Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Its fundamentally an eschatological treatment to one’s miserable year: in other words, regret. People are resentful of their past year, hoping to make the upcoming year better, brighter and lighter by making promises to themselves which most of the time, they really have no intention of keeping. I don’t make resolutions as I know that I am bonded to my promises. I never want to make a promise to myself that I can’t preserve (in as much as I don’t want to make promises to people that I know I can’t keep.) As clichéd as it sounds, we don’t need to wait for a new year to aim for transformation and new life. Change takes place everyday- Mutation (destructive) and Evolution (constructive) takes place every fudgin day. From the setting of the sun to the rising of the moon, we are already at the mercy of change though most of the times, we ignore it. We are a completely different person 1 second ago – and we don’t have to make promises to appease ourselves of the change happening in us. We w...

Ito siguro ang tanging bagay na ayaw ko tuwing Disyembre. Kung di man reunion ng batchmates, reunion naman ng pamilya ni misis ang magaganap. Every 3 years nagkakaroon ng grand reunion ang kanyang mga relatives at sa tuwing ito’y mangyayari, atubili ang lahat ng tao sa pagbili ng mamahaling damit na isusuot, make up dito at doon na parang kasal ang pupuntahan. Ito ang panahong magsisiuwian mula sa iba’t ibang bansa ang mga sosyalerang titos at titas – na sa pag uwi, wala naman talagang pinag uusapan kundi kung gaano sila mas naka aangat sa inyo. Ganoon naman yata talaga, ang sistema ng pagtingin sa kagalingan ng isang tao ay nababase sa dami ng digits sa iyong payslip. Sa malas nga lang, mas madami pa ang digits ng loan ko kesa sa income, at syang dahilan kung bakit ako’y isa lamang langgam sa paningin nila. (o di kaya, pulgas) Ang sukatan ay wala sa abilidad. Oo, sabihin na nating artist ka, writer, poet, musikero, subalit ano bang kwenta nito sa kanila? Ang mahalaga ay kung mama...

The power of the will.  I am always amazed by it. It’s glorious in fact as how ‘WILL’ can turn tides, shifting impossible feats to possible achievements. To change weaknesses to strengths require a lot of it.  Human beings have this insurmountable potent power within them that isn’t impossible to achieve as long as the will is there. Just imagine the limitless possibilities one can attain, the power once can muster, ah sweet will. Yesterday, I spent the entire day deeply thinking while watching the Green Lantern Animated Series. Literally, I was astounded with the development of the story. So we know that the power rings of the GLs are energized by WILL (as manifested by the green aura).  With it (will), they are able to create physical forms of anything that their mind can visualize. Constructs as they call it, they are able to make forms and appear in the physical plane through thinking.  Suddenly, a thought hit me. Humans are like these I guess, our will c...

The soul does not whisper—it starves or screams. All in between is the illusion of peace. In the silence between the soul’s starvation and its outcry, we find the illusion of quiet—an artificial stillness that keeps us from confronting the essential hunger of being. It’s in the cries we refuse to hear, the ones we bury beneath distractions, that the true self makes itself known. The peace we crave is often the peace we’ve made of compromise, a truce with our most uncomfortable truths. But peace, in this sense, is not reconciliation—it’s resignation. We imagine that the soul's desire can be satisfied by a soft murmur, by polite introspection. We overlook the primal scream that rises when we’ve neglected the body and spirit for too long. To experience truth is to starve, to let ourselves hunger for more than what the world offers—only then can we hear the scream that shatters the quiet. It is only when the soul’s yearning is left unchecked, when we are stripped of the comforts of ig...

It’s difficult to categorize important from junk. When I woke up this morning, I already have a plan on what to do this day, I am going to clean up the room and discard everything that I will no longer need. After bringing home my things from the office, the room was a mess.  Papers here and there, notebooks, books and all sorts of things, like letters from students, small mementos, past drawings and to cut it short, junks that will make me remember.  I believe that I am not a sentimental kinda’ guy, but upon seeing all of these, I realized, I think I am indeed sentimental! (in the first place, why have I not threw them away?) or maybe, I am just concerned because they exerted effort to make these things to give me, so I might as well return the favor by keeping it. Anyway, sentimentality only brings trash. As heartless as it may sound, I can’t afford to keep them anymore as the house is getting crowded and it’s getting filled with trash. So, I need to segregate and c...

Is there really a problem? Or am I creating illusions of my problems? My problem – or perhaps, our problem is that we senselessly overthink about matters. We over think and we can’t stop rambling about these things. It’s better if people were like gadgets, just press the power button and we can make everything stop, reboot ourselves and reset buggy programs. We have sharp memories, like a knife that slices up peaceful realities. Sometimes, we act like scalpels that cut up the skin to release festering matter. But most of the times, we are idiots. We cut the flesh just for the sake of cutting it, and to see if we still have the ability to feel. And this is the most punishing moment, when you can no longer see the main reason why we got the knife in the first place. We are like a melodic silent song, one so silent that only us can hear, we move with the imperceptible tune and we sway with the beat. A lovely harmony of natural sounds where our brain willfully harmonizes the notes to craf...

