There is a place in the university with popularity that I never quite understood. It's but a patch in the wide expanse of the campus that garnered so many attention from all of the public; it's been romanticized in movies and stories alike.
It looked everything but phenomenal to me.
It is called the Sunken Garden. It is known that way because the whole area sinks a few centimeters per year. There is a wide field surrounded by giant trees that's the usual hangout place for football, ultimate, and many other sports enthusiasts. The shade the canopies of trees provide served as comfort to many students, faculty, and the general public.
An oval, something-kilometer in perimeter chunk of the road is dedicated solely for runners, walkers, and cyclists. But there's always the hustle and bustle that are uncomfortable for someone like myself, who has never been fond of the crowd.
The cynical in me thinks, "What's so special with this place? Why is it so popular?"
Granted, it looks peaceful and serene, except for the cars and multitude of people. If I were to bring someone in the campus - someone who hasn't been there before - I would tour that someone in the university's science complex. It is most definitely a smaller area, but it is by far more peaceful.
While it's true that there are still the occasional cars and the crowd that hangs out in there at night for routine workout, it is less busier than by the Sunken Garden.
So... why?
I wasn't exactly bothered, so while I was curious, I didn't exert effort to find out. It is a place that I take for granted because I see it everyday. It has become a normal sight, and I think its beauty was sub-par compared to other parts of the campus.
It was Holy Week of 2018, and work was suspended for the rest of the day. I got to go home to my parents', some over a hundred kilometers away. Majority of the students had already traveled back to their own homes a few days prior, so the campus was empty.
The time was... around 3 pm. I thought that I had enough time, so I walked my way to the Sunken Garden, where I usually catch either a cab or a jeepney. I felt lethargic that day and opted to take a cab. An old man, who seemed to be a permanent fixture to the waiting shed of the stop, offered to help me get a cab.
I had to wait, so I had the time to truly observe my surroundings.
For the first time, I found myself by the Sunken Garden, alone except for the old man and a kiosk vendor by the side. When I looked over at the field, I was blown away.
It was clear. It was green. It was beautiful.
Wow. Apparently, there really was beauty if I just looked enough. It was the end of March, and for some reason, that afternoon, everything looked as if it was basked in sepia. Even if I try, I don't think I will forget the scene.
It was engraved in my mind.
I took out my phone, opened up the camera application, and positioned my hands.
I had to capture it.
While it was engraved in my mind, I knew I would forget the details. I immediately edited the photo and set it to grayscale. Because I thought, "This look so sad."
It was.
It was beautiful, but it was sad. And it felt like it was the hustle and bustle, the people, the cars, the random laughter at one corner, or the angry yell at another. It was those that kept it alive.
It has been more than a year since I had last seen the Sunken Garden. The nationwide lock-down, that hoped to curb the rising cases of COVID, got me to stay at my parents' home for more than 12 months now.
I captured it in grayscale three years ago, and hoped to someday paint it in color, the way I remembered it in my memories. Today, I did.
