ONTIC | VOLUME 2 | SECOND SEMESTER A.Y. 2024-2025

ONTIC

Editor-in-Chief

Rufino Rico L. Jamisola

Associate Editor

Ejay D. Villaver

Managing Editor-Administration

Krisha Faye A. Gascon

Managing Editor-Finance

Trixcy D. Clar

Creative Director

Christian A. Mananguite

News Editor

Kimberly G. Capuyan

Sports Editor

Lylle Antonette A. Flores

Features Editor

Ashleah Mae Y. Villono

Opinion Editor

Sharry M. Cuizon

Co-Opinion Editor

Samantha Mae A. Murillo

Literary Editor

Ava Donalie A. Ferolino

Broadcast Manager / Layout Artist

Krista Marie B. Yaoyao

Online Editor / Photographer

Gabrielle Marie R. Paradiang

Co-Online Editor

Ma. Ehla Fatima C. Inanod

Art Director / Layout Artist

Narvie Klaryzze B. Borja

Co-Art Director / Illustrator

Khen B. Fernandez

IT Administrator / Illustrator

Heron Augustus S. Flores

Property Administrator / Illustrator /

Graphic Artist

Hannah Vanessa O. Mondilla

Writers

Louise Lambiquit

Rey Martin B. Rio

Ceraley S. Cabiltes Jr.

Maria Cristina G. Lamug

Juan Enrique D. Reboquio

Kristianna Amor M. Tagsip

John Kherwin A. Pansacala

Photographer / Videographer

Astrid Niña T. Vidal

Photographers

Ayn E. Nazareno

Kimberly O. Tumilap

Videographer

Raghnall P. Cena

Illustrator

Sienna Rio E. Young

Illustrators / Graphic Artists

Karina Adel A. Vestil

Jane Frances P. Latorza

Layout Artists

Kirsten Leanne P. Roble

Therese Margarette A. Racaza

Publication Adviser

Mr. Robert Pongot

Assistant Moderator

Rev. Fr. Glynn C. Ortega, OAR

Moderator

Rev. Fr. Persiuz Joseph M. Decena, OAR

HANDURAW comes from the Visayan word “handurawan,” which means “imagination,” “memory,” or “vision.” This creative folio provides a collective space for ’s staff artists to express their individual art with no boundaries.

This is HANDURAW—where the imagination comes alive.

To exist is to be caught in tension.

Between what we are and what we wish to become. Between the primal instinct that pulses through our veins and the higher aspirations that propel us forward. Between the raw essence of being and the ways in which we shape, define, and project ourselves onto the world.

Art lives in this tension. Breathing in the space between knowing and unknowing, between creation and destruction, between self and other. The act of bringing something from thought into form is a collision of forces, a moment where “what is” meets “what could be.”

To be a Creative means grappling with this duality. Crafting our realities through imagination— molding visions from fragments of experience, emotion, and wonder; for our work does not exist in isolation. It is an echo of our inner landscapes, an imprint of our existence upon the world.

We are constantly navigating between authenticity and artifice, between what is demanded and what is felt. But perhaps true artistry thrives in this very space: in the in-between, in the unresolved, in the perpetual act of becoming. In the act of remembering despite erasure. In the act of speaking despite suppression. In the act of dreaming despite the weight of reality.

Now more than ever, in a nation where narratives are shaped by those in power, when truth is buried beneath the spectacle to serve the status quo, art becomes an act of defiance. To question, to create, to envision a different world is not merely an artistic pursuit—it’s a declaration of existence.

With the unveiling of ’s second installment of its Creative Folio, HANDURAW, let this be an exploration of what it means to exist, to imagine, and to create. A testament to you, who dare to reach beyond what is seen, who embrace the friction between instinct and aspiration, who carve meaning from the formless.

May you stand in your becoming and find power in the tension of being.

TABLE OF CONTENTS & ABOUT THE SECTIONS

In line with this year’s theme, ONTIC , the regular sections of HANDURAW seek to explore the essence of being by capturing the many facets of lived experience—personal, political, cultural, and imagined. Each segment invites creators to confront what is real and what is becoming, giving space to reflection, identity, and truth.

Together, these sections form a collective meditation on the ontic—what it means to see, feel, and exist.

Etched into the folio’s cover, three iterations emerge—curated, captured, and conjured—toward a silhouette that is both their origin and their sum. A dance of form and essence, where instinct meets aspiration. Each hums a truth, yet the whole remains elusive—a mirror of being, fractured and whole, forever reaching.

A SEAT AT

by Christian A. Mananguite

days begin, but chains remain, chasing promises never theirs to claim. time takes, years steal, dream shrinks to fit what’s left. as sweat seeps into cracks, lifting a few while burying the rest.

THE TABLE

words by John Kherwin A. Pansacala

privilege rises like smoke, never drifting down, never shared.

while those below choke on the haze, gasping for what’s forsaken.

society speaks of a seat for all, yet some are left standing ‘til they fall.

hollowed.

After a day filled with tasks, coming home ought to be a sanctuary to recharge.

Sigh, will we ever be free?

Yet burdened with the chains of responsibility, there is no choice but to take a step forward, no matter what.

A Modern-Day Harana

by Krista Marie B. Yaoyao

Sweet melodies of the tongue, Rhythms that sway the heart, And a lilting tune to the ear.

