Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I never really liked commuting although I enjoy travelling. It’s weird, but what I mean by this is that, I don’t like the feeling of being inside of something. Enclosed, bounded and not doing anything – the feeling of being static while the world around you is moving. It’s not the speed, it’s the feeling of being able to go somewhere or achieve something without you exerting any effort but still getting that which you want to get.  It’s how I feel when I'm commuting, I just sit there then the next thing you know, you are already at your destination. What’s more than this perverted idea is perhaps because of this certain irrational fear that’s building up inside me whenever I’m inside a car, jeep, taxi or a van.  The stillness of the air inside the vehicle creates the very ground for my paranoid thoughts to germinate and breed. I find enclosed spaces fettering, but no, it’s not claustrophobia (because I don’t have issues with elevators), it’s just that riding makes me feel ir...

Puff… Hoping Rising Breathing Delightful Wishful Blissful Gratifying Transforming Loving Tragedy Agony Teary Falling Parting Dying... Dying... Parting Falling Teary Agony Tragedy Loving Transforming Gratifying Breathing… Rising… Hoping… Blow…

There’s something sacred about revisiting old wounds, an ineffable truth to the passage of time that allows one to see what once was with a clearer, more tender eye. It’s been seven years since I last stood in these familiar hallways, and yet the sense of familiarity lingers as if time has frozen. But this return is not the reunion I imagined—it is instead marked by sorrow, filled with the chaotic rush of emotions as I navigate the corridors of memory and present. I had returned to this place for a reason I never thought I would—a hospital visit for my father, a moment that grounds me in a very different reality than the one I once inhabited. The school that nurtured my idealism now feels like a relic, a reminder of who I was—a young teacher still struggling to make sense of myself, my ideals, and my failures. I had come to this school as a fresh, wide-eyed soul with unshakable principles and an unwavering optimism, but life, as it often does, chipped away at the fortress of idealism...

In the chamber of somber memories, I beheld my father in slumber's embrace, A visage I wish not etched within my mind, For what solace lies in witnessing his plight? Once, I saw him a titan, a superhero grand, A notion familiar to all sons and daughters. When Bruce Banner turned green, a raging Hulk, I sought refuge beneath sheets, assured he'd shield me. He, adorned with strength, my idol and guide, Save for his eccentric fashion sense of yore, Mustache, flared pants, and vibrant floral shirts, A 70's action star in a modern world. But youth's embrace transformed my path, Adolescent fervor engulfed my soul, A rockstar's spirit beckoned my rebellious stance, Drenched in disdain for the world's unfolding. In my misguided conviction of rock and roll, I distanced myself, heaping blame upon his name, As if he were the root of all my misfortune, A prisoner in a realm where friends were solace. Together we embarked on explorations grand, Fueling curiosity with bound...

In the realm of sound and taste, familiarity abounds,  Thoughts wander freely, like kids in summer rain's surround. Unrestrained and unorganized, they dance with glee,  Oh, to be like them, wild and untamed, is what I plea. This moment holds a touch of melancholy's embrace,  Wild and sad, akin to a dwarven mystic's warlock face,  Or a pink unicorn dinosaur, taunting me with sinister grace,  Such craziness unfolds, leaving my heart's rhythm misplaced. The pages of life turn at an astonishing pace,  Just moments ago, serenity adorned my space,  Yet within minutes, I find myself drenched anew,  Caught in the downpour, drowning in feelings that ensue. I profess my love for the rain, its soothing descent,  But when it falls, my depression doubles, leaving me spent,  The irony prevails, a contradiction in disguise,  Rain brings both solace and the weight of gloomy skies. In the depths of my being, questions remain untied,  Answers e...

In the depths of this chaotic mess, I ponder, Seeking meaning in nostalgia and melancholy's yonder. I snatch fleeting moments, like a thief in disguise, Immersed in parks, birds, and poetic sighs. Oh, how I yearn for those enchanting days, When flowers bloomed and butterflies would grace my ways. Words fail to capture the ache, the longing profound, For her, oh, how desperately I yearn, I'm bound. Metaphors flow like rivers, tears an ocean vast, Water, my obsession, a theme unsurpassed. My breath, condensed in the cold, rises high, Whispering unspoken truths, to the clouds, they fly. Burdened by rainy nostalgia's cleansing tide, Each droplet washes away the past's murky stride. But as it cleanses, it also dampens my soul, A bittersweet symphony of sadness takes its toll. Rain, enigmatic muse, granting life, yet pain, A paradoxical dance, a complex refrain. Farewell, a sweet sorrow, forbidden path I tread, Oddly feeling right, as if destiny had led. Selfish it may seem, ...

