Fragments of the Quiet Mind

  Way back in college, I found myself drawn to book sales at Centermall, that old mall in Baguio with creaky floors and stubborn echoes. I’d roam those cramped aisles searching for something steady, something that might outlast me. But grief—grief rewrites the rules. It taught me that what I thought was permanent was never really mine to hold. When loss came, it didn’t just take someone from me. It tore apart the foundations I built around them—the coffee cups we shared, the songs that used to stitch moments together, the streets that once felt like home. Everything I thought was solid softened and shifted beneath my feet. I realized memory isn’t a monument; it’s water—always flowing, impossible to grip. The silence after the calls stopped was the first crack. It wasn’t just absence; it was a rupture in my story. Grief isn’t a moment—it’s a slow dismantling of certainty. The past I trusted became a stranger, and I had to learn how to live with someone who knew me less than I thou...

Paradox.   It’s the thing that clings to us, even when we don’t ask for it. A puzzle without a solution, wrapped in the trappings of our daily grind. We're told life is meant to be lived, to be experienced, yet with each breath we take, it feels as though we’re slowly suffocating. Every step forward, a step into an endless loop. Who we were and who we are are distant echoes, separated by time and choice, like shadows that stretch and shrink without warning. We chase answers as if they’ll bring clarity, but all we find are more questions—more locked doors. The more we seek, the more it slips away, like sand through our fingers. There’s always a part of us that feels just out of reach, something we can’t quite grasp, yet the second we stop reaching, that same emptiness comes rushing in. The more we want, the more we lose. The more we run, the further we are from the finish line. And yet, stopping to rest feels like surrender, like admitting that this chase, this madness, might never...

I sat alone on the worn couch, remote in hand, staring at the familiar opening credits of a show I once watched every week like it was a lifeline. Tonight, the laughter felt hollow, the jokes like whispers from someone else’s life. I wasn’t here to be entertained—I was here to visit an old version of myself, the one who believed this story held answers. Rewatching a show I’ve outgrown isn’t about reclaiming warmth or comfort. It’s about tracing the slow unraveling of who I used to be, like sifting through dust-covered photographs. The characters haven’t changed, but my gaze has—older, wearier, carrying the weight of roads taken and roads abandoned. Sometimes, growing up feels less like moving forward and more like leaving behind a self who was never fully ready to leave. There’s a strange grief in watching those scenes again—not for the story itself, but for the self who once saw herself reflected in it. We return not to revive but to mourn, to honor the ghost of who we were before g...

In the realm of philosophical inquiry, few assertions resonate with the clarity of Ludwig Wittgenstein's declaration: "The world is the totality of facts, not of things." This profound assertion, nestled within the folds of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus , offers a conceptual canvas upon which the nature of reality is painted not with the brushstrokes of material objects, but with the intricate details of facts. Wittgenstein’s perspective demands that we shift from our habitual focus on objects—those tangible entities that populate our everyday experience—to the abstract yet substantive realm of facts. Facts, in this context, are the building blocks of reality, serving as the true currency of our existential ledger. Consider the world as an endless symphony, where each note is a fact, and the harmonious interplay of these notes constructs the entire score of our understanding. To perceive the world solely through the lens of objects is akin to hearing only ...

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...

Some days don’t arrive. They repeat . Like the ghost of a bell you’re not sure you heard, but still check the window for. You wake up, and the sky is already tired. The clock ticks not forward, but sideways . You open your inbox and find nothing but yesterday trying to start a conversation. There is coffee, but it tastes like memory. There is noise, but it hums in the key of gone. And somewhere in that long stretch of artificial light and recycled air, you think of someone. Or no one. Or someone who used to be no one until their absence took shape. You wonder— Did they ever sit in a day like this, where everything feels like it’s happened already, but differently? Would they remember you, not in the headline moments, but in the filler scenes— the hallway pause, the lunch alone, the rain that didn’t quite fall? Maybe you were just a whisper in the acoustics of their life. Still, whispers carry when the world is quiet enough.

It always starts the same: light through blinds, the click of the kettle, the soft groan of plumbing. You don’t realize you’re building a ritual until the ritual disappears. Then suddenly, the absence has shape. My old apartment had a window that faced nothing special—just a brick wall, faded graffiti, a stubborn weed that grew through concrete. I used to stare at it while waiting for the toaster to pop. I never thought I’d miss that view. But now, it visits me uninvited. In sterile hotel rooms. In the blur between meetings. In the quiet moments before a notification chimes. We think we miss people or places. Sometimes, what we miss is the version of ourselves that existed in those hours we never thought to notice. Mornings are forgettable by design. They're repetition, maintenance, routine. But there's something sacred in their silence. The way the world is half-asleep, and so are you. No performance yet. No crisis. Just the click of a spoon against ceramic and the low hum ...

Last night, I was having the usual neurotic fixation with the moon. I was talking to her, admiring her light and beauty… but to my dismay, the clouds covered her up and it felt like the moon decided to close her doors on me. In a couple of minutes more, the rain started to fall. I guess it’s her tears… I guess it’s her way of pouring out her sadness… It must be pretty lonely up there, shining her light to people so they may find their way out of the dark night, sending romantic moonbeams to lovers in love and soothing crushed souls with her consoling silvery luminescence. It’s like the moon have these invisible arms that hug people in despair (hug me!)… but the ironic thing is that, is there someone out there who embraces her back? Is there something that consoles her as well? Does she receive appreciation with those romantic beams that she so willingly give? And this is what I’m doing. Trying to give something back to her… I maybe an insignificant speck of dust in this vast universe...

