The yellow-feathered parrot clenched onto the plastic ball, its beak infiltrating every space it can and its claws gripping the sides of the container as if the plastic toy was flexible to its forces. The parrot stumbled around the contraption. In its eyes, I saw determination, desperation, and a reflection.

I saw a reflection of myself, looking at the parrot with such intent the way I treated movies and other creative works I found interesting. From a young age, my dad would always take my mom and me to the theater on weekends. It was his way of making up for the hours he wasn't by our side. To this day, I still remember each film. I remember it because it was such a special moment for the young girl I used to be who yearned for her dad to play with her, like the other kids, instead of working abroad or overtime.

I then found myself looking for the cliche romantic moments, the family mishaps, and the plot twist in everyday life just like the ones I saw on screen. On impulse, I started writing, taking videos, and taking photos whenever I can. I would ask my friends to critique my stories and videos, hoping for an honest criticism of my work.

And well, they took their jobs seriously. These repeated occurrences allowed me to, strangely, become better until they asked for more. I found satisfaction with the fact that I found an audience with my friends and family, my works being able to be there with them despite my absence.

Maybe this was how my dad felt back then. He spoke to my mom and me through the movies we watched. And although he was absent from my life for a good amount of time, he made up for it within the stories written in the film that filled my heart.

The parrot’s sharp beak caressed the plastic ball through the constricted container. Almost. The parrot almost made it through. It has been an hour already, or at least it felt like it. I grew more and more impatient. Shifting my foot to the side, I achieved to get a closer look at the parrot’s position, and I found it. The reason for its problem was...its own claws that blocked the path of the ball.

I was once the yellow-feathered parrot that foolishly blocked its own path. The words written on the paper read: “State what your intended major is”. I folded up the paper to put it in my bag, hoping it would get lost in the vast sea of graded papers stuffed inside.

I pondered on the question for months, answering it with such artifice whenever a family member asked just so I can escape the prejudice that stating what I really wanted to do would get me. I was trying to run away from the question and the possibility that my heart and my brain somehow connived together into formulating an answer that would spark up more questions from those who opposed it.

But the more I tried to run away, the more I found myself getting closer. I prayed. I found myself kneeling in church, eyes closed but my heart open. I asked for guidance. I asked for permission. Then finally, I asked myself; If I sacrificed this one chance, how much and how far will I regret it?

"The Whisper of the Heart," "Chungking Express," "Forrest Gump,
even "Beauty and the Beast"; I remembered telling myself that I would one day produce a film like that. I remembered crying after watching "Beauty and the Beast" with my mom, telling her how much I yearned to be able to create a story like that. I remembered myself, after all.