Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I need to be careful. It’s strange how easily someone else's confusion can start to feel like my own, how their uncertainty can seep into my thoughts and make me question things that were once so clear. When they waver, I find myself slipping too, teetering on the edge of their indecision, wondering if maybe I’m the one who’s lost. Am I too much? Not enough? I keep asking myself these questions, knowing deep down that they weren’t mine to begin with. But here I am, letting their doubts crawl into my mind, letting their hesitation make me wonder if my worth is as fragile as their ability to see it. It’s like I’m standing in a fog that isn’t even mine, trying to find my footing on ground that’s been shaken by someone else’s storms.  There’s something deeply human in this tendency, isn’t there? This strange, almost instinctive drive to define ourselves through the eyes of others, to measure our worth by the scales of their perception. Maybe it’s rooted in our nature, this yearning for...

Strolling through our enchanted path, The righteous Heaven paid a visit, Descending from its huddled spot Misty Clouds! you won’t believe it. It’s just water floating in the air, I thought “Or Is it?” was my afterthought, The park was filled with laughing and giggling, From Kids playing, running and hiding. But to opportunists this fog means fortune Stalking walkers with evil intentions, To leap and attack when no one’s in sight, As a predator hunting its prey at night. A hazy fog caressing my cheeks, Admiring the beauty of this immaculate mist, Inspired by this vapor, I’ll last for a week, And think of the two souls who almost kissed!  Unobstructed vision is an impossibility, As perceptions create my reality, This fog, a being so profound Answers to what is it, is still unfound. …and hoping that it will never be found.

It’s funny how the deepest questions—the ones that keep you up at night—suddenly have a price. Not in pesos for a coffee or a jeepney ride, but in recurring monthly fees. I wasn’t just lost in life anymore. I was lost in the marketplace of self-help apps and online courses, all promising to fix the parts of me that feel like they’re falling apart. “Subscribe now for ₱399 a month,” one app blared, offering me peace of mind I never thought I needed to buy. My existential crisis had become a product, and I was the customer. Every month, I’d pay just to get a little closer to understanding myself—except the closer I got, the more it felt like I was leasing my own identity. I downloaded reminders to breathe, to journal, to meditate—each with a small fee attached. It’s like the more I tried to fix myself, the more I realized I was trapped in a cycle of consumption disguised as healing. My suffering wasn’t mine anymore; it belonged to the algorithms and marketing teams that turned my confus...

I find myself caught in a web of overthinking, a habit that seems ingrained in my logical mind. Perhaps there's really nothing to worry about, just a phantom of paranoia that I've conjured up in my head. It's a maddening cycle, where simple truths get tangled in complex thoughts. But isn't the essence of philosophy—the love of wisdom—to distill the complex into something simple? I can't help but recall *The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy* and Deep Thought's cryptic answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything: “Life is paradoxically coincidental to the ironical tyranny applicable to the unparalleled definition of reverse entropy.” I've spent years trying to unpack that phrase, memorizing it, turning it over in my mind as if the key to understanding the cosmos lay hidden within its twisted logic. But what does it really mean? Life, in all its chaotic and spontaneous nature, seems to mock our attempts to impose order and definiti...

When contemplating the essence of the past few days, the word “fixed” encapsulates the experience. Life often presents a series of emotional fluctuations and challenges that can feel overwhelming, leaving one to grapple with the ebb and flow of internal and external pressures. Life's complexities demand more than just superficial solutions. The process of “fixing” extends beyond merely addressing immediate problems; it involves a deeper understanding and acceptance of the inherent uncertainties and imperfections of existence. The journey through life is filled with moments that test our resilience and patience, from unexpected disruptions to emotional upheavals. In navigating these challenges, it's crucial to recognize that fixing isn’t about achieving a perfect resolution but about finding equilibrium within the chaos. The art of fixing involves embracing the unpredictability of life, understanding that not everything will fit neatly into place. It's about reconciling the ...

