It hit me in the middle of a Tuesday, eating reheated sinigang beside a cracked window and a dying plant I no longer had the guilt to water. The sun had that lazy 3PM slant, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to conquer anything. No new goal. No side hustle. No "next big thing." Just soup, soft silence, and the soft rot of my once-capitalized ambition. Once upon a time, I was starving for more—more recognition, more meaning, more numbers that moved up. I used to equate stillness with failure. Rest with regression. I wore burnout like a badge. I treated exhaustion like proof of my importance. They don’t tell you that ambition, unchecked, is just a prettier name for self-erasure. You wake up one day and realize you’ve been chasing a version of yourself that exists only in PowerPoint slides and LinkedIn bios. The cult of “potential” doesn’t believe in sabbath. It demands worship. Metrics. Motion. A productivity app for your soul. But what if I told you the most rebelli...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.