Fragments of the Quiet Mind

It’s not the knife that breaks you. It’s the hand you thought would never hold one. I’ve had people talk behind my back. I’ve been insulted, excluded, underestimated. I’ve had strangers throw shade, coworkers act petty, random people online say stupid things. It stings for a second, but I forget about it by the next day. Because honestly, I expect that from people who don’t know me. Who have no investment in who I am. It doesn’t really get in. But what stays—the thing I carry—isn’t from enemies. It’s from people I trusted.  And it always catches me off guard. Every single time. Because you never expect it from them . The ones you let in. The ones who knew your soft spots. The ones who said, “I’m here, always.” The people who didn’t just know your story—they were in it. And then, somehow, they become the ones who hurt you in ways no stranger ever could. It’s never loud. It’s not some explosive betrayal with dramatic exits and slammed doors. No, it’s quieter than that. It’s the u...

“Some songs ask to be felt, not performed. He chose the wrong answer.” I wasn’t even planning to watch. I was just flipping channels, letting boredom pick for me, when The Clash came on — that singing competition where emotions get belted louder than the lyrics. I stayed. Not because I follow the show (I don’t), but because I heard someone say he was going to sing Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. That song doesn’t just play — it haunts . It’s stitched into the background of moments I don’t talk about often. Quiet heartbreaks. Long drives. Things left unsaid. The contestant, apparently, was a crowd favorite. Maybe it was his backstory, or his journey, or the way the camera loved him. I had no idea who he was. I didn’t carry his narrative. All I had was the song. And then he sang it. And I wished he hadn’t. He didn’t cover Iris . He performed over it — louder, shinier, emptier. What was once a song that bled quietly now sounded like it was trying to prove something. He turned a confess...

It always starts with a broom. Not a better policy. Not a more efficient process. Just… a broom. Or a new shelf. Or a bright red label that screams “TAPE HERE” like that’s going to fix systemic inefficiency. We call it 7S. I call it performance art for the underpaid and over-managed. In my current workplace, 7S has become our favorite illusion of progress. We polish our tables like it’ll reflect competence. We realign folders like it realigns priorities. We proudly display our “before and after” photos as if anyone asked. Meanwhile, the actual deliverables? Delayed. Disjointed. Disregarded. We aren’t improving systems—we’re decorating dysfunction. There was a time last week when I spent an entire afternoon watching coworkers argue over the font size of cabinet labels. Not the report deadlines, not the implementation gaps—just labels. And I realized: we’ve turned 7S into a religion. Not of discipline, but of distraction. Let’s be honest. Nobody dares question it anymore. To cha...

The government says it shut down 7,000 illegal gambling sites. Great. That’s like taking a mop to a flood and calling it progress. Because this isn’t a coding issue. It’s a coping issue. You can kill the website. But if the hunger stays, the next one’s already in the queue. Gambling doesn’t thrive because it’s accessible. It thrives because it fills a void. And no one wants to talk about the void. Take Scatter. The poster child of this mess. Offered on legal platforms, monitored by systems that “ban” users— if their families report them. As if addiction sends out early warnings. As if people don't rot quietly before anyone notices. Regulation without prevention is just crisis management with better lighting. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Make it shiny enough and people stop asking if it’s dangerous. And now? Gambling isn’t underground. It’s center stage. It's in your feed, dressed up as lifestyle. Influencers selling false jackpots like spiritual Kool-Aid. Fake payouts. Fla...

Araw ng mga Bayani is the last Monday in August. You blink and it’s gone. One day. One flag emoji. Maybe a parade if you're in the right city or have a cousin in the military. Maybe not even that. But June? June is a full-blown event. It’s loud and layered and bright enough to make even the grocery store feel like it’s trying to come out. Thirty whole days of rainbow merch, playlists, themed drinks, hashtags, and heated arguments online. And I started wondering—not accusing, not judging, just… wondering. Why does the nation give a day to the people who died for its freedom… but a whole month to those still trying to live in it? I’m not saying Pride shouldn’t exist. I think there’s something beautiful about people finally being allowed to celebrate parts of themselves that used to get them hurt—or worse, made invisible. We live in a world that once forced queerness underground, so when it comes out dancing, yeah, let it dance. But it still feels strange that the people who died...

  There’s a particular kind of silence that doesn't come from the absence of sound—but from the absence of being noticed . I started sensing it in passing moments. Someone would ask, “Have we met?” even though we had. I'd smile politely, pretend I hadn’t noticed. Or I’d speak in a group and the conversation would just move on, like my words were smoke that didn’t catch. It's not dramatic. It's not cruel. It just is . Like static. Like walking into a room and not shifting its air. I don’t think anyone meant to forget me. I just think I made it easy. Maybe it was a defense. Maybe if I became nobody in particular, I wouldn’t have to explain the contradictions in me—the softness I kept folding away, the chaos I never learned how to speak, the loneliness I wore like a neutral color. Being undefined was safer than being misunderstood. But invisibility has its own weight. A quiet grief. You start wondering if your life is happening to someone else. If you’re just borrowin...