PERMISSION TO BE KIND – Nine Lives by Mikko Mahinay


In the famous words of Britney, “Oops! I did it again” and left this space in apparent radio silence. But the reason beforehand for the lack of update has its validity beyond reasonable doubt, and in no way forced to be justified. Was it the lack of visuals? No. As evident on the activity up on my Instagram, where my daily life is chronicled between curated squares and candid, more raw footage via IG stories (sorry Snapchat- but you will always be credited as the mastermind behind digital hoes and your dog filter), I’m that friend who has several external hard drives from editorial work I’m signed to, or personal travel excursions (which are 90% attributed by the want to have a different background for every cute outfit I manage to assemble) or as basic as a sartorial documentation (as I joked to a friend, the best return of investment from being an expensive outfit, or to compensate the struggle in thrift shopping, is to always have a legitimate portrait wearing it) Was I too preoccupied?  No and never will I ever use that as a reason. Productive is different from busy- we all have the same 24 hours a day and we decide what to do with it and I choose to manage mine wisely, and without compromising whatever output is expected of me. After all, we all find time for the things and people that really matter to us. Was it the usual challenge of writer’s block and the lack of words? No. I’m never the one who’s a loss for words- in fact, I’m always full of it to the extent that my ability to write candidly and jokingly on my social media network platforms can transition seamlessly to the deeper content in here; where it should be (because I’ll never understand extremely long captions or irrelevant writing on Instagram; where most of the audience have such short attention span- i.e. asking retailers on Instagram “how much” when the price was already stated on the caption)

The reason was that I waited to give myself permission to write this down and depriving someone of the words they deserved to hear from me. It’s not usual of me to actually write about something so personal, most especially in the predicament I found myself in, and perhaps, still is in. An artist, in all mediums, need to express their thoughts and/or emotion through song, photograph, poetry, performance art,  and writing included. But for weeks, I found myself deprived of the ability to be authentic in my writing~ self-induced, unfortunately. You see, I’m not as young as most people frequently mistake my age to be. I’m no longer in the age of joking around and diving head straight into unknown territory. Previous experiences have taught me to be more cautious into where I’m headed to and who I allow into my life. But I’m also not in the age of missing a possible chance at happiness (possibly even, romantic. Hash tagging #shookt.  Headline: Mahinay has feelings!) just because my head is clouded by previous failures.

In a nutshell, a moment has come to me where everything you have ever wanted and actually dreamed of was right in front of you and every wrong turn in the past was worth it- because if you done one thing differently, your life wouldn’t have intertwined, to some extent. But then again, without the actual and verbal confirmation from the other side of the territory, or perhaps, it’s too early to tell whatever roles you have in each other’s lives (then, now or eventually) but you just have that gut feeling and just know that there’s something to have made you forget whatever made your emotions so callous- and trust me, in my case and from my experience, it takes something or someone of caliber to restore my faith in humanity.

What paralyzed me from expressing myself for a while wasn’t the agony of waiting for privilege to appreciate or become the best for someone or anyone; it was the fear of history having to repeat itself all over again. And with various sources such as Thought Catalog, articles from glossy publications, random blog sites or even stories from friends and arbitrary mantras & rules of the game (basically, too many chefs spoil the broth)- you just end up frightened to the bone. But as what someone else also told me, you just need to be honest- to yourself, to what you feel and to the person, or people, you feel something to- you’ll never know if they’re the ones to keep unless you actually allow them to step in.

Perhaps, the failures in the past are indeed and undeniable lessons to be learned, but should never cause a disability to paralyze ourselves and living in utmost fear from making the same mistakes again. The true lesson in every tragedy is, regardless of whatever failure: were to make us stronger that we’re still complete even if we gave out a piece of ourselves- even if it was the best piece.


It took me a while to be more honest with my feelings- again, I’ve had so much terrible experience with romance that each one deserved its own television series or a paperback novel. But then again, unless I, or all of us actually take the risk and try, we’ll never know if he/she’s the one, right? Needless to say, it’s probably too early to tell the final outcome of this situation I’m in- but wherever it leads me, I just stopped thinking and just start feeling- if it feels like home, then just follow its path.

After all, no one ever needed to ask permission to be nice to anyone.

Over & out.

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