03/09/2026
Thank you for this meaningful thoughtpiece on creatives.
USA Publications via Frances Jill Santuyo
Happy National Creative Industry Month!
๐๐๐ง๐๐ฅ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ: ๐ง๐ข ๐ง๐๐ข๐ฆ๐ ๐ช๐๐ข ๐๐๐๐ข๐ก๐ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ข๐ก๐ ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ก๐ ๐ฆ๐ฃ๐ข๐ง๐๐๐๐๐ง
I always thought people on stage looked like stars.
When I was younger, I am certain I dreamt of being oneโa star-studded persona filled with nothing but passion and artistry. The kind where not only the spotlight turns in my direction, but the stares of the critics and those who wished to be the same.
In awe. Captivated. Hopeful.
I was sure I dreamt of being dressed in colorful fabric and having hands hover over my face, fidgeting with which cosmetics should be placed one after the other. And then I'll stand on heels, maybe fix my curls, and draw the curtain as the stage lights try to blind me.
"A fantasy," I thought to myself. The stage looked too high to even be stepped on. Each wooden plank, dry and creaky from sweat and saliva, even blood, at the cost of having a standing ovation.
Not long after, I had this desire to follow the footsteps of Shakespeare: I wanted to move people to tears, make them fall in love, and maybe start a revolution.
๐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฐ๐ญ๐ถ๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ข๐ณ๐บ.
So I tried telling stories. Person after person, inkblot after inkblot, I drafted pristine white papers with nothing but everything I thought I had: genuine curiosity and the heart to create.
But I looked at the stars. And they said something that made me step back on the ground: "A fantasy."
A slap on the face, for a dream in a reality of an unfair system built only to lift those who can take creative risks without questioning what follows.
They would call it a pastime. As a way of giving color to a life heavily drained of romantic encounters. But to what extent does the word "empower" exist when to live for art is seen as equal to a delusion?
I wonder how many kids grew up watching Eugene Domingo or Vice Ganda and wanted to stand side-by-side with them inside the television.
How many students stood passionate during writing competitions in pursuit of wanting to one day caress their own physical book.
How many shampoo bottles witnessed concerts held inside the bathroom instead of formally taking an audition.
Probably many. But they were told to check the practicality scale. We were told to.
"๐๐ฏ๐ฐ ๐ถ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ข๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฎ๐ฐ ๐ฅ๐ช๐บ๐ข๐ฏ?"
"๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ฐ ๐ฏ๐ข ๐ฅ๐ข ๐ด๐ธ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฐ?"
"๐๐ช๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ฏ๐ข ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ข๐ฌ๐ต๐ช๐ฌ๐ข๐ญ."
Does pursuing art mean forfeiting a good life, or does choosing it in a broken country only feed a dying flame?
But I looked at the stage and thought people looked like stars. And perhaps they still do.
I was certain I dreamt of being one.
Yet fate took its time; I remained on the ground while the sky remained broken. And from afar, I kept staring.
In awe. Appalled. Hopeful.
That there may come a time that those who gaze and wish to be the same will place their feet one after the otherโto quit aspiring and start arriving beneath stage lights on creaky, wooden planks and run after art as if their life depended on it.
Because mine once did.
via Frances Jill Santuyo
Photo from USA Little Theater
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โWith love, Sundaysโ is USA Publicationsโ weekly corner: your companion of poems, stories, reflections, and confessions.
This monthโs theme, Unmuted, welcomes literary works that break silence in the face of political shifts and social pressures. These are pieces that bear witness to unrest and honor the everyday survival of the people.
Got something to share? Submit your work here: https://forms.gle/acdMNLwZCmn9TuYp8
