting your nature is futile.
I was formed when lava from the Malay Archipelago converged with the calm Pacific. I’m the bastard son of the Ring of Fire. So why should I extinguish the flame I was given?
I remember when Mt. Pinatubo erupted. I was sleeping and the loud conversations of people outside woke me up. I walked towards the front door of our house to see what all the commotion was about. When I stepped out, I thought it started snowing, as if the poles had suddenly reversed. But it was not snow—it was ash. The light gray specks descended slowly like a million tiny angels. The sight of it was so surreal that I’m still not sure if my memory of excitedly running around trying to catch as many ash as I could was real or if it was just a dream. Many people died. Many more became homeless in the aftermath. How can something so violent and destructive also be so ethereal?