08/07/2026
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ | ๐ช๐ต๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ช๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฑ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฒ๐๐๐ฟ๐ป
There is a poem that refuses to be finished.
It does not remain unfinished because it lacks words. It remains unfinished because grief has a way of interrupting, because sometimes love is too immense to fit inside a stanza.
Years ago, Justine Paul Paraz sat down to write about his grandmother, but every attempt dissolved into tears before the poem could become whole. "I once started writing a poem about my Lola, but to this day, I haven't gone back to finish it. I loved her deeply, but every time I tried to write, I couldn't stop myself from crying. So I set it aside, hoping that one day I'd find the courage to return to itโwhen I've finally learned how to forgive myself."
Perhaps that is what writing has always been to himโnot a means of saying everything at once, but a lifelong practice of returning. Returning to memories that refuse to fade, to emotions that demand to be understood, and to words that wait patiently until they are finally ready to be written. For Justine, that unfinished poem is more than an abandoned piece of writing. It is where his story quietly begins, with the realization that words can hold both love and loss, and that some stories demand patience before they allow themselves to be told.
Long before he became Pingkian's Editor in Chief, before he found himself leading meetings, reading countless manuscripts, and carrying the responsibility of an entire publication, there was simply a student who discovered that words could become a place to stay.
Ironically, that discovery arrived on one of the most ordinary afternoons. "It was raining that day, unya naa mi sa Filipino Kiosk together with my friends. Naay isa nakong friend nga sige'g cellphone, so out of curiosity gibasa nako iyang gisulat. It was a poem. I was amazed, mesmerized, and curious at the same time. Nakaingon jud ko sa akong kaugalingon, 'Pwede man diay magsulat og tula bisan wala kay subject nga Creative Writing.'โ
That small moment became the first page of a much longer story, as writing eventually led him to Pingkian, where what had once been a solitary practice transformed into something shared. More than a publication, it became a community that challenged him to grow and reminded him that words carry greater meaning when shared with others.
When he later assumed the role of Literary Head, the position became less about leading a department and more about discovering what writing could look like when practiced alongside people who loved it just as deeply. He expounds, "As the former Literary Head, it paved the way for my writing career. Nakabuild ko'g connections sa aton nga region, and mura ko'g caveman nga naka-discover og fire because I never thought writing could be this liberating.โ
The liberation he found in writing soon became the same freedom he hoped others would experience. He sought not to shape other writers in his own image, but to create the same space for them to discover their own voices. While many mentors proudly speak about molding younger writers, Justine believes the role of a mentor is simply to make room for voices that have always existed. "I never really helped them discover their voices because I believe they already had one. My role was simply to help amplify it. I did that by suggesting techniques, refining their use of language, challenging their ideas, and encouraging them not to hold back. Sometimes, all a writer needs is someone who believes their voice deserves to be heard a little louder."
It is a perspective that says as much about him as it does about the people he mentors. He does not believe writers need someone to hand them a voice; they need someone willing to listen long enough for that voice to grow stronger.
Maybe that is why becoming Editor in Chief felt less like arriving at the top and more like accepting another responsibility. "I never really planned to become the EIC... I took a leap of faith, a devil's gamble and just did my best carrying the trust of my peers."
The big title came with big responsibilities, big expectations, and a different relationship with writing altogether. The blank page that had once welcomed his thoughts now competed with deadlines, meetings, revisions, and the countless unseen demands of leading a publication.
Somewhere along the way, the thing he loved most became the thing that exhausted him. "It changed, di nako makasulat like I used to be. Burnout na kayko to the point words makes me puke kay overwhelmed sa kadaghan sa articles. But giingon nako sa akong sarili na love nako ang words. If walay magmahal aning mga words na gisulat sa mga writers, unsa pod kaha akong ma feel if akong words wala gibasa or wala gi-mahal."
It is perhaps one of the most honest contradictions a writer can admit: to become so surrounded by words that they begin to feel unbearable, yet to keep choosing them anyway. If he hoped readers would one day care for his own work, then someone had to care just as deeply for the words entrusted to Pingkian.
Even then, he refused to let writing disappear from his life. Returning to the page, even briefly, reminded him who he was beyond the burdens of leading the publication.
When asked whether leadership strengthened or challenged his creativity, he answered, "It's both actually... I've become more creative but burnt out. It strengthened my voice but it almost killed my passion. It's like a double edged sword." Leadership sharpened his voice even as it also tested his endurance, revealing a commitment to words that endured even when they felt impossibly heavy.
Success, too, began to look different. "Daghan pa kaayo kog agian para maingon na successful ko. I'm miles away from success. This is just the beginning, my kickstarter and the flint that will create a fire. All of my pieces are meaningful; it carries a part of me." There is humility in that admission, but there is also hope. To him, success is not something already achieved but something still unfolding, one page at a time.
"I was able to inspire my juniors from different departments to join, to write and to be a writer. I did not crave for legacy or any grandiose stuff. I don't want a golden plaque with my name on it. Di nako gusto na ang mga hocus pocus. Not winning the Creative Writing award was sad but the people who were sad with me is better than any award. And I'll take that any day. A writer wants recognition. And being recognized is enough."
Recognition has always occupied a complicated space in a writer's life. Awards may celebrate excellence, but they are never the sole measure of one's worth. Sometimes, what lingers longer than a distinction is the quiet reassurance that someone believed in the work just as deeply as the person who created it. When asked what he was most proud of, Justine spoke not of positions or accomplishments, but of people. The writers who continued because they were encouraged, challenged, or simply believed in became the truest measure of his work.
"It's about how they inspire a community. Not everything has to be written in books or journals. Sometimes, the greatest work a writer leaves behind is how deeply they're embedded in the literary community itself. Dapat dili na mahimong possible nga ma-separate imong pangalan sa literary scene. Once you reach that point, you've already built a legacy. When people think of poems, prose, or writing, your name naturally comes to mindโnot because you demanded recognition, but because of the impact you've made on the people around you."
For someone who spends so much of his time amplifying the voices of others, legacy was never about permanence. It was about presence. About becoming part of a community so deeply that your influence continues long after your byline disappears.
That same quiet intentionality shapes the way he hopes Pingkian moves forward. Rather than speaking of rankings or prestige, he talks about languageโabout protecting the voices that have always belonged to Mindanao. "It's about our native tongue, unta ipadayon nila ang Bisaya nga articles, Ilonggo nga articles, or mixed Bisaya-Ilonggo-Tagalog articles kay dynamic atong language. I hope ipadayon na sa mga writers nato because identity nato na as Mindanaons and as the language spoken by MSUans."
For those only beginning their own journeys as writers, his advice remains beautifully uncomplicated: "Padayon sa pagsulat, walay mawala pero naay makuha." Not every poem will be finished, nor every season generous. There will be days when words refuse to arrive, but the page waits all the same.
Leadership, like ink, eventually fades from the page. New names will one day occupy the masthead, and new voices will fill its pagesโyet words have a way of returning. They return in the writers who choose to keep going, in the voices once encouraged to speak a little louder, and in every page shaped by those who came before. Long after the titles have been passed on and the masthead bears new names, that may be the legacy Justine leaves behindโnot where his journey ended, but where words continue to return. He hopes to be remembered not for the title he once held, but for the words that continue returning long after he is gone.
"I don't want to be remembered as the EIC. I want to be remembered as a journalist, as a poet, as a mentor, and most importantly, a friend."
โ๐ป: Eileen Nicole Lapiz
๐ป: Rey Joshua Sambile and John Glenn Lofranco