In a fraction of a millisecond When all the light has disappeared Gazing at a barren page of an endless fantasy sickened by the filth of autonomous reasoning wondering, if thoughts can be leashed. Hoping hearts can be locked, And life be painted black. Apathy seems to be reasonable, Faith torn, Trust and its thorns, I failed to see How blind can one be? That I am falling from this plight, Pulling people down to oblivion. Cornucopia of meaningless actualization Sinking down to damnation. Pencil sketches of emotions once had With every line drawn manifests pain, Every curve reveals a dying soul, Every smudge discloses the filthy self. Harmonic rhythm strummed, Each note expresses repressed prayers Each pluck conveys a melodious quandary Chord transitions leading to a song of tragedy. Poetic inscriptions on parched wood, Every word, filled with subliminal truths, Every rhyme filled with drowning promises, Caring for things to divert this reality As I speak the language of my dreams, A d...

There is a dangerous comfort in the allure of light—an intoxicating promise that the path is clearer, the way easier, if only we stay within its warmth. But light can deceive.  The light we chase often conceals more than it reveals, casting shadows where the truth lies hidden, muted beneath the glow. We are taught to seek clarity, to avoid the darkness, as if the absence of light is inherently perilous. Yet, is it not in the shadows, in the absence of external illumination, that we come to see ourselves most clearly? To shatter the lamps is not to reject light, but to abandon the reliance on artificiality, on the comfort of being told what is good, what is right, and what is true.  The pursuit of truth often lies in the untamed, in the darkness that offers space for reflection and revelation. It is in this darkened space that we are not shielded by comforting assumptions but confronted with the rawness of existence.  There, in the absence of blinding lights, we have no c...

“People speak of finding themselves in the silence of the mountains or the chaos of the city. I found myself in the absence of everything—people, plans, and even purpose. In solitude.” There is a persistent myth we are told—that the self is a hidden treasure, waiting to be uncovered if only we venture far enough. As if identity is some lost artifact buried beneath layers of distraction, waiting for the right landscape or spiritual retreat to finally appear in the mirror. But I did not find myself in peace. Nor in the hum of travel, the seduction of unfamiliar cities, or the reflective stillness of mountain air. I found myself when everything else fell apart—when I was stripped of context, companionship, and direction. What was left wasn’t a polished version of me. It was the raw filament—the one who had no choice but to burn. Solitude wasn’t a backdrop for insight; it was a forge. There were no grand epiphanies. Only quiet days of silence that stretched like winter. Only mornings wh...

When twilight descends, as slumber draws near, 'Tis not the venomous words of foes that linger, But in the hush of companions, a cherished sphere. For in the depths of night's quiet embrace, The echoes of enmity slowly fade away, Replaced by whispers of friendship and grace. The wounds inflicted by adversaries' spite, Though painful and cruel in their transient might, Hold no lasting weight, no enduring might. Instead, 'tis the stillness of loyal hearts, The solace found in unspoken devotion, That etches itself upon memory's arts. When shadows dance and the world grows dim, The tender silence of friends speaks volumes, A symphony of trust and kinship within. So, as sleep beckons, reflect on this truth, That amidst life's trials and its endless bends, It's in the silence of friends, a treasure aloof.

Hope works best in the morning. It’s a new day, fresh start, new beginning – hoping that the rest of the day be filled with life.  It’s inexplicably soothing to sit for a couple of minutes and stare at the morning scene, how a once dead atmosphere is slowly being filled with life.  The change of immobility to dynamism – from death to life. It’s like this stargazer lily that I have, it’s amazingly epic to see the buds start to bloom. It’s the same case when I open a new document in my laptop as I wake up. As I stare at this meaningless blank page, I let my heart flow and do its art (if I may call my writing an art).  The words reverberate and stumble with one another, seducing my mind, intoxicating the very core of my being and I notice my jaws doing their usual involuntary movement. The only sound I'm hearing is the clickety clacks and tickety tacks of the keyboard – fueling my heart with warm fires of passion in this cold weather, dripping blood from my spirit, resurgi...

It’s extraordinarily cold today, my plants suffering from frost as my thoughts are. It’s as if my entire day is frozen to that particular moment earlier – where the coldness of the entire scenario still haunts me down.  I am frozen in time, immortalized in a moment which is not so good to remember. Icy winds are howling, nagging me for an earlier stupid act – I crave for that stupidity and this craving appears to be insatiable. It makes me feel remorseful though, yet i still do that: where I could have said something yet prefer to be silent.  I feel pain but its ok, to feel pain. (or to feel anything) Feeling is only a small part of the entire life process. At least I know I am alive and I am not devoid of any emotion. This wind, this coldness, the moon – all are just tiny fragments of the things I want to say and write, these topics, as redundant as they are, is what makes me as me. Perhaps I really do take life seriously, I take simple things too seriously – Like how t...

