Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I’ve been running from something, though I’m not sure what anymore. The warmth of coffee, once a comfort, now feels distant, like everything else. Time has frozen something inside me, leaving only a hollow chase for peace that never seems to end. Maybe it’s not about winning or losing, but about letting go—surrendering to the emptiness and finding a strange peace in it. We tell ourselves that we’re supposed to rise, to fight, but at what cost? To lean on others is easier, but when you stand on their shoulders, do you even recognize the height? I almost gave in to the lies, to the quick escape, but something stopped me. What’s left when you abandon yourself for an illusion? In the quiet of now, I realize it’s the small things that matter. The overlooked moments where peace resides—not in the noise, but in the stillness. What comes next is uncertain. Joy, sorrow—both are inevitable. But maybe that’s where the freedom lies: in accepting the paradox of it all.

How can one even begin to grasp the true essence of Wittgenstein's words: "The limits of my language mean the limits of my world"? Here I am, amidst these silent witnesses of thought and ink, each volume a testament to the endless quest for understanding. Yet, as I stand here, I can't help but feel the weight of those very words pressing upon me, defining and confining my existence. Imagine this room as a labyrinth of language, its walls sculpted from every book I’ve ever read, every word I’ve ever spoken. Each turn, each passage within this maze is delineated by the constraints of my own expression. It’s as though my entire world is mapped out by the words I use to navigate it.  I find myself caught in a delicate dance with these walls, pushing against them, seeking to transcend their limits, only to realize that my every attempt is bound by the very language I rely on. Every insight I gain, every emotion I experience, seems to echo within this space, a reflection of...

  I've always been drawn to the raw, unfiltered energy of heavy rock music—the kind that feels like it’s tearing something open inside of you, leaving you exposed yet somehow makes you stronger.  Waaaaayyy back in college, when the world seemed divided into groups— the rockers on one side 💀😈💀, and hip-hoppers on the other ✌✌👌—I knew exactly where I stood.  Rock was more than just music; it was a statement of identity, a rebellion against the mundane. The aggressive riffs, the head-banging intensity, the sheer force of it all—it was like channeling the chaos of life into something tangible, something powerful. So, when the era of Nu metal emerged, blending rap and pop with my sacred rock, I didn't like it. It wasn’t that I couldn’t appreciate the craftsmanship behind it—I could—but it felt like a dilution, a watering down of everything I held dear. You had to pick a side back then, and I chose rock with a sort of blind loyalty, fueled more by the need to belong than by...

What lies behind you and what lies in front of you pales in comparison to what lies inside of you. In our relentless pursuit of understanding the past and preparing for the future, we often overlook the profound complexity within us—a complexity that defines our very existence. Philosophers from Aristotle to Heidegger have grappled with the essence of being, often emphasizing external factors like time and space. Yet, the true essence of life isn’t merely a chronological sequence of events but the rich inner world that shapes our perceptions and decisions. This internal landscape, often overshadowed by external pursuits, is where the deepest truths and most authentic self reside. Imagine life as a game of chess. While each move matters, the game’s outcome is determined not by the pieces on the board but by the mind of the player. The same applies to life—our external actions are merely reflections of our internal state. The real challenge, then, is not just to navigate the external wor...

Philosophy goes to dinner.  Isn't it amusing to see people who happily devour bacon, steak, and chicken wings suddenly get on their high horse when the topic of dog meat comes up? The indignation is almost palpable.  “How could anyone eat a dog?” they ask, horrified, as they reach for another slice of pepperoni pizza.  It’s a reaction that’s understandable—dogs are our loyal companions, our furry best friends. But let’s take a step back and look at the bigger picture.  If you’re going to argue against eating dogs, shouldn’t that same logic apply to all animals? Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not suggesting we start putting Whitey, Blackie or Brownie on the menu.  But here’s the thing: meat is meat.  If you’re morally opposed to eating dogs because they’re intelligent, loyal, or simply because you can’t imagine doing so, then shouldn’t that same consideration be extended to pigs, cows, and chickens? After all, pigs are known for their intelligence, cows form c...

Let me get this straight: NEDA thinks a family of five can survive on P9,581 a month?  That's like saying a cat can survive on a diet of air and Facebook likes.  It's almost as if they’re expecting us to pull out our Monopoly money and start making a living off “Free Parking” and “Community Chest” cards.  What’s next? Are we going to start paying for our groceries with exposure, good vibes, and a nod of "pasasalamat" to the cashier? Let’s break it down, shall we? According to NEDA, that P9,581 is supposed to cover everything—food, shelter, clothing, transportation, education, healthcare, and, I don’t know, maybe a unicorn ride to work? They’re saying that each person can live on P64 a day. That’s less than the price of a decent cup of coffee, and I’m talking about the kind where the barista just scowls at you and slaps your name on a paper cup. Lets take a look at it one by one: Food : Let’s say you’re sticking to the basics—rice, sardines, and maybe a couple of veget...

It’s cold. September’s chill bites at my skin, a crisp reminder of change. As I settle into my chair, cradling my coffee cup like a small flame in my palms, warmth seeps into my fingers. I pause. It’s quiet. That early morning kind of quiet where the world still clings to slumber, and the air feels like an unwritten page, ready for the first strokes of thought. I flip open Simone de Beauvoir’s The Ethics of Ambiguity , a book that demands a dance, not just a read. And there it is, a line that lands softly but hits hard: “The notion of ambiguity must not be confused with that of absurdity.” I pause again, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I know absurdity. Absurdity is waking at 3 a.m., eyes fixed on the ceiling, grappling with the vast question of existence. It’s standing at a funeral, lost in the ache of grief, or looking out over a teeming city and feeling the weight of how small we really are. Absurdity is that breathless silence that follows a profound ques...