Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There was a time when I believed that happiness had a shape, a clear, undeniable form—something I could reach out and touch if I tried hard enough.  And so I built it piece by piece: the right job, the right place, the right people, the right version of myself. It all seemed so simple, so attainable, like following a map laid out in front of me, each step leading closer to the thing I thought would make everything click. But now that I’m here, standing amidst everything I ever wanted, the map feels oddly irrelevant. The edges are frayed, the ink is smudged, and the directions seem somehow off. All the things I gathered, hoping they would fill me, now stand like silent monuments to an unknown truth. They don’t soothe me. They don’t calm the storm inside. They just make the silence more conspicuous. I thought getting what I wanted would silence the voices of doubt, but now it’s louder than ever. The strangest thing about having everything is realizing that you’re still missing some...

We were down to the last box. The walls were bare, echoing in a way they hadn’t since we moved in. There’s a strange silence to empty rooms — not peace, not absence, but something heavier. Like the air knows what’s no longer being said. I sat on the floor where the couch used to be. There was a faint imprint on the carpet — the ghost of comfort, or routine, or both. I traced it with my fingers like that would help me remember who I was when I still belonged here. You don’t realize how much of your identity gets stored in spaces — in chipped mugs and drawer handles, in hallway shadows and the way light used to fall at 4:17 p.m. And when you leave, it doesn’t all come with you. Some parts stay behind, hidden in the corners you forgot to clean. The real abyss isn’t the fear of what’s next. It’s this: The stillness between no longer and not yet. Where memory becomes unreliable, and the self starts to blur. Everyone talks about the grief of endings, but no one warns you about the sil...

Over rated na ang relationships…   As usual, nakatambay nanaman ako dito sa isang tahimik na coffee shop/bar na hilig kong tambayan pag nais kong magsulat. Mag iisang oras na din ako sa kinauupuan ko nung narinig kong nasabi ito nung babae dun sa katabing table. Isang grupo sila ng mga college students (I think) na mukhang inumaga na sa celebration. Alas 7:00 palang and either it’s too early or too late depending on how you see it, the point is, nag iinuman padin sila. Madami dami din ang boteng nakahilera sa kanilang table at madami na din ang naipong walang laman dun sa ilalim ng table kasama ng mga upos ng sigarilyong kung saan saan na lang itinapon. Hindi naman sa chismoso ako at nakikinig sa kanilang usapan, pero kung ang mga katabi mo ay nakainom na, di maiiwasang di marinig kanilang pinagsasabi. Ganyan siguro mga lasing, akala mo nakalunok ng megaphone at kung magsalita animo’y nasa kabilang bundok yung mga kausap nila. Tatlong babae at dalawang lalaki ang nasa kabil...

4:30… An image of yesterday keeps recurring on this eternal present as I sit on this plank that looks like a bench in my park. It used to be our park, but now it’s just mine. In not so far away from where I sit, I see images of how we used to be. Images so clear and etched in my memories that the gravity of my thoughts and emotions forces it to appear in the present...  Very light drizzles of rain are pouring down but the good thing is that the soul tree is there to somewhat shade me from the frosty drizzles. Majestic tree, I thank thee eternally. I called in sick today, not that I am physically sick – but my brain and heart are crazily spiraling inside me. I am sick in my soul and it is no less better than any physical disease there is. Anyway, I already told my boss of my plan and it really doesn’t matter anymore if I still adhere to policies or not. Nothing matters anyway. While I was lost in my thoughts, Scars on Broadway started playing in my ipod… The classic guitar pluc...

“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...

In the dark, silent hours of the night, As I cling to a bottle of solace, My heart speaks with a resounding voice, Echoing louder than the world's noise.   I could shatter a picture frame with force, Reduce it to fragments of shattered glass, But the agony that consumes my soul, Beats with a heavy, incessant pulse.   I could burn every memory to ash, Watch them vanish into wispy smoke, But the pain in my chest persists, Refusing to leave or be revoked.   I could erase her height from the wall, Efface every trace of her existence, But the void that she left behind, Is an indelible wound that resists.   I could beat a punching bag until it breaks, Until bruises cover every inch of skin, But the ache within my shattered heart, Is a battle that I simply can't win.   I could spend an entire day with a friend, Wrenching sobs from my chest until my voice is gone, But the magnitude of my loss remains, A weight that...

