The golden terraces glistened, the palays swayed flirting with the farmers for harvest.  From afar, you’d see men, muddy from foot up to their long sleeves, sweat traceable on their backs.  This is a usual day during the harvest season. The season you’d eventually feel that time is moving in normalcy.  This along with the planting season cycled twice in a year breaks its sluggishness.

My family grew up in these landlocked municipality.  Centered by a river nourishing the fields through irrigation for the community’s survival.  I was often asked on whether the palays harvested are sold, however, based on what I have observed, these had always been for personal consumption.  The simplicity of life was underappreciated during the years I lived in my hometown, only to look back and wonder how it would have been had I lived there and embraced the slow passing of time.  Tranquil. Serene. 

For me, for a moment maybe.

Holiday seasons come and the only refuge I think of is my home.  A refuge to the hustle and bustle of the city life. A refuge to a fast-paced environment where the only free time is scheduled for sleep.

Is it too late to go back?  Or is it foolishness to want to go back?

With progress comes industrialization, and jobs in the city offer a chance for better career, in the long run, or the present.  Nobody knows how eager, us, probinsyanos would want to go back. But jobs are limited there, and the sacrifice of leaving town for a better life is a bargain for a few days of going back home.