Fragments of the Quiet Mind

“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...

  The soul is a fragile and ephemeral thing.   Tethered to the body like a ship to an anchor, it navigates the treacherous waters of existence with uncertain footing, and most often than not, unsure of its own direction. Like a lone sailor adrift in the boundless ocean, the soul searches for a purpose, a beacon of light to guide its journey through the tempestuous waves of life. It navigates through treacherous waters with an uncertain footing, buffeted by the winds of fate and tossed about by the capricious tides of destiny. The very essence of its being is an unquenchable thirst for meaning, a yearning to discover the purpose that lies beyond the horizon. With every sunrise and sunset, it scans the horizon in search of that elusive guiding star, that flicker of hope that will keep it on course. It struggles against the relentless currents that threaten to pull it under, fighting with all its might to stay afloat. Yet, even in the darkest of nights, it clings to the belief th...

Sometimes... words fall short of explanation and are deemed worthless. Sometimes... It's not with anyone telling us things, nor with anyone interpreting things for us, but it's with anyone not making words at all... Sometimes... mumbles, are enough to fill your head, these un-worded sounds are enough to exhume the deepness of your thoughts with an inexplicable silence that commands everything else. Sometimes... We are at the brink of believing that this is the hitch in the universe's breath. When the universe itself pauses to listen; When the universe takes you out of yourself. Sometimes... It is that same silence which takes you out of your smallness, takes you and gathers you with it - No concept of causality around... It is the silence that moves us... it is the silence which stills.

I used to own this small potted plant I kept by the window.  I don't remember its name—some hardy, leafy thing they said wouldn’t die easily. I believed them. That was the first lie. Or maybe the first faith. I never really watered it. Not on purpose. Not out of malice. Just... I got busy. Or I thought the sunlight was enough. Or I told myself I’d do it tomorrow, and tomorrow kept moving without me. Strange, how we forget to care for the things we once chose. Eventually, the leaves curled in, quietly. No protest. No drama. Just a slow folding, like a secret being buried alive. And still, I left it there. Watching.  Witnessing.  Me, in all my distractions. And it makes me wonder—what else have I left thirsty? What else did I promise life to, only to offer absence? Sometimes I think about legacy—not in the grand, carved-in-marble kind of way, but in the intimate, quiet ruins we leave behind. The forgotten promise to a hopeful person that we didn't really gave much thou...

Tutal normal na lang ata ang humilata pag weekend at mag surf, manood or magdownload sa phone no? isang sabado, habang nagsusurf I decided to download some android games ( babala: wag magdodownload ng pirata– suportahan natin ang mga mukhang perang mga kapitalistang manufacturers at game programmers sa over priced games nila ) so pumunta ako sa isang sikat na forum para sa mga hackers.  Pagkatapos nakakita ng games , shift to super download mode at salamat sa PLDT dahil PAGKABILIS BILIS ng connection nila 😑😑😑.  While waiting, nag browse at napadpad ako dun sa literati section. Dahil wala namang magawa, inaliw ang utak sa pagbabasa ng original pieces na gawa ng mga tao dun sa forum. May mga poems, short stories at talaga namang mawawala ka sa realidad habang binabasa yung mga gawa nila. Ang nakakatuwa pa ay yung mga comments ng mga netizens at narealize kong sa comment pa lang pala, maaari mo ng masilip ang part ng personality at kung paano ang takbo ng utak ng bawat for...

Stubborn muse crushing the silence, Ostracizing a poets choice for subsidence. Rummaging within deeply settled thoughts, Restoring the pain from a fight long lost. Yearning for peace in Moira’s cruel world, But tranquility is nothing but an illusion hurled. Under the comfort of a memory he cowers, Tacitly tending to a wounded promise of ‘forever’. Deadly poison drank at a hidden park of bliss, Arduous passions trapped in a labyrinthine abyss. Requiems from a pink flying unicorn dinosaur, Nestled memory of a silvery moon restored. Irritating Cheshire re-creating a suspended story plot, Making the poet think of that tiny green dot. Macrocosmic tel-pad retention topped with coffee, Ineffable pancakes and Sapio-sexuality… Synchronicity ascertained on an abandoned soul tree, Stellar contingency, and the usual “Stop saying sorry!”, (^__^) Irrational belief in the numbers 12 and 7, Never ending shouts to CB in heaven. Golden snails and metal butterfly wings, Yellow caterpillars, ...

There are truths that settle within you like stones, heavy and unmoving, their presence undeniable. You can feel their weight in your chest, pressing in, yet words escape them, as if the language itself is too fragile to bear their mass. These truths are not for the tongue—they are for the body, for the silent understanding that reverberates through the core of your being. To speak them is to risk collapse, to unearth a burden that your voice cannot carry. It is why, in moments of profound realization, we find ourselves mute, lost in the space between thought and utterance, where the truth lingers, unspoken but alive. I often think of the body as a vessel of unspoken knowledge, a landscape that holds within it the imprints of all that cannot be voiced. We move through the world, unaware that each step, each gesture, is a manifestation of the truths we carry but cannot speak.  In every sigh, in every clenched fist, there are words that have no home in language, truths that live in ...

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.

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...