In the realm of the egoist's mind, A tale unfolds, both cruel and unkind. He sought to make all his own domain, To see the world as but an extension of his vain. In his imagination, he turned all to self, No taste for others, no joy to delve. The capacity for good, now lost in the haze, His ego consumed him in a selfish blaze. But as death claimed him, the final call, No longer tethered to this earthly sprawl. He got his wish, to be solely confined, To lie in the self, to explore what he'd find. And what he found there, a bleak abyss, A Hell of his own making, an eternal hiss. No connections remained, no touch with the real, In his self-made prison, he began to feel. No longer could he revel in the joys of the other, No longer could he share, love, or discover. The egoist's plight, a tragic descent, To be trapped forever in his self-content. For life's true beauty lies in the shared, In the capacity to love, to be aware. But he, in his ego, severed those ties, And now i...

The soul does not whisper—it starves or screams. All in between is the illusion of peace. In the silence between the soul’s starvation and its outcry, we find the illusion of quiet—an artificial stillness that keeps us from confronting the essential hunger of being. It’s in the cries we refuse to hear, the ones we bury beneath distractions, that the true self makes itself known. The peace we crave is often the peace we’ve made of compromise, a truce with our most uncomfortable truths. But peace, in this sense, is not reconciliation—it’s resignation. We imagine that the soul's desire can be satisfied by a soft murmur, by polite introspection. We overlook the primal scream that rises when we’ve neglected the body and spirit for too long. To experience truth is to starve, to let ourselves hunger for more than what the world offers—only then can we hear the scream that shatters the quiet. It is only when the soul’s yearning is left unchecked, when we are stripped of the comforts of ig...

Is there really a problem? Or am I creating illusions of my problems? My problem – or perhaps, our problem is that we senselessly overthink about matters. We over think and we can’t stop rambling about these things. It’s better if people were like gadgets, just press the power button and we can make everything stop, reboot ourselves and reset buggy programs. We have sharp memories, like a knife that slices up peaceful realities. Sometimes, we act like scalpels that cut up the skin to release festering matter. But most of the times, we are idiots. We cut the flesh just for the sake of cutting it, and to see if we still have the ability to feel. And this is the most punishing moment, when you can no longer see the main reason why we got the knife in the first place. We are like a melodic silent song, one so silent that only us can hear, we move with the imperceptible tune and we sway with the beat. A lovely harmony of natural sounds where our brain willfully harmonizes the notes to craf...

I taste… The bitterness of losing hope Bitter smoke, unable to cope  The sweetness of blissful memories Bittersweet tragedy. The spoiled fate of a soul Falling in his hell hole. The salty taste of tears, Wreaking memories filled with fears. I’ll taste the pain,  Close your lips and be sane. I see… The butterflies with metal wings Pine needles and mundane things. A lonely park filled with stories Stories filled with tragedies. The snail that was cruelly crushed, Dreams ending Reality suffocating. I'll see the pain. Close your eyes and be sane. I hear… A voice that haunts me, Telling me to let go and be free. The sobs of the moon Judgment and doom. Stories of monsters Hope for the flowers. I'll listen to the pain, Cover your ears and be sane. I smell…  The familiar scent Of a chaotically structured hair. No more care The aroma of coffee Stench of fantasy Reeking with insanity. ...

The day the music didn’t work—the air hung still, thick with a silence so loud it rattled the bones. No notes found their way out, no melodies breathed life into the cracked speakers, and the usual hum of rhythm that once stitched moments together unraveled like loose thread. It wasn’t just a technical failure—it was a fracture in time, a quiet collapse of the invisible soundtrack that keeps the world from slipping into chaos. Without music, the spaces between seconds stretched too far. The clock ticked with a hollow echo, mocking the absence of sound. People moved differently, awkward and unmoored, as if the rhythm that once marched inside their veins had died. Conversations stumbled, words lost their rhythm, and the usual lullabies of routine became jarring. Music is supposed to be the invisible hand that steadies the restless, the secret language that translates joy and grief without a single syllable. Without it, the heart feels exposed—naked, raw, and unsure. The silence pr...

It’s not a person I miss. It’s the deafening silence that swallowed all the chaos—the void left when the noise finally quit pretending it mattered. That hollow pause where the echoes of all the fights, laughs, and empty promises died slow and cruel. Funny how the silence wasn’t comfort. It was a black hole sucking up what little was left of hope. Not absence, but annihilation. I don’t miss the noise. I fear the silence—that pitiless quiet that forces you to meet yourself, no distractions allowed. Because sometimes, missing isn’t about who’s gone. It’s about what never really existed.