Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Take this:  Have you ever felt like you're dancing to a rhythm that only you can hear? As Friedrich Nietzsche once said, "Those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music." In a world that yearns for conformity, I find solace in the haunting beauty of dancing to the melodies that others cannot hear.  Well basically, this quote has been a repeating theme of my existence and has resonated deeply with me, capturing the essence of my journey through life and the judgments I have faced along the way, a journey plagued by the piercing notes of overthinking which oftenly leads to melancholy. You see, there is a peculiar joy in finding your own melody amidst a world that often prefers conformity. There is a certain sadness that accompanies the act of dancing alone. It is a bittersweet symphony, filled with longing and a profound sense of isolation. It's as if I have stumbled upon a secret symphony, hidden within the recesses of my so...

I never realized how deeply clothes could carry judgment until the moment I wore someone else’s story — not my own. Garments are not mere fabric; they are the silent language of power and belonging. To wear something is to submit, willingly or not, to the narratives others assign you. The politics of clothing is a quiet violence — a coercion that shapes not just appearance, but identity itself. We blame the wearer, as if the thread is woven with guilt, as if the choice to dress is a confession of allegiance or defiance. Yet the fabric never lies; it only reflects the invisible hands that weave society’s rules. Judging fabric is easier than unraveling the threads of power. We dress each morning not just for weather or work — but for safety, for translation, for code-switching. Clothes are the unspoken treaties between self and society, signed in silence. And still, no matter how carefully you dress, you cannot undress someone else's assumptions. Clothes do not clothe us. They dre...

I remember the first time I caught myself censoring a story. Not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid. Afraid that the words I chose would mark me as “other,” or worse, unsafe. It was subtle—a hesitation before speaking, a carefully edited sentence—but it was there, like a quiet tremor before an earthquake. Language policing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whispered warning, a sideways glance, or the slow erasure of dialects and accents. It’s the constant pressure to speak the way power expects us to—neatly, politely, “correctly.” For marginalized communities, this isn’t just about words; it’s about survival. When your language is policed, your identity gets clipped at the edges. You start to doubt if your stories are valid if your voice deserves space. Freedom of expression becomes a minefield, where one misstep can mean exclusion or worse—silencing. But here’s the thing: language is alive. It breathes the culture, history, pain, and joy of a people. To police it is to...

Minsan napapaisip at napapatanong ako na sa paglikha ba ng art, music, or sa pagsusulat e mas naihahayag natin ang tunay na concept ng kalayaan? Di ba sa ARTS as a whole eh walang limitasyon, walang hindrances ng policies at laws, kundi guided tayo ng ating mga ideya lang. Kahit na ang ating mundo ay puno ng difficulties, insecurities and absence ng certainty, sa paglikha ay nadadama natin ang kalayaan at dito, pwede tauong magpakalunod sa mga emotions na tanging art lamang ang kayang mag express. Malaya ang taong gawin ang kanyang nanaisin,  Subalit hindi rin maiiwasan na sa kalayaang yan eh merong mga bagay na nagagawa at mga salitang nabibitawan na nagdudulot ng pain at difficulties sa ibang tao. Eto ang dahilan kung bakit marami din ang nagsasabing kailangan nating ic ontrol ang ating kalayaan dahil baka meron taong nasasaktan sa ating mga pinagsasabi or pinag gagawa. Basic civility , ika nga.  Pero di naman din ibig sabihin nito na kailangang manahimik ka na lang at ta...

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...

Night time literally brings me ominous and vivid reflections on how my day was spent. At times, it relaxes me especially when the day went my way (I have a very simple definition of happiness really... to stop thinking. That’s it…)but in most moments, my days feel like crap.  It sucks when you wake up in the morning and you start feeling that familiar asphyxiating feeling… that feeling of being so darn damned and yet, you don’t know the reason why you feel such. (or perhaps you know why, but you just can’t go around the wall anymore.) I am being sucked in by a void, where I remain static, unable to move and can’t fudging do anything ‘right’. I mean, that instance when you are so disoriented both in thoughts and actions and you just find yourself staring at blank space. It's fudge... I am being weighed down by an invisible force – I am held captive by my own demons. I am trying to fight a losing battle and the path I want to go to dims and disappears right before my eyes.  I...

I once believed that no one could understand me, that my pain was mine alone, a sacred private wound no one could touch. This belief carried the weight of isolation, a shield against the world and its indifference. But, in truth, the arrogance of that thought is its own trap. It is not suffering that is private, nor understanding that belongs solely to the individual. Understanding, like truth, is born from reasoning, not from solitary pain. To claim ownership of understanding is to forget that truth is something shared—not a fortress to guard, but a bridge to cross. It’s easy to get lost in the duality of our lives—the physical world that demands our attention and the mental world that creates our reality. We draw lines between them, as if they were separate realms, but they are not. We are creatures of both, shaped by the tension between the two. Truth, in all its forms, is not something we possess. It is a communion, a moment of resonance between minds, fleeting but real. The ha...

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...

I stand there, beside her, but not truly there— caught in the strange gravity between presence and absence. In these tragic moments, when words should matter most, I find myself retreating, silently. My voice, though formed with care, meets no resonance. It's as if the air between us thickens into something impenetrable. I crack a joke—lighthearted, perhaps too light for the weight of the moment. It drifts away, unnoticed, and I am left wondering, am I fading too?   What’s worse than being unheard? It’s not even the absence of words but the hollow feeling that swells in the silence afterward, like standing in a room where the walls are slowly closing in. The mind stumbles, thoughts tripping over themselves as they scramble to reach the surface. Each idea dissolves into the air before it can take form—vanishing like smoke against the cold, hard surface of her grief, her preoccupation. Yet still, I stand there, trying. Failing.   There's a gap between us, and though I feel it ke...

There are things I have never said—because I couldn’t, because words fracture the weight they try to hold. You see, some truths do not fit inside syllables. They are too wide for vowels, too wounded for grammar. I carry them not in my mouth but in my spine, in the slight curve of a shoulder that remembers who left, in the tension of a jaw clenched too often in silent rooms. This body—this soft machine of survival—has become a vault of truths I was too afraid or too inarticulate to name. And maybe that’s what we forget in our obsession with expression: that not all honesty is verbal. Some of it is kneeling on a cold floor after another sleepless night. Some of it is the hesitation before a touch. Some of it is how you flinch when the world comes too close. I have smiled while dying. Laughed while disintegrating. The world only sees what sounds pass through the lips. But what if I told you the real monologue was happening behind the eyes, under the skin, in the thousand micro-movements...

Creation is not a performance—it is a necessity. We create not to be seen, but because there is something within us that insists on becoming. Something unnamed. Something unsummoned, but persistent. Most people mistake destruction for power, yet it is restraint that reveals true strength. To destroy is easy—it is passive entropy. But to build something from silence, to shape what isn’t there into what now is—that’s where the divine whispers. And most days, we lack the patience for divinity. Creative expression, at its core, is a private rebellion. It is the unseen ritual of those who refuse to be boxed in, labeled, or diagrammed. We mask our truths in metaphors, hide behind pseudonyms, not to deceive, but to breathe freely. The world demands clarity. We answer with riddles. I’ve never felt compelled to explain myself. Not because I am proud, but because explanations waste energy—and energy, once distorted, rarely returns intact. This world spins with commentary. Silence is my protes...