Fragments of the Quiet Mind

W e are taught to seek healing as if it is an erasure. That once we "get better," the pain vanishes and the person we were before returns, whole and untouched. But I have never returned to anything. Only continued. Pain does not politely excuse itself when it's done with you. It lingers like smoke in the walls, reshaping the air you breathe. To heal, in the way most understand it, is to forget the fire. But what if you needed the fire? What if the pain was not a detour, but the road? I have grown not from resolution, but rupture. My becoming came through bloodied thresholds—through nights where sleep was a mercy I was denied, through mornings that greeted me with grief curled on my chest like a feral cat. I did not become wiser because I learned to numb it. I became wiser because I stayed awake through the storm, soaked and shivering, refusing to close my eyes. The world rewards polished survival. The tidy narrative. “I went through something hard, but I’m okay now.” But ...

They laugh at the echo and think it is me. But it is not. I wind up the strings of my own voice, make it dance in the air like something alive. But I am the puppeteer—and I no longer remember the sound of silence that belongs to me. They call me vibrant. Charming. Magnetic. And I smile—not because they’re wrong, but because they’ve mistaken the flicker for the flame. They see the light, never the burn. truth is, i don’t talk. i translate . i don’t joke. i offer . not because i want to—but because i know how. I wear my extroversion like a tailored coat— flawless in fit, hollow in fabric. Inside, I shiver where no one looks. and the paradox is cruel: the better i become at being someone everyone can love, the further i drift from anyone who might understand me. what is the word for being surrounded and starving? for being applauded and erased? maybe i am just a prism—light passes through me, gets refracted, becomes beauty. but the prism itself remains invisible. used. clear...

Accountability is a relentless truth, binding us not only to the weight of what we do, but to the echoes of what we leave undone.  It is in the cracks of silence, in the deliberate omissions, where the soul whispers its allegiance.  To act without conscience is betrayal;  to remain still when courage calls is surrender.  But the gravest fracture lies in the quiet abdication of self—when we trade our integrity for fleeting safety, rewriting who we are to fit the narrative of convenience.  In this, we are not merely judged by others; we are laid bare before the mirror of our own making.

What lies behind you and what lies in front of you pales in comparison to what lies inside of you. In our relentless pursuit of understanding the past and preparing for the future, we often overlook the profound complexity within us—a complexity that defines our very existence. Philosophers from Aristotle to Heidegger have grappled with the essence of being, often emphasizing external factors like time and space. Yet, the true essence of life isn’t merely a chronological sequence of events but the rich inner world that shapes our perceptions and decisions. This internal landscape, often overshadowed by external pursuits, is where the deepest truths and most authentic self reside. Imagine life as a game of chess. While each move matters, the game’s outcome is determined not by the pieces on the board but by the mind of the player. The same applies to life—our external actions are merely reflections of our internal state. The real challenge, then, is not just to navigate the external wor...

  Certainty feels like a promise we make to ourselves—something solid, unmoving, to keep the chaos at bay. But how often does it really hold? We tell ourselves we know who we are, what we want, what the world is, but then something shifts—a chance encounter, a quiet realization, or even just the slow erosion of time—and everything we thought we knew suddenly feels small, brittle. It’s unsettling, this unraveling of the known. Certainty doesn’t break with a loud crash but with a quiet crumble, like sand slipping through our fingers. We tighten our grip, thinking we can hold on, but the more we cling, the more it falls away. And then we’re left standing there, palms empty, wondering if it was ever ours to keep. But maybe that’s where the truth lives—not in the things we’re sure of, but in the spaces left behind when those certainties fade. It’s strange to say, but I think there’s a kind of freedom in not knowing. Certainty pins us down, defines us too neatly, while uncertainty leaves...

