Art and Words

The Life We Endure

A continuing body of work (2023–present) combining illustrations, essays, and collaborative poems—reflecting on truth, the nuances of daily life, and the quiet persistence of human desire.

For all it's worth

You spent most of the better years of your body running after a dream.

And on the comedown, you realize how little you’ve set aside for yourself.

Aching limbs.

Pills in the morning.

Pills at night.

Pills for the in-betweens.

Poorly assembled hangers resembling a body to house a heart run down by ambition.

You look at photographs. They are all you have.

And a faint remembrance of how it feels to be invincible, to be celebrated, even just for a few fleeting moments.

And again, ask yourself a question that you’ve asked yourself a billion times in the pursuit of, in the tiny victories, and in the inevitable failures.

Was it really all worth it? Are you leaving the world a better place?

And though you have felt and shared how it is to win in front of all your loved ones and colleagues.

Why do you perpetually carry the burden of feeling like you are losing for the most part of your remaining days?

Even when the crowds are long gone and the leather on your cleats have disintegrated into oblivion.

For all it's worth,

you already know you won't be leaving the world a better place.

You will leave the best world you've ever built for yourself—

and that's all that matters.

Words: Cedric Martinez-Hodreal
Illustration: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2023

FX Dreams

“I’m homeless!”

That was the only way I could describe the situation from the naive perspective I had back then. It was a rainy evening in July, back in 2012.

My dreams were thousands of feet above the ground. That coveted diploma was still on its way to my parents as I took a leap, stepped out of my precious comfort zone, and tried to explore the world I had always envisioned myself living in. I was a fresh graduate of fine arts.

Oil paints

Turpentine

Large canvas

Dried brushes

Empty pockets

It was an incredible three-month stint, cohabitating with some of the most talented visual artists of our generation.

Together, we transformed a lifeless art warehouse into a place where everyone could freely express themselves. Shared beds. Shared dreams.

Night after night, we spent our last penny on Slurpees and ready-to-drink coffee from 7-Eleven. We’d start creating around midnight, and it always felt like the night was still young.

Three months in, the exhibit was finally over. That one horrible, rainy night, the gallery owner demanded that we leave the studio. Others went back to their homes. I didn’t. I didn’t want my parents to see me fail. I was the stubborn kid in my early twenties, considering myself homeless and penniless but incredibly rich in ego and pride. I knew I had something to prove to myself.

As vividly as I can recall, a typhoon was hitting hard, and it was almost midnight. As merciless as it may seem, we were told to leave the studio before sunrise. I packed my bags and called a ride. Strangely enough, I can’t even remember all the exact details of what happened, but the feeling of betrayal and disappointment was overwhelming, and it has lingered with me through the years.

I waited outside as if it weren’t raining. I remember it was an old, red Toyota Tamaraw FX. I rode in the front seat and noticed that the air conditioning was terrible but not as unforgiving as the situation I was in. The man driving the car had a weird, comforting aura that made me want to cry and tell him everything I was going through. He was a friendly stranger who could have easily abducted me if he’d wanted to, a stranger I even felt sorry for because I knew that I, too, could barely afford a decent place.

Halfway through the journey, the man suddenly stopped talking. What he said that night plays on repeat in my mind as I write this down.

“Alam mo, nararamdaman ko, malayo ang mararating mo. Hindi ko alam paano pero alam kong sobrang layo ng mararating mo. Wag ka susuko.”

It’s been twelve years since that rainy night. Looking back, sobra’ng layo na nga.

And as I look forward to what tomorrow brings, your kind, encouraging words remain as clear and loud as if I’m still that young dreamer crying in the passenger seat.

Illustration & Words: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2024

"Fall in love with your solitude.

There is no home like you."

In my eyes, I saw myself kissing the lies, blindfolded. In my eyes, I bid farewell and embrace to truth, wide-eyed.

Nostalgia is a Home

It was a nice summer back in 2004. We were up in the clouds, and the island sun greeted us with warmth and light. It was our first time boarding a plane, and leaving is like bidding farewell to my preadolescent years—slowly gearing up for a set of new perspectives.

As a child with a simplified way of having fun, my music player stuck on a loop with my favorite band, no silver spoon to brag about, I knew that my parents were doing well for us. That was a nice feeling to have.

I remember how peaceful it was. At a young age, I loved how it felt to be humble and tiny in a world so vast and proud. The palm trees were waving, the ocean seemed so sparkly, and the people were all too nice. Life has been too forgiving. Years later, I found myself coming back for more.

The year is 2024. I am in my early 30s and have a new set of perspectives. The sun greeted me with warmth and light so many times that I have already lost count. It was just like the good old days, and this place is far from being foreign. My footsteps made too many marks on these familiar streets. Faces come and go, but the feeling stays the same.

And for whatever reason my body brought me here, I could always count on the same feeling every day. The feeling of longing and belonging—over and over and over again.