Life often feels like a tragic comedy, a paradox we seem to accept but never fully understand. In our quest for connection, we find that the closer we reach, the more elusive our relationships become. The more I strive to uncover the depths of those I care about, the more enigmatic they seem. The essence of this challenge is not merely in solving a puzzle but in understanding the mysterious nature of human connections. Each piece of information about another person becomes a fragment of a larger mystery. When faced with such complexity, the pursuit is not about solving but about embracing the enigma and learning from it. This quest for understanding highlights a profound aspect of relationships: the balance between patience and persistence.  As I navigate these complexities, I am reminded that true understanding requires time and respect for the other’s pace.  It is not about forcing clarity but allowing it to unfold organically. Reflecting on this journey, I realize that my a...

In my tumultuous parenting journey, there are indeed moments that stretch both my patience and understanding, compelling me to deeply reflect on the ideas justice and personal growth. These instances are what prompt me to question the very essence of integrity and responsibility. What does it truly mean to act with integrity? It's more than mere adherence to rules; it involves a profound grasp of justice and empathy. The challenge often lies not in knowing the principles but in applying them in the complex reality of everyday life. We strive to teach that righteousness is about more than compliance; it's about aligning actions with deeper values of fairness and moral courage. Balancing the enforcement of rules with fostering an environment of understanding is delicate. The adage "with great power comes great responsibility" serves as a guiding principle, emphasizing that power must be wielded with wisdom and compassion. Yet, in practice, this principle becomes intrica...

7 minutes to midnight.  Another day is creeping in, and yet, I’m still here, awake. After 13 hours of grinding away, 20 hours without sleep,  I’m beyond tired—drained, really, in ways I don’t even have the energy to describe. Nighttime is supposed to be a refuge. A moment when your body heals, when your mind lets go. By now, most people are deep in sleep, tucked in with someone, dreaming of things that don’t really matter but feel comforting all the same. I envy them, honestly. But tonight, it’s different.  There’s no soft comfort,  no calm to sink into.  Just this tug-of-war with my thoughts, a restlessness that doesn’t care how exhausted I am. The pillow? It’s just another part of the problem. I should be winding down by now, but instead, I’m out on the balcony. Coffee in one hand, laptop in the other. There’s a drizzle, and the cold bites a little more than I expected.  The stillness out here isn’t peaceful—it’s heavy, thick with that kind of loneliness ...

In the hushed solitude of night, under a sky punctuated by celestial wonders, I find myself contemplating the enigma of the moon’s dark side and the iceberg’s tip—the eternal symbols of the hidden and the revealed,  urging us to bridge the chasm between the visible and the concealed. You see, the moon presents to us only one face. The other side, the dark side, remains perpetually out of view, a silent expanse shrouded in mystery. It’s not merely a physical obscurity but a profound metaphor for the uncharted territories within us. This dark side is not just a void; it’s a space brimming with the shadows of our deepest fears, our unspoken desires, the parts of ourselves we keep hidden. It’s the silent echo of our inner worlds, unexamined and unspoken. In embracing this dark side, we confront the uncomfortable truths about ourselves. What lies in the far reaches of our inner moon? Perhaps it’s the grief we’ve buried, the dreams we’ve abandoned, the truths we dare not speak. This dark...

Gentle touch of sunshine, Light kisses of rain. Tender breeze and mist combine, be freed from all the pain.

Imagine the paradox of an ending: where something that has concluded lingers on, not in its original guise or with its former labels, but in a new, elusive form—an uncharted territory of untold connections that surpass the ordinary. Envision this ending as perceived by the participants who once breathed life into it. They are acutely aware that, although it has ended, its essence continues to ripple through their lives. This continuation manifests as the echo of experiences yet to be fulfilled: the unspoken truths, the raw honesty, the stories left untold, and the unspoken dialogues expressed through mere glances. Perhaps this is why parks, offices, and frequented spots seem to be haunted—where the living and the departed intertwine. These spaces bear witness to the vibrant bloom of relationships and the quiet demise of others. Thus, a cyclic phenomenon emerges: a dance of visits and experiences, creation and destruction, only to spiral back into re-creation. Now, consider a relationsh...