Once more, the battle commences… This is my eternal struggle with my bed, or rather, with sleep itself. All I am yearning and hoping for right now is having the ability to slide into a peaceful slumber. It should be a simple task (This is supposed to be simple!) Reclining my self on a chair, slouching, resting and closing my weary eyes. Simple right? NO! It is in this moment, when I enter the realm of taming my racing thoughts is where the true challenge lies. This is the time that my mind becomes active. The memories of our shared nights resurface, and I find myself relating all too well to the notion of the "hair monster." You know, that feeling of being smothered by a fluffy creature, waking up to find strands of hair strewn across your face like wayward tendrils of affection. It was just last night, after we indulged in a few drinks, that she retired to bed. I watched as she succumbed to the whimsical artistry of the "sloppy drunk" style of sleep...

Once there was a candle, Confidence manifested in its sturdy built, A wax so thick, Coating an immaculate wick, Hiding inside the waxy mask, A recurring question constantly asked, A Decision has to be made, One so absurd – yet gratifying One so tragic – yet transforming, To taste the sap of immortality? Or to bask in the fire that kills it softly? A Living flame, impossible to resist, A spark that was made to exist, Blazing, enchanting, fiery unison Bold, scorching, fervent affection, Unable to control the eudaimonic destruction, Lost in the oblivion of synchronistic manifestations, Melting wax… Face the facts… Wicked wick waggling wishes then wane Hopeless heart hunting happy heat under the cold rain.

Pasko, Regalo, Di nakikita sa dami,  ang mahalaga ay kung tatagal ba. Di din nakikita sa kulay,  maging puti o de-color man. isa lang ang nais ko, sana’y samahan mo ako kalimutan muna ang mundo. Atin ng simulan Balikan dating samahan, lumang Tawanan, labing tatlong taong Kwentuhan, Walang puwang na katahimikan, Walang pagkakataong mawala ang kaisipan. Wag mong tataasan, Baka di mo matagalan. Paikutin na ang bote- Tumagay ka pa pare! Salamat sa mga kwento, Alaalang akala ko’y tuluyan ng naglaho, Ibinalot at ibinigay mo bilang regalo. One on one ulit tayo, Sa susunod na pasko.

  They say to wake is to step into chaos. To exist, not merely to be. But what of those who remain cradled in the safety of sleep, lost to the quiet hum of dreams, untouched by the gnawing of truth? In a world that insists on slumber, wakefulness becomes a rebellion. To truly see is to confront the unbearable weight of reality — and few dare carry it. Most would rather fade into the comfort of illusion, where the world bends to the sweetness of their fantasies. But to be awake, to shake free from the shackles of the false comfort, is to become a stranger to the familiar. A wanderer in a land that asks for blindness and docility. The conflict lies in the tension: the dreaming world versus the one that burns with raw, unfiltered life. The soul, awake, is a battlefield. Each moment of clarity a war against the numbness. Each step forward a rejection of the lullaby that seeks to lull us back to sleep. This is the paradox of wakefulness. The more we see, the less we are understood. Th...

This sign I give you: every people speaks its tongue of good and evil, which the neighbor does not understand. It has invented its own language of customs and rights.” ~ Nietzsche, 1892/1966,  Thus Spoke Zarathustra   (W. Kaufmann, Trans.), p. 49 Isn’t it fascinating how we all speak different languages when it comes to what we consider good and evil? Each person has their own unique set of values and beliefs, shaped by their experiences and background. Nietzsche was on to something when he said that every person speaks their own “tongue” of virtue and vice—clearly, he knew we’d be forever tangled in the mess of miscommunication. Picture this: you’re at a party, and someone hands you a drink. For you, it’s a sweet gesture of friendship. But for someone else, it’s like they’ve just handed you a live grenade. How did we get from “cheers” to “run for cover”? Because our moral languages are as different as ordering a coffee in Paris versus trying to decipher a secret menu at a din...

To seek belonging is to find yourself naked in the gaze of others, exposed not in your strength, but in your fragility. It is not the comfortable proximity of others that makes us feel connected, but the shared weight of our suffering. This is the irony of human existence—our need to belong can only be truly fulfilled when we allow ourselves to belong to our deepest wounds. Only in the acknowledgment of these scars, in the rawness of their truth, do we find the soft soil in which connection can root. It’s not the polished moments of joy that knit us together, but the fractured edges of sorrow, vulnerability, and brokenness. The kind of intimacy we yearn for—real, deep, enduring—emerges only when we stand in the darkness of our pain, not pretending to be whole, but embracing the cracks and fissures that make us who we are. But suffering is no easy companion. It doesn't offer comfort or quick relief. It pulls you into itself like a void, asking you to surrender pieces of yourself un...