Illustration & Words: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2024

Bitter Dreams

I dreamt about you last night.

When I had woken up.

I ran down the stairs.

I looked into every room.

Hoping that you were still there.

I dreamt about you last night.

And when I had woken up.

I had lost you again.

Words: Cedric Martinez-Hodreal
Illustration: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2023

Still Alive

You found me on the top of the building staring out at the same view that you so proudly showed me when we first moved into the building.

I was calm and I had no words but you were hysterical and you wept like a child as you ran towards me wearing my Adidas Combat shirt that you loved to wear when I was away and you missed me.

I had been insisting for you to keep it but the things that I give you tend to have a way of always showing up on my side of the closet.

and now it is with me, in my new old apartment, separate from yours.

On that day, you were barefoot and your eyes were greener than usual under the sun and as you wept and held me, I realized that we had not held each other that tight for almost a year.

All of the good things that we had jumped ahead over the ledge when you found me.

I died on the day I tried to kill myself. but only in the worst of ways.

I was dead to you.

Words: Cedric Martinez-Hodreal
Illustration: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2023

Maybe vodka healed my wound

My last conversation with my dad

before I found him in the mental hospital

“I’ve got Vodka. This is Stolic.”

Nice.

We sat on the carpet.

A silence louder than bombs.

And so we took shots. Two each.

Just enough to numb the pain.

It was New year’s after all.

These stupid memories.

These non thing things that tear me apart.

Words: Cedric Martinez-Hodreal
Illustration: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2023

Hold on Tighter

You are a tree that your mother so lovingly planted.

Constantly fixing your roots firmly into the ground.

No storm,

no wind,

and no drought...

could ever put you down.

Hold on tighter

Illustration & Words: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2023

Padayon

Sambit ng isang estranghero
Sa gitna ng papalalim na gabi.

May liwanag sa mga salitang tila isang planggana ng
malamig na tubig,
Unti-unting ibinuhos nang
walang pag-aalinlangan.
Isang kaibigang walang hiniling o naghanap, ngunit dumating,
Ilang minuto lamang mula noon, naglaho rin.

Sa gitna ng daan,
Tumigil ang orasan.
Hiniling ko nang pabulong sa hangin
Na bumalik na lang sa nakaraan o
Magising sa ibang paraan.

Padayon,
Sabi ng estranghero.
Sa malalim na gabi, bumukadkad
Ang liwanag ng araw na parang isang matamis na ngiti.

Noong gabing iyon,
Tumalon ako sa bangin na walang hanggan,
Isang pangako na walang kasiguraduhan.
Hinanap ko ang sanlibong kasagutan,
Ngunit ang sagot sa lahat ay isang kaibigan.

Padayon, kaibigan,
Estrangherong walang pangalan.

Words: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2021

Last Night

This is not about the night of yesterday,

or the night that came before it.

This is about the night when I won’t see the sunrise,

when my eyes will no longer open to find you lying beside me;

when my ears will no longer hear my favorite song—your soft snore,

when my nose won’t catch the scent of your mornings,

when my arms won’t feel your skin against mine,

when my lips will no longer meet yours.

This is the night of complete silence,

when the crickets’ melody will no longer complement your good mornings.

This is the night when the word "tomorrow"

becomes the final period in the book where I am the main character.

But before that night arrives,

I want you to remember all the nights when:

we stayed up late, sharing secrets known only to the stars,

when our eyes met for the first time—

a promise forged, as if the sun and moon conspired to keep it.

When we chose to make your house a home,

though I never told you—you are the home that shelters me.

When anxiety became a poison, and you, the antidote that never ran dry.

You are the air and the sunlight that make life worth living.

You are the sun I love to see rising,

the warmth no blanket could ever replace,

the moon that shines when all else grows dark.

And on my last night,

I will be among the stars greeting you when you look to the sky.

For all that we were,

I know you will always find me there.

Words: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2025

The child who can't recall

Perhaps the truth lies in nature's gentle call,

imparting lessons that shape us, one and all.

In childhood's embrace, we grasp the essence of being,

Yet forget the whispers that guide our seeing.

Those tiny details, like stars in the vast night,

Their meanings evolve, hidden from our sight.

Do you remember your first spoken sound?

For your mother, a treasure, a joy profound.

Yet, even as you cherished the words that you shared,

You found yourself speaking ill, unaware and unprepared.

Do you recall the moment you took your first stride?

Your parents, so proud, beaming with joy, eyes wide.

They longed to gift sneakers, to celebrate your flight,

Yet you ran from your fears, seeking solace in night.

Do you remember the day scissors first met your hand?

Or the knife your mother wielded, so steady and grand?

It took time to heal from that pear's tender skin,

Yet your words cut deeper, leaving shadows within.

Words: Jaz Villanueva

Year: 2024

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