Time moves with a relentless rhythm, An unyielding current, quietly pulling me through the sands of time.  I often hear that life is fleeting, that moments slip away faster than I can grasp them, but there’s a deeper truth to this: it’s not just that time passes—it’s that I change with it, and with each passing second, I’m forced to reckon with who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. What is it about time that feels so heavy? Perhaps it’s the realization that I can never truly hold onto a moment. I cling to the idea of the present, as if it could last forever, but it drifts like sand, slipping through my fingers. I spend my life trying to capture it, trying to freeze it in place. Yet, the more I try to keep time still, the more it eludes me. I’m never quite here; I’m always a step ahead or a step behind, forever chasing a future I can never fully reach, and a past that keeps fading into memory. And still, there is something beautiful in that struggle. Time teaches me to app...

Twirling, churning, spinning….. Gephyrophobia…  Never in my wildest dreams did I consider this a fear, nor did I think that this is even possible. (Coz who the heck is afraid of bridges, right?).  In what appears like a cruel joke being played by Fate on me, NEVER did it occur to me that of all the possible phobias (besides arachnophobia. Who in their fudgin’ right state of mind isn’t afraid of spiders --- ) In a satiric twist of fate, the universe seemed to play this one on me. Okay, Universe, you won this round! I am not afraid of heights, in fact I love heights. I love hiking mountains. I love standing at the edge of cliffs, buildings or in any high place and bask on that ephemeral feeling where anxiety transforms to bliss. I love the  thrill of having that breeze touch your face and your shirt pressing against the wind.  I dwell on that ineffable feeling of being on top as you gaze at the world below you. HOWEVER, looking at the scene below while on a b...

I used to think growing up meant becoming some grand, polished version of yourself—the one your childhood self would cheer for, maybe even brag about at recess. But here I am, ordering my third cup of coffee at 9 PM, staring blankly at a screen, and wondering if I’ve just been winging adulthood all along. Growing up is realizing you’re your own unpaid intern. Turns out, the kid inside me would side-eye this version pretty hard. Not because I gave up on dreams, but because I forgot how to be recklessly hopeful. The fearless wonder? Buried under endless to-do lists and a growing collection of "shoulds" I didn’t even know I agreed to. Hope is the most expensive habit with the worst Return of Investment. But here’s the twist: maybe that side-eye is a good thing. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of reminding me that I’m still in progress. The kid’s shock is just a mirror—reflecting not failure, but the distance traveled. Sometimes the only thing growing faster than you is your coll...

It’s my first day at work and I fussily spent it with the usual ‘assessment’ of the place. It’s a new environment, new chair and table, new bosses and new ‘work mates’. I painstakingly learned a lot from the past (and learned things the hard way!) and from that, I made a promise to myself that I will be ME this time. I will kill the remaining esoteric thoughts, and my sole concern now is to be able to be me as me without the masks.  I am so used into creating an image to make conversations bearable, but this time, I won’t do that. I want to be like water, least resistance – not influencing people at all… I want to be able to seep through cracks, flow through fingers, can’t be held and yet, firm enough to lift a boat. I will no longer try and climb walls just to see what’s on the other side, rather, I’d stupidly bash my head on that wall and secretly bleed. It sucks to do something that your heart isn’t really into, but the problem with the heart is that it ‘misleads’ people i...

Ang hirap magpakabait, o magkunwaring mabait.  Pero bago humusga, di ko naman sinasabing saksakan ako ng sama.  Tao din naman ako, may pakiramdam at sa pakikiramdam, dito ko nararanasang mairita paminsan minsan sa mga taong pilit nangingialam sa mga bagay bagay na di naman dapat pinakikialaman.  Ang husay at talento ng isang tao ay nakikita sa kanyang gawa at hindi sa salita – at more than this, di dapat ipagpilitan ang kaalaman sa isang taong di pa nalalaman ang syang bagay o ideyang alam mo na. Dapat ganito – di dapat ganyan… ano nga ba ang nararapat? Di bat may kanya kanyang paraan ang mga tao sa paggawa ng isang bagay?  E ano kung mas gusto kong unahing hugasan ang pinggan kesa sa baso? Kanya kanyang trip lang yan at sa bawat trip ay merong rason na sila lamang ang nakakaalam kung bakit.  E ano kung jacket ang tawag ko sa ‘bolero’ o kaya anong pakialam mo kung ‘tights’ ang tawag ko sa compression pants?  Ang pakikisama sa ibang tao ay isang art – at...