The day creeps in before the world has fully exhaled its night, suspended in that fragile breath between darkness and light—where dawn is not a promise but a question carved from silence. To rise before the sun is to challenge inertia itself, a quiet rebellion against time’s slow erasure. Every morning is a gamble with oblivion. Here, the mundane is not mere habit but a sacred ritual—each motion a stitch in the fragile fabric of being. The boiling water hisses its impatience, caught between warmth and rupture, comfort and confrontation. It is the human condition— torn between the safety of the known and the terror of becoming. To engage with the world is to stand on the razor’s edge of vulnerability, to carry the weight of endless possibility in a single breath. Sunrise bleeds crimson and blue across the sky, a daily fresco of impermanence. Nothing holds still; even light is a restless traveler. What we see is always incomplete, an illusion crafted by shadows hiding truths just be...

Imagine this: the day unfolds like a perfect scene, scripted in the soft light of possibility. Everything clicks—the quiet hum of life aligning just so, a fragile harmony suspended between what was and what might be. And then, at the cusp of night, I stumble. One misstep, a small crack in the glass, and suddenly the day feels fractured, like a song that forgot its last note. How do you carry a moment that wants to unravel the whole story? Spontaneity is a siren with a crooked smile—promising freedom, the thrill of shedding plans like old skin. It tastes like raw, unfiltered life, electric and reckless. But it is a gamble without guarantees, a dance on the razor’s edge where grace and disaster are neighbors. When I follow that wild pulse, I win a battle against predictability, but sometimes I lose myself in the aftermath, caught between pride and regret. There is a certain bravado in trusting the gut—a whispered anthem of rebellion against the tyranny of order. But when that rebellion f...

There’s a pervasive sadness that wraps around me every time I listen to "Mad World" by Tears for Fears. The song, with its melancholic tones and deeply introspective lyrics, seems to echo the quiet despair that I sometimes feel, tapping into an emotional landscape that is both familiar and disquieting. From the moment the first notes play, I’m drawn into a world of desolation. “ All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces.” These words hit me with a profound sense of recognition. It feels like I’m being invited into a reflection of my own world—a space that seems increasingly repetitive and devoid of vibrancy. I see the same weary expressions on the faces around me, the same worn-out settings that no longer offer the comfort they once did. This sense of monotony resonates with my own experiences, where the daily grind often feels like a never-ending loop, each day blending into the next with little distinction. The refrain—“ This is a mad world ”—is a h...

It was a blink—no, less than that—a fragment torn from the fabric of time, but damn, what a sensation it was. A tiny ripple in the endless cosmic ocean that suddenly made the universe feel less vast, less indifferent. In this mad theater where logic wrestles feeling, where thoughts dart like snakes in a frenzy, I stood frozen, bathed in the silver light of my full moon wish. How delightfully cruel, this moon—breaking every rule with a wink, shattering plans like they were glass underfoot. I could have rehearsed the moment. Wiped the sweat from my brow, brushed my hair into perfect rebellion, maybe even painted my eyes to catch the light just right. But no—here I was, raw and exposed, caught in the crucible of my own chaos. Embarrassment blazed across my face every time I visit that memory, a wildfire that refuses to die down. In that tenacious moment, where reality slipped its tether and danced hand in hand with fantasy, I was left speechless—benumbed, caught in a void where breath...

Amid the rush of daily life, where schedules chase schedules and moments blur into oblivion, there exists a countercurrent—a slow, deliberate rhythm that defies haste. It is found in the unassuming journey of a snail, inching its way across cold pavement, weaving a silvery path that calls attention to the art of patience. This tiny traveler, burdened by its shell yet undeterred, moves with a grace so incongruous it arrests the eye. The world races on—fast, furious, impatient—but here, on this quiet stage, speed is a trivial notion. For the snail, time stretches and folds differently; what is a trivial distance for most becomes a grand odyssey. In observing this slow march, one cannot help but confront the paradox of existence: the tension between urgency and stillness, between the ephemeral and the eternal. The snail’s journey is not just a path across concrete; it is a metaphor for resilience, for the courage to persist amid indifference. Yet even the slowest journey is vulnerable....