When you dance with the devil, betrayal is not a misstep,  it's not some fleeting moment of faltering in the rhythm ---  it’s the entire choreography,  stitched into the very fabric of the waltz you thought you could master.  Every sway,  every spin,  every seductive glide  is laced with deception.  You think you can outpace him, maybe even rewrite the rules.  But what you fail to see is that there are no rules with him.  He drips betrayal like sweat,  every gesture a broken promise,  every breath a loaded dice roll. Lower your expectations—no,  crush them beneath your heel,  grind them into the dust where they belong.  Expecting fidelity from him is like expecting a flame not to burn.  Agreements with the devil?  Laughable.  A contract you thought you sealed with a handshake will be shattered before the ink even dries,  the clauses rewritten in invisible ink.  His betrayal isn’t a glitc...

It’s 2 am and I am still awake. Though I had a long nap this afternoon, for some reason, my stubborn brain suddenly erupts in these manic streaks. My mind suddenly reboots itself and in a couple of minutes, I become as hyper as a kid who just ate 27 chocolate bars.  Since it’s pointless to lie down and struggle to find the best position, I took my laptop, go out at the porch and started writing. As sat there, I looked at the heavens and there shines my moon together with the stars. The sky was barren of clouds and you can perfectly see how the earth is blanketed by the dark sky as the moon and the stars gave it an enchanting touch.  The moon’s light is waning, so are my thoughts. I guess I am lunatic as I can write lots whenever the moon goes full. I consider the moon as my muse so I wondered, Why can't I shift my obsession to the stars?  I think this is quite improbable. Stars are illusions, I mean, most of the time, the light that we see from these stars are actually t...

Before we can construct anything that endures, we must first dissolve what we once were. It’s the paradox that runs through the very marrow of creation— nothing that is worth anything survives its first death. This is not the death of the body, but the destruction of the ego’s illusions, the slow collapse of our fantasies into the ruin of reality. Only when the old skin falls away, shredded and torn by the unrelenting passage of time, can the new emerge—scarred, remade, but alive in ways it could never have been before. In the quiet aftermath of disintegration, in the hollow echo of what was, lies the fertile soil of something pure. The self, as it is known, must die, for only in that grave of identity can we plant the seeds of something real , something unburdened by the weight of who we thought we were. Creation is never an act of construction—it is an act of surrendering the false, the pretended, the illusory, until only the core remains, raw and unprotected. We fear the coll...

Love is not blind—it is cruel enough to see you fully. To speak of love in the confines of simplicity is to rob it of its depth. Love, the greatest of forces, does not shelter us from the truth. It does not cloak us in the illusions of comfort; rather, it unveils us—stripping us bare of all our pretensions. The notion that love is blind, that it shields us from ourselves, is a lie perpetuated by the needy parts of our hearts, the ones that want safety, the ones that want to stay hidden in the quiet corners of longing. Love, in its truest form, is not a refuge from the world—it is a confrontation. A confrontation with yourself, with the person you love, with all the jagged edges of both. For how can you truly know another without exposing them to the rawness of who you are? To love is to endure. It is to sit in the discomfort of vulnerability and allow someone to see you—really see you—in all your complexity. To be truly loved is to be seen in your entirety, with all your flaws, your ...

“They told me to follow my passion... I met myself.” Desire. It is the myth that drives us, the silent commander whispering in our ears, promising that with its pursuit, we will find ourselves, or at least, something greater than our current selves. In truth, it is a pilgrimage—the search not for glory, nor for destination, but for the inevitable unraveling of what we believe we desire. I have wandered these paths myself. The road is slick with promises, paved with assumptions, and lined with false guides who declare, “Follow your passion, and you will find fulfillment.” Yet, each step I took, every inch closer to what I thought would fulfill me, led me to a chasm where nothing could breathe. The pursuit of passion is a paradox, for what I once thought would liberate me only bound me tighter to the expectations I created. Desire, as I have learned, is a shapeshifter. It wears the masks of ambition, love, and ambition once more, seducing us with its promises of meaning, fulfillment, ...

Do you hear the echoes, reverberating through the corridors of your mind? Memories, elusive and unforgiving, wrap their tendrils around your thoughts, playing a relentless game of hide and seek. Forgetting, they say, is the logical response to life's tragic joke. But perhaps, just perhaps, you spoke too soon. In the depths of your melancholic streaks, something stirred within you. Terrifying existential thoughts danced with ideas, casting a flickering light upon the shadows of your understanding. It's as if, in some peculiar way, you have been granted a glimpse of enlightenment, a fragment of comprehension in the vast tapestry of existence. Memories themselves do not inflict pain; it is our perception of them that does. The labels we attach—embarrassing, painful, blissful—those determine their weight. See, some souls cringe in utter humiliation at a person who stumbles down the stairs, while others doesn’t give a rat’s-ass and merely shrug on it. It is the lens ...