Growing up, I remember a time when we didn’t even have a TV—or electricity, for that matter. Life was very simple then. During power outages, the entire neighborhood would be shrouded in darkness, and instead of staying indoors, we’d all run out to the street to be together.
We’d sit on a big log along the roadside or squeeze into a tiny payag, trying to fit everyone into that small space. The elders would begin telling stories—tales of ghosts, tikbalang, manananggal, agta, and all kinds of mythical creatures. As kids, we listened with wide eyes, caught between fascination and fear. Every rustling leaf or sudden noise made us jump, certain that one of those creatures was lurking nearby.
The storytelling would go on until the power came back. When the lights flickered on, we’d all breathe a sigh of relief, say our goodbyes, and return to our homes—our hearts still racing but full of joy.
Those nights are some of the most precious memories I hold. We had no gadgets, no distractions—just each other, sharing stories and making the most out of what little we had.
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