Project Almanac and a Box of Memories

If you could go back in time, just once, where would you go? What would you hope to find there?

These questions lingered in my mind today, sparked by the movie Project Almanac, which played in the background as I worked on articles for my clients. Some people prefer music or silence when they write. I like movies. Not just any movies, though—ones with action, a bit of chaos, and just enough unpredictability to keep my mind sharp.

Project Almanac is about time travel, a group of teenagers who stumble upon a way to rewind life. Naturally, they make a mess of things. As the movie unfolded, I couldn’t help but let my thoughts wander. If I had a time machine, where would I go?

I know the answer. 1989.

1989: A Year of Simplicity and Uncertainty

I was 16 then, in my final year of high school at Bicol College High School Department in Daraga, Albay. Life in Daraga was simple. The ever-present silhouette of Mayon Volcano towered over us, a quiet witness to the rhythms of small-town life.

My days were filled with school routines, classmates’ laughter, and the anticipation of graduation. But truthfully, fourth year wasn’t an easy time for me.

Academically, I wasn’t a performer. If you asked my teachers, I wasn’t the one they’d expect to graduate with honors or distinctions. Passing the National College Entrance Examination (NCEE) felt like a miracle, and for that, I was grateful. But if you had asked me then, “Where are you planning to study next?” I wouldn’t have had an answer.

The uncertainty weighed heavily on me. Graduation loomed, but the future felt like a blank page. While my classmates seemed to have plans—college applications, scholarships, dreams of careers—I was still figuring out my place.

A Spark of Inspiration

Before the school year ended, something happened that changed everything for me. Our school was visited by Fr. George Decasa, SVD, along with a few seminarians. They came to do a presentation—I can’t even recall the details now—but I remember the energy they brought with them.

Fr. George spoke about life in the seminary, about faith, purpose, and service. I wasn’t particularly religious at the time, but something about his words struck a chord. I remember sitting there, captivated by the idea of a life dedicated to something greater than myself.

By the end of his talk, I had made a decision: I wanted to become a seminarian.

After the presentation, I signed up. Fr. George spoke with me personally, and I told him about my desire to join the seminary. He said he wanted to meet my mother and grandmother, to discuss my plans and how they felt about it.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had direction. The uncertainty that had clouded my thoughts lifted, replaced by a sense of purpose.

The Box Beside the Bed

That year, I still spent quiet evenings in my bedroom, often staring at the small wooden box beside my bed. Inside it was something I can’t name but will never forget. It wasn’t valuable in the usual sense—it wouldn’t fetch a single peso at a market. But to me, it was priceless.

It was a gift from someone who mattered, someone who saw me in ways others didn’t. That box held more than an object. It held a piece of my heart, a piece of my life that I didn’t realize would one day feel so far away.

Sometimes I think of it as a horcrux, a part of me trapped in time, hidden away in a place I can never truly return to. Right now, the only way to fetch it is to go back in time, to 1989. That’s where it stays, untouched by the years that have passed and the changes life has brought.

When my adoptive mother passed, I left for Manila in a rush, carrying what I could and leaving much behind. Somewhere in that transition, I lost track of the box and what it held. And with it, I lost a fragment of myself.

I’ve thought about it often since then—not just the item but what it represents. A connection to a simpler time, a tether to a younger version of myself, and a moment when life felt whole. It’s strange how something so small can carry so much weight, like a tiny relic imbued with memories, love, and the innocence of a life that’s gone.

Why We Long for the Past

Time travel, at least the way the movies show it, is impossible. But the longing to revisit certain moments in our lives? That’s something we all feel. It’s not about changing history or fixing mistakes. It’s about touching something that feels unfinished—a memory, a feeling, a piece of who we were.

For me, it’s that box. Not because of what was inside but because of what it symbolized. It was a part of my world before the weight of adulthood pressed down. It was a time when I was still figuring things out, but life still carried a sense of innocence and promise.

And it’s also that moment when Fr. George visited our school. A time when uncertainty turned into inspiration, when the idea of a different future gave me hope. Moments like these are worth revisiting—not because we can change the past, but because they remind us of who we’ve been and how far we’ve come.

The Present as Our Time Machine

We don’t need a DeLorean or a complicated contraption to revisit the past. Sometimes, memories are enough to take us back. Writing, too, serves as its own kind of time machine. When I reflect on 1989, I can almost feel the air of Daraga, hear the voices of my classmates, and see the gentle glow of Mayon Volcano in the distance.

These reflections allow me to bring the past into the present—not to relive it, but to honor it. They remind me of the boy I was and how much that time shaped the man I’ve become.

Cherishing the Present

Even though I can’t retrieve that box or the life it represents, I can carry its memory. The emotions tied to it remain with me, reminding me of the value of small, meaningful things.

And perhaps that’s the real gift of time travel—not the ability to change the past but the chance to appreciate it. To hold onto the lessons and the beauty of what once was, while cherishing the here and now.

If you could travel back in time, where would you go? What would you hope to find?

Maybe we don’t need a time machine to hold onto what’s precious. Sometimes, all we need is to remember, to reflect, and to treasure what we have today.