Looking around, the hand-washing station placed outside the market reminded me of how the pandemic has changed everything. This is our world now—smiling eyes behind face masks and a pressing urgency to complete whatever task we set out to do as quickly as possible.

I look around and see that life, in its unbearably snail-paced movement, is moving forward. It felt like time stood still for a few months, but now, it has started to pick up a tempo again—like a new system, a revised way of life has begun.

There is this sadness and helplessness in the eyes of the elderly, making a living and trying to survive on their meager income. The world where they used to get up to every morning with hopes for a good day of sales, putting a spring in their step, is gone in a blink of an eye. A sense of surrender is in their eyes, but the fact that they got up early today and made their way to their store, telling themselves that today is as good as any to continue living, is admirable.

A certain sleepiness seems to have settled all over, with vendors yawning and arranging vegetables in a dreamlike state and marketgoers with a dazed look in their eyes. It is not just the people—even the products seem to be going into a deep slumber with no chance of waking up. In every corner of the public market, crates and sacks of rotting vegetables and spices pile up by the hour. I see fewer laborers than usual, and even fewer happy faces than what I am accustomed to seeing during my weekly trip to this heaven on earth.

For someone who prefers the chaotic setup of the public market as opposed to the well-arranged aisles of air-conditioned grocery stores, I am familiar with the comings and goings of this place. I am privy to which vendor sells the best and most reasonably priced produce and which farmers grow the sweetest variety of papaya, but I see less and less of these people displaying their products every week. It is heartbreaking to hear stories from vendors that certain farmers decided not to come down from the mountains anymore for fear that they might get sick because, admit it or not, it is harder to get sick when you are poor. These are my people—the ones who always welcome me to sit down and chat beside their carts. Feeling these overwhelming emotions is difficult, but as one of my vegetable suppliers said, “Ang buhi, magpadayon ug pagpakabuhi,” which loosely translates to: “Those who are alive will continue on living,” and I think that is a beautiful way to go on with our day-to-day hurdles.

My usual hangout, the “tubaan” where they display coconut wines usually consumed by the old roosters of the city, is uncharacteristically quiet. The old gentlemen who happened to be there sat apart from one another, so unlike the usual huddle that I have gotten used to—no more offers of having a glass with them or the light banter that we exchange as a routine—just a tender nod and unsure and tired eyes.

I never thought, not even in my wildest dreams, that a simple 15-minute walk around the public market could be such an eye opener for me. This experience that forced me to see the reality of how the pandemic has changed our daily lives for good.

If there is a lesson that I picked up today, it is this: None of us is getting out of this life alive. We might as well laugh and refuse to die before actually dying.