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...

"Goin' Where The Wind Blows" Someone said life is for the taking Here I am with my hand out waiting for a ride I've been living on my great expectations What good is it when I'm stranded here And the world just passes by Where are the signs to help me get out of this place? Linggo, Habang kalong ng kadiliman ang katahimikan sa kalaliman ng gabi, naririnig na umaawit sa aking cellphone ang tinig ni Eric Martin. Ah, Mr. BIG – bakit kailangang napaka lamig ng iyong boses? Bakit kailangang magbigay ka ng alaala ng kalungkutan mula sa iyong mga awitin? Tipong lullabye na paulit ulit kinakanta sa batang walang nais gawin kundi matulog na lamang… Stranded – ito nga siguro ang salitang mag dedescribe sa gabing ito. Habang abala ang mundo sa pag ikot, sya namang pakiwari mo’y tumigil ang lahat sa paggalaw. Kapayapaang hanap, di na matanaw. Walang liwanag, walang pag-asa. Wala. Nagnanais tumakbo at lumayo sa lahat. Habang lumalalim ang gabi, sya namang hi...

There is a peculiar sort of modern courage, one that is bent not on facing the abyss, but in avoiding its presence altogether. It’s the courage to look away, to create comfort and shelter, to craft a world where suffering is stifled, avoided, and anesthetized. But what if the pain we fear is the very catalyst for the growth we desire? What if the deepest well of transformation is carved not by careful chisels of comfort, but by the jagged edges of struggle? Pain, in its rawest form, is the hammer that shapes the soul. We are born into a world that constantly asks us to stretch—to grow, to break free from the comforts of our immediate surroundings and engage with something greater, more complex. But how often we shy away from it! How often we pursue the quiet hum of distraction, the soft embrace of what feels familiar. We retreat into well-worn paths, clinging to the illusion of peace. Yet in doing so, we lose the essence of who we are meant to be. The modern condition is one of strat...

I have to argue – regardless of the fact that my friend don’t want to. I need it – thoughts flowing once more. Anyway, our entire argument went haywire: from the blessedness of Sundays, to the idea of immortality and we ended up with hermeneutics and the problem/ingenuity of deconstruction in interpretations (despite of an ant falling in my coffee cup and throwing it away, going back to the kitchen and making another brew – but this is not part of the topic: I just cant help saying it.) Ok. Side comments away. We were chatting about the impossibility of a purely objective interpretation: as she was pointing out that the boundaries and limitations of language is what defines reality. Without which, we will be having fleeting meanings, and not holding on to any concept but pure abstraction of things – to which I categorically interpreted as descent to an ‘unreal’ world. While the chat was ongoing, I was getting bored about her mumblings and so I started watching the “matrix ...

In a world that never stops, where the hum of ambition drowns out the silence, there’s something radical about stillness. Something defiant about simply existing, without the weight of tasks, without the tick of a clock pressing down. We call it laziness, this refusal to move, this soft rebellion against the rush. But perhaps it’s not laziness at all. Maybe it’s the first act of courage— the courage to refuse to be consumed, the courage to be nothing and still be enough. We are told to produce, to grow, to constantly be reaching, always becoming, always striving. But what if there’s wisdom in the pause? In the slow, deliberate moments where nothing is expected and everything is allowed to breathe? Sometimes doing nothing is the only way to find everything. In the spaces where we are "doing nothing," we find pieces of ourselves that get lost in the noise. We remember what it feels like to simply be, to exist without purpose, without striving fo...