There really are certain songs that has the ability to dig deep  and when it hits you, you become one with the song. It’s like a shovel breaking the surface of buried truths . For one, “Snuff” by Corey Taylor has this feeling that pulls me into a fog, weaving an intricate web of unspoken memories and hidden regrets. It’s like a haunting echo that just won’t fade. As the first line goes:  “Bury all your secrets in my skin,”  I can feel the weight of those unaddressed fragments pressing against my mind. It takes me back to past relationships—those bright sparks that once lit up my world but eventually dimmed into shadows, leaving scars behind. Those sparks that dwindled into darkness, which often makes me wonder where I went wrong. I’ve clung to the idea that love could fill that aching void, only to realize it often resembles a cruel mirage—always just out of reach. And then there’s that line, “Love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage.”   It hits hard. Really...

The Cure and koRn, two of the bands that influenced me into music. What I like about the Cure is Robert Smith’s eccentric personality, his brilliant songs and how he ‘loses’ himself whenever he sings. Everytim I listen to his songs, It’s like having a casual walk in a forest and you forget time as you are basking in the serenity and tranquility of the place. Jonathan Davis on the other hand is also one of my personal favorites. Actually he was my favorite in high school. What I like about JD is his way of pouring out his angst in his songs. He lets his heart sing for him and let his emotions do the talking regardless of the profanity in his words. His bluntness is manifested in his songs, most people prefer painting flowers, but he would rather draw his pain and angst. That’s what makes him special. While browsing youtube, I came across this mashup – (well I’ve heard of this song years ago, but never really paid much attention, until now. I really love how they mixed “Make Me Bad – ...

I have bliss book. It’s a small notebook where I bring and write my epiphanic thoughts that out of nowhere reveals itself to me. At work, while exercising, inside the bathroom – anywhere and I mean, ANYwhere. I’m glad I brought it in my belt bag when I had my run this morning. While resting at this familiar bench, in a familiar park and this familiar feeling, I started jotting down. I had tiny useless ideas running through my head while I was running and I tried to remember every detail so I can write those down. As I sat on the wooden plank, I had this ecstatic feeling that somewhat liberated me from my dark plight. It’s different when I’m writing down my thoughts onto blank pages and when I’m encoding it on my blog. There’s no fear that it will be psycho-analyzed and judged by people on the internet. Writing on my small notebook is very redemptive, and it feels amazing. I never thought i'd be back to writing again. I never even imagine that i will be writing ...

Memory isn’t a photograph. It’s a murmur in a dark room. A smell, a shift in light, the sudden ache when a song you forgot you loved finds you again. It arrives uninvited, but familiar—like someone who used to know you well. I used to believe memory told the truth. But lately, I’m not so sure. The more I revisit the past, the more it changes. Not drastically, not all at once—but like a shoreline slowly pulled into new shapes by the tide. One day you notice the sand isn't where it used to be. There are scenes I return to that feel real but never happened. A conversation with someone who never said the right thing, but in my memory, they do. A touch that never landed, yet still leaves warmth. I don’t think that’s lying. I think that’s longing, trying to make sense of itself. Sometimes, I miss the version of me that existed in those imagined moments. The me who was loved better, understood more clearly. And maybe that’s what memory really is: not a record, but a refuge. A softer w...

She didn’t knock. She never does. She slipped in through the cracks, between an unanswered message and the sound of your own breath in an empty room. I thought I was alone. Then she sat beside me— not quite touch, not quite ghost— and I realized I’d invited her the moment I stopped trying to be found. She looked nothing like loneliness. She looked like quiet mornings and unfinished thoughts. She smelled of old pages and cold air. And when I met her eyes, I saw my own reflection—just softer, quieter, blurred. I called her company, but she didn’t speak. She just waited, until I filled the silence with everything I never said out loud. We danced once, I think. Or maybe I just swayed while she stood still. Her hand never touched mine, but I swear I felt it where all my noise used to live. She wasn’t cruel. She never asked for anything— just that I stay. And for a while, I did. Because her silence was gentle. And I mistook that for safety. But Solitude is a ...

I need to be careful. It’s strange how easily someone else's confusion can start to feel like my own, how their uncertainty can seep into my thoughts and make me question things that were once so clear. When they waver, I find myself slipping too, teetering on the edge of their indecision, wondering if maybe I’m the one who’s lost. Am I too much? Not enough? I keep asking myself these questions, knowing deep down that they weren’t mine to begin with. But here I am, letting their doubts crawl into my mind, letting their hesitation make me wonder if my worth is as fragile as their ability to see it. It’s like I’m standing in a fog that isn’t even mine, trying to find my footing on ground that’s been shaken by someone else’s storms.  There’s something deeply human in this tendency, isn’t there? This strange, almost instinctive drive to define ourselves through the eyes of others, to measure our worth by the scales of their perception. Maybe it’s rooted in our nature, this yearning for...

To find the vastness of a world contained within a grain of sand is to learn that meaning often lives in the smallest details—those fragments overlooked in the rush of everyday life. This truth asks us to slow down, to soften our gaze until the invisible becomes visible. “To see a world in a grain of sand,” Trust is never simple. It is a fragile negotiation between yearning and hesitation, a delicate dance where hope and doubt circle one another endlessly. Dreams may stretch high, aspiring toward the infinite, yet shadows of uncertainty pull them earthward, reminding us that progress is often tentative, fragile. “And heaven on a wild flower,” Connection is rare and wild, like a flower blooming unexpectedly in barren soil. It defies explanation and resists containment, thriving best when seen without judgment or expectation. In these moments of quiet encounter, the extraordinary quietly reveals itself. Our emotions are more than reactions; they are the outcome of what we choose to bel...