Listening to System of a Down's "Toxicity," I’m struck by the song’s unflinching critique of our modern world—a world in which our deepest frustrations and existential dilemmas are laid bare. The song doesn’t just play on my speakers; it reverberates through my thoughts, challenging me to confront the pervasive toxicity that infiltrates every corner of our lives. This isn’t just music; it’s a searing reflection on the state of our existence.  “Conversion, software version 7.0, looking at life through the eyes of a tire hub.” These words reverberate through my mind, forcing me to grapple with the implications of living in an era dominated by technology. It’s as if we’ve become spectators of our own lives, viewing our experiences through a cold, mechanical lens. I find myself questioning how our obsession with technological advancement has distanced us from the raw, unfiltered essence of our humanity. In our relentless pursuit of progress, have we inadvertently reduced our ...

To find the vastness of a world contained within a grain of sand is to learn that meaning often lives in the smallest details—those fragments overlooked in the rush of everyday life. This truth asks us to slow down, to soften our gaze until the invisible becomes visible. “To see a world in a grain of sand,” Trust is never simple. It is a fragile negotiation between yearning and hesitation, a delicate dance where hope and doubt circle one another endlessly. Dreams may stretch high, aspiring toward the infinite, yet shadows of uncertainty pull them earthward, reminding us that progress is often tentative, fragile. “And heaven on a wild flower,” Connection is rare and wild, like a flower blooming unexpectedly in barren soil. It defies explanation and resists containment, thriving best when seen without judgment or expectation. In these moments of quiet encounter, the extraordinary quietly reveals itself. Our emotions are more than reactions; they are the outcome of what we choose to bel...

Six cups deep, caffeine thrumming like a restless pulse beneath my skin, I’m drowning in the endless scroll—the modern séance for distracted souls. And there it is: Plato’s whisper, half-buried in the noise, trying to stitch the fragments of an ancient truth back into the light. “Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature...” I freeze. Not a casual pause, but a sudden stop where thought crashes, and the heart clenches—uninvited. Soulmates. The word swells and buckles under the weight of all the longing it carries. Does such a thing live outside the dreamscape we paint it in? I’m not sure. Honestly, I’m not sure about much, but the void between uncertainty and hope pulls me in like a magnet. The idea of one perfect match—like a key fitting a lock, jagged edges aligned in quiet certainty—sounds almost too simple. As if we’re halves, unfinished sculptures searching fo...

Sitting in the jeepney with my child, I found myself quietly observing the scene next to us—a mother with her own little one, perhaps six years old. Unlike my kid, who seems to have inherited a relentless curiosity, drilling down into every detail until the universe surrenders its secrets, this child sat silently, her eyes wandering around in a restless search for something to latch onto. Boredom, perhaps—a boredom she couldn’t quite contain. Every so often, she would ask her mother a question, her voice a soft interruption to the hum of the journey. “Ma, may baon na ba ako?” “Ma, nagbayad na tayo?” “Ma, bakit nagjeep lang tayo?” Simple, practical questions. And each time, the mother would respond with a brief nod or a shake of her head, her attention never fully leaving that small compact mirror she kept pulling out to pat her face with powder. It’s funny, isn’t it?  the things we notice when we let our minds wander?  There she was, clutching a designer bag, scrolling through...

It was supposed to be a simple Sunday—a light, breezy day where life just flows, no plans, no structure. You know the type: the kind where spontaneity is your guide, nudging you in whichever direction the wind blows. After a satisfying run in the rain—my body alive with the rhythm of the droplets—I found myself wandering toward the cathedral. Not because I had to, but because something deep within me craved that connection to something larger than myself. Spiritual, not religious—that’s the badge I wear. I just wanted to pray. Just wanted to whisper my thoughts into the vastness, to reach out to that elusive spirit that weaves through everything, binding us all. But when I arrived, I was greeted by a tarp—a drab banner of rules pretending to be divine law. "Dress codes," it proclaimed, like some sartorial decree. “No shorts, no sleeveless tops,” it warned, as if God had suddenly developed a taste for high fashion. Seriously? Instead of communion with the divine, I turned on m...