ETHER DIARIES

controlled breaths | uncontrolled thoughts

Komorebi

 This piece was written for the souvenir program of the 52nd Philippine Board of Anesthesiology Conferment Ceremonies. It draws inspiration from the ceremony’s central theme—Komorebi, the Japanese word for sunlight filtering through trees. This served as a metaphor for resilience and quiet hope amid adversity. Composed during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, the poem reflects the emotional landscape of that time: the weight of uncertainty, the ache of isolation, and the longing for light. Through imagery of shadow and surrender, it traces a journey from desolation to renewal, echoing the spirit of the anesthesiology community as it emerged from crisis with grace and resolve. (Edited version of the originally published poem)
Komorebi


In my dreams, I heard an ominous song,

An elegy of sorrow, deep and long,

A melody of melancholic symphony,

To Aokigahara, the sound has summoned me.

A blinding mist of obliviousness,

Has shrouded my tangled consciousness,

With every leaf, my soul was buried,

Embraced with gloom that winds have carried.

As lurking darkness consumed my existence,

My spirit was swallowed with aching despondence,

I closed my eyes, to the voice I surrender,

And desolation released my essence to wander.

I looked up and beyond the greens, I see,

A grafile glow, thwarted by a dancing tree,

I followed the faint ray, to fathom the beauty,

A spore of hope, the light of Komorebi!

Enthused with its glistening brilliance,

My troubled soul pursued its magnificence,

As I looked back, the woods have vanished,

Feeding my faith that was scored and famished.

Into the void, the song of anguish fades,

As the light of vigor passes through the shades,

My heart reborn, now sings the day,

A glorious ray unveiled my way. 

The hush of grief began to wane,

As light unstitched my woven pain, 

Each step unburdened what once clung tight, 

Komorebi whispered: choose the light. 

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I’m Macoy Cruz

Macoy is, ironically, my professional name. Before residency, there were probably only two people who actually called me that. Then I had to get my name embroidered on my residency white coat. It cost ₱9 per letter, and I realized it would be cheaper if I used a nickname I barely used.

So I did.

People who knew me before residency would occasionally hear someone call me that and look confused, like, Who is he? People who met me after residency, meanwhile, would be like, Who is Mark?

I was diagnosed with depression in 2018. It has relapsed a few times since then.

Most of the time, you probably wouldn’t know. I still go to work. I teach. I see patients. I answer messages. I buy groceries. Life continues looking remarkably ordinary even when, internally, it doesn’t feel ordinary at all.

Writing became one of the ways I deal with that. It forces me to take whatever has been circling inside my head and put it somewhere else for a while.

Sometimes I understand it better afterward.

Sometimes I just make it funny.

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