In the hazy depths of this coffee shop's smoky veil, I sit alone, a contemplative soul in need of a wake-up call. A mere slap, some may say, could shake me from this reverie, Yet, I sense a greater force within, a destructive energy, Unbeknownst to me, seeking solace, seeking resolution.   My restless mind, forever longing to tidy the chaos, A manifestation of pride, this belief I hold, That I alone possess the power to mend the broken pieces, To restore order in a world perceived as disarrayed.   But now I see, with newfound clarity, That this desire stems from an egocentric pride, A futile attempt to bend the world to my will, To craft it as I envision, to fit my longing gaze.   Yet, can we truly seek answers in the general, the mundane? Can spontaneity hold the key to our liberation, When it was spontaneity that brought us to this precipice, To this crossroad of uncertainty and introspection?   For truth, they say, is a d...

Today I realized… ... That beautiful memories do not demand forgetting. They only ask to be touched gently, like a scar you’ve come to love. ... That Marlboro Gold tastes like dried sweet potato leaves—bitter, earthy, the kind of disappointment that reminds you you're still alive. Some truths don’t burn, they just wither. ... That silence is not emptiness. It's where wisdom blooms in the corners of the mouth that chose not to speak. There is grace in the unsaid. ... That too much care can drown the very thing you love. Like the stargazer lily I tried to keep alive—I watered it with good intentions, smothered it with tenderness. But love, without listening, kills softly. The wilt was not betrayal. It was instruction. ... That no matter how tightly you hold your pain behind a smile, someone will always see through it. Soulmates are not just found—they are the ones who see you and don’t flinch. You can’t wear masks around them. They were never fooled to begin with. ... That...

Di na kayang suyuin ng mainit na kape ang nanlalamig na pagkatao. Itong kakaibang ginaw na dulot ng panahon ay tila yelong bumabalot sa pananaw ng isang pilosopong nangangarap. Nakakahumaling at nakakalungkot… nahuhumaling sa lungkot. Walang katapusang pagtakbo, pagtago – paglayo, ngunit hanggang kelan kaya ito dapat gawin upang maatim ang katahimikang matagal ng ninanais? Sa pagsilip ng buwan, kusang bumabalik mga emosyong ikinukubli at isinasantabi. Mga patak ng sarkastikong liwanag na umaaninag sa isang aninong naliligaw. Nawawala? pero paano nga ba mawawala ang isang bagay na di pa nahahanap? Bigo nga bang masasabi kung mas nanaisin ng isang taong sumuko na lang? pagkabigo bang maituturing kung mas pipiliin nilang bumitiw na lamang? Walang kagandahan sa paglagapak, walang kasiyahan sa pagkakahulog at walang nakakatuwa sa pagkakadapa. Mas madaling umangat sa pamamagitan ng paggamit ng mga tao, mas madaling bumagsak sa pamamagitan ng pagsunod sa sariling paniniwala. Subalit eto nga...

Even the moon, in its pale brilliance, hangs distant in the night, a beacon for all those who have ever reached out and found only the cool, indifferent void between them. It watches silently as we spin, caught between the fragile hope that one day we might touch the unreachable and the bitter wisdom that our longing is bound to remain unfulfilled. There’s a strange kind of beauty in this distance, an unspoken harmony between the ache of yearning and the starkness of reality. And perhaps it is in this gap, between desire and the understanding that it may never be met, that the truest part of us is revealed. In this silence, we learn not only the shape of our dreams but the contours of our limitations. The moon, too, is a mirror of sorts—reflecting not what we have, but what we wish we could become, the version of ourselves that is somehow both close and unreachable. I think about vulnerability in these moments. How we stretch, reaching outward, hoping someone or something will bridg...

"Hollow Life" Beating the fall I can’t help but desire of falling down this time Deep in this hole of my making I can't escape Falling all this time We come to this place Falling through time  Living a hollow life Always we're taking Waiting for signs Hollow lives... Fearing to fall and  Still the ground below me calls Falling down this time Ripping apart all  These things I have tried to stop Falling all this time Is there ever any wonder why we look to the sky? Search in vain? Asking why? All alone? Where is God? Looking down? We don’t know? We fall in space,  We can't look down, Death may come  Peace I have found What to say?  Am I alive,  Am I asleep?  Or have I died? (Wanting Peace) We fall in space (Wanting Peace) We can't look down, Death may come, (Something takes a hold of me) Peace I have found  (Something takes a hold of me) I want ...