I found myself on the couch again, a cup of lukewarm coffee forgotten beside me, the familiar cartoon flickering on the screen like an old friend with secrets. The colors felt sharper now, the jokes less innocent and more like whispered truths I hadn’t noticed before. Episodes I once watched for simple laughs now unravelled themselves, each character’s struggle echoing parts of my own hidden scars—fear, hope, and the quiet ache of growing up. I realized that rewatching cartoons after therapy wasn’t about nostalgia. It was about decoding the language of my past self, translating childhood magic into adult meaning. What was once just silly hijinks became mirrors reflecting wounds I was only just beginning to heal. The heroes weren’t perfect; they were flawed, trying, failing, learning—the same way I had to. There’s a strange comfort in this. Like meeting a younger version of yourself, not to rescue, but to understand why you carried certain stories so tightly. The laughter feels bitter...

It’s raining and I’m sitting in a bus going somewhere—somewhere vague enough to feel like progress but familiar enough to make me question if I’m just looping through life on autopilot. The windows are fogged, people are half-asleep or pretending to be, and outside, the rain politely ruins everyone’s plans. I glance at the umbrella tucked beside my seat. It's smug today. Useful. Fulfilled. Finally, it gets to do its one job. No more sulking in dark corners of my bag like some emotionally neglected sidekick. Today, it’s a hero. Rain? Bring it. Wind? Let’s tango. But then I wonder: What about the days it never gets opened? Three sunny days in a row, I still carried it like a nervous habit—just in case the sky changed its mind. And on those days, did it feel... betrayed? Like it wore its best water-resistant outfit for nothing? Like it practiced its unfolding motion all night and then got ghosted by the clouds? Do umbrellas spiral into existential crises when the weather app lies?...

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...

Godly   skies are slowly breaking, eliminating the sun’s final breath, night-time visions, hope starts rising elude now from your nestled   crest ! Marveling   at this ghostly scene, yet still I think of my lunar   kin , lost   in the labyrinth of tessellation, unable to solve this mazes delusion. No rest for the wicked as what they say, again, the song of the moon made me astray. rock me in thy perfect   harmony , kill   me with thy notes done vaguely, In a mantra filled with agony, nocturnal tunes crafted out of fantasy. deathless rhythm in euphoric moon beams, reciting incantations as surreal as dreams, Every sound and resonance i see; do not dare wonder, this is my   reality ! the   world of sounds i see through my eyes, hark not science, heed your paradise, Alter how the laws of physics drudge, not by reason but by your hearts nudge. kaleidoscopic thoughts be gone with the melody, singing a b...

I want to feel something… it feels like I’m in a coma identical to that moment when you’re half asleep and you got no control of your body… you want to move but it’s like there’s an invisible entity controlling your body. But technically, that’s still feeling something right? Is the apathy eating me? Feeling apathetic? But that’s self defeating. For how can one feel and be indifferent at the same time? Feeling the apathy? Or not feeling the indifference? Whatever. The morning sun feels so fudgin’ good, the petrichor after a night’s rain fills my soul with quiet hope. Silently streaming through my soul, coursing through my veins, surging in a torrential path as it fills my cold heart with sudden warmth... The blackened abyss of my being is starting to see colors as the feeling slowly paints this death filled milieu with life. World tainted, seemingly broken, yet still, aesthetically acceptable in the most twisted perspective one can muster. This warm feeling – To be able to be on...

In the realm of sound and taste, familiarity abounds,  Thoughts wander freely, like kids in summer rain's surround. Unrestrained and unorganized, they dance with glee,  Oh, to be like them, wild and untamed, is what I plea. This moment holds a touch of melancholy's embrace,  Wild and sad, akin to a dwarven mystic's warlock face,  Or a pink unicorn dinosaur, taunting me with sinister grace,  Such craziness unfolds, leaving my heart's rhythm misplaced. The pages of life turn at an astonishing pace,  Just moments ago, serenity adorned my space,  Yet within minutes, I find myself drenched anew,  Caught in the downpour, drowning in feelings that ensue. I profess my love for the rain, its soothing descent,  But when it falls, my depression doubles, leaving me spent,  The irony prevails, a contradiction in disguise,  Rain brings both solace and the weight of gloomy skies. In the depths of my being, questions remain untied,  Answers e...

In the depths of this chaotic mess, I ponder, Seeking meaning in nostalgia and melancholy's yonder. I snatch fleeting moments, like a thief in disguise, Immersed in parks, birds, and poetic sighs. Oh, how I yearn for those enchanting days, When flowers bloomed and butterflies would grace my ways. Words fail to capture the ache, the longing profound, For her, oh, how desperately I yearn, I'm bound. Metaphors flow like rivers, tears an ocean vast, Water, my obsession, a theme unsurpassed. My breath, condensed in the cold, rises high, Whispering unspoken truths, to the clouds, they fly. Burdened by rainy nostalgia's cleansing tide, Each droplet washes away the past's murky stride. But as it cleanses, it also dampens my soul, A bittersweet symphony of sadness takes its toll. Rain, enigmatic muse, granting life, yet pain, A paradoxical dance, a complex refrain. Farewell, a sweet sorrow, forbidden path I tread, Oddly feeling right, as if destiny had led. Selfish it may seem, ...