I have fallen for you, sinta, And with your songs–a daydream.

On sunlit afternoons, On my hour-long commutes, On those melancholic evenings,

Guhit

by Kirsten Leanne P. Roble

words by Louise Lambiquit

Pag-ibig na siyang hinubog sa Nakaantabay na sining ng may likha, Sugpo ng kasakiman ng mapagmataas.

Kaakibat man nito’y hindi mawari, Hayag nito’y may angking taglay. Bigyang pansin ang sigaw ng damdamin.

Ang lapis, simbolo ng tapang, hindi pasisiil, Sa kasakiman ng mga makapangyarihan, Ni hindi malulupig kailanman, Hangga’t katarungan ay mapagtagumpayan.

Wails of the Unheard

by Astrid Niña T. Vidal

words by Kristianna Amor M. Tagsip

Drenched in my blood, I cry out. Red and purple are these dyes. Painted on my body sculpture, Strangled by my voice— All because I tried.

Anino ng Pondo

by Karina Adel A. Vestil

words by Sharry M. Cuizon

Luhang bumalong sa bisyonaryong bukas, Bukas na sagisag, kaunlaran ang hiling, Pag-asa’y bumangon, bayan ay gising.

Ang daming gustong malaman at masaksihan

Pero ano ang natagpuan? Kuro’t palusot— Sa luwad ng tipan, lahat ay nalunod.

Sa silong ng pera ay tanong ng masa: Saan naroon ang sinumpaang handog?

Imbes na gintong gusali–ni anino’y di makita.

by Narvie Klaryzze B. Borja

words by Kimberly G. Capuyan

For what has sparked from applauses, flickered a blinding flash. Was it not the spotlight of honor?

But then silver melted from my neck, the embers burned my fabric greens—run!

For what awaits far along, this battleground in flames before it c a t c h e s you, too—

by Jane Frances P. Latorza

I’ve travelled far—twisted mind, Tell me, will I starve in my search for the divine? Of all what once was created; Consume me, take me, find me,

And with a body not ending apart, I’ll soon stay still, It’ll soon take place.

Ngayo’y nagtataka pa rin ako kung paano naging makasalanan ang magmahal.

Maging sa kasalukuyan man ito,

by Heron Augustus S. Flores

The Love Revolution

Hinding-hindi ko maiintindihan na kung sino pa man ang siyang lumalaban para sa pag-ibig ay siya pa’ng pinapako sa krus.

Ngunit, sa halip ng kaguluhan at ingay ng ating kabihasnan,

ang kapayapaan na dala ng ating pakikipaglaban sa nakaraan ang syang nagpapatunay

na ang pagmamahal ay nakakapagpalaya.

Where discord screams, let love’s quiet revolution prevail. It is a radical embrace of peace that is more powerful than a sword—the bedrock upon which genuine reform is shaped. Through and through, choose love, and be the change you constantly seek. words by Rufino Rico L. Jamisola

Nilimot na

by

na Perlas

words

by Krisha Faye A. Gascon

Ang siyang laging walang latag?

Kaming lumalaban, Bakit gutom sa sariling bayan?

Gate’s Gambit

by Therese Margarette A. Racaza

words by Ava Donalie A. Ferolino

You walk through the gate—they say you’re dressed wrong. Beside you, someone else wears the same cut, the same cloth—unchallenged.

The rule was never the fabric. On this campus chessboard, logic doesn’t hold.

To exist here is to be measured, not by rules, but by perception. And we’re left guessing the next move.

What Was My Sin?

by Hannah Vanessa O. Mondilla

words by Samantha Mae A. Murillo

The city sleeps soundly. Gunshot. I must have breathed too loudly. God, who no longer sits as my judge, I plead guilty to a sin I never committed—because the verdict was decided long before I spoke. The city moves on. I do not.

restless miles

by

steel rivers twist through bustling ground, where shadows drift but never root. a thousand hearts press forward, chasing edges…they cannot suit.

time stalls in breathless pauses— silent wars fought beneath withering lights. yet still, they crawl, as if each mile could somehow say— they’re more than ghosts that fade away.

Eyes loom, unblinking.

Hands grasp, unyielding.
 A soul curls inward, hiding, yet seen.

Judgment lingers, whispers are loud and clear. No escape from the world, no escape from the self.

Life flows relentlessly, both a passage and a passing— never still, never ours to keep.

by

Meaning emerges in the tension between joy and sorrow, each amplifying the other’s depth.

Like all things, we fade, yet this impermanence makes every moment precious.

By embracing life’s brevity, we learn to truly live.

Bukas

by Kimberly O. Tumilap

words by Kristianna Amor M. Tagsip

ubod ng mga pangarap na matagal nang patay. Sa langit nating bughaw na may bituin at araw, bukas natin sana’y dilaw.

Dagat ay isang bundok na puno ng kaligayahan, pero kung titingnan ay

bayan ko’y di makulay?

Kung ang perlas sa silanganan ay siyang umaalab sa’ting pusong buhay, bakit nga ba’y ang

CANDLES FOR THE WICKED

by Raghnall P. Cena

The wax melts for bloodstained hands, for the ones who pulled the trigger.

words by Ejay D. Villaver

And so, while the wicked bask in the warm glow, justice lingers in its cold, dark shadow— unnamed, unmarked, unheard.