Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There’s something charming—almost poetic—about being politely asked to step into your own firing line. “Courtesy resignations,” they call it. Like being handed a thank-you note before your eviction. Like being broken up with via scented stationery. It’s governance by ghosting—but with manners. And oh, what timing. The king’s popularity is dipping, and suddenly, it’s the court’s fault the crowd is booing. Not the decisions, not the mirror—just the reflections. So now it’s time for the grand reshuffle. Not a purge, mind you, just a “realignment.” Because we wouldn’t want to sound tyrannical—we just want results. And nothing says “results” quite like rearranging the same deck chairs on a sinking narrative. Let’s be clear: this is not about personalities, the King insists. It’s about “performance.” But only after the performance failed to get a standing ovation. Strange how urgency is always retroactive. When the people whispered discontent, it was politics as usual. But when they scre...

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.

  "It is not what we do, but also what we do not do, for which we are accountable." – Molière In the cutthroat world of work, accountability can become a weapon, but not everyone wields it against the vulnerable. There will always be that specific kind of person— a few, yet more than enough — who turn on you when the stakes rise.  They don’t announce their intentions; instead, they shift imperceptibly. Their tone becomes measured, their gaze evasive, and their silence during critical moments deafening. These are not strangers, but colleagues you trusted, people who once shared the weight of the work alongside you. It’s not always an immediate betrayal. It begins with small omissions, selective truths, and decisions framed as “what’s best for everyone.” What they really mean, of course, is what’s best for themselves. One moment, you're exchanging solidarity; the next, you're the sacrificial lamb. It’s devastating not just because it feels personal—it’s devastating beca...

It started with a simple question from a cousin at dinner: "Would you still vaccinate your future kids after all that Dengvaxia stuff?" I had just taken a bite of kare-kare. I chewed for a bit longer than necessary. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because I knew the moment I opened my mouth, I’d become the uninvited spokesperson for science, ethics, and a country’s fractured trust. There’s something absurd about the way we treat public health here. We throw away decades of medical progress faster than we throw rice at a wedding, then panic when outbreaks arrive like uninvited relatives during fiesta. We trusted science — until it made a mistake. And like every Filipino family feud, we never truly recover. We just stop speaking to each other and pretend everything’s fine. For the past Months, the name "Dengvaxia" spread faster than the disease it was meant to prevent. A vaccine meant to protect became a symbol of betrayal. And suddenly, everyone was a...

  I was walking home that evening, the city buzzing around me like a restless beast. The streetlights flickered unevenly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch just to reach us. Ahead, a girl moved alone, her steps quick but cautious. Then I heard it—voices, low and crude, slicing through the hum of the night. A group of boys, laughing and shouting lewd remarks, their words sharp and unwanted like a sudden gust of cold wind. The girl didn’t stop. She didn’t even glance back. But the air between us shifted. That noise—cheap, careless—was enough to freeze the moment, to make the invisible weight of the streets tangible. I saw her tighten her shoulders, quicken her pace, vanish into the shadows faster than before. Something inside me snapped. I walked up to the boys, my voice low but steady, making sure they knew their game wasn’t welcome here. They faltered, surprise flickering in their eyes, shadows retreating as the tension thickened. The girl looked at me, gratitude soften...

Mercury Retrograde—if you’ve ever scrolled through Facebook or overheard a group chat, you know it’s the ultimate cosmic scapegoat. The planet that supposedly rewinds, messing up communication, technology, and even relationships. When things go wrong, it’s not your fault—it’s Mercury playing its tricks. At this point, accordingly, Mercury is in retrograde again. Which must be why I left my term paper in the dusty printer tray of an old computer shop where I had it printed. Why I mistakenly told my students that their exam is next Monday. Why I agreed to take a sideline job and design a layout at 10 PM while eating Lucky Me pancit canton and listening to a pirated System of a Down CD—submission due in three hours. It had to be Mercury. The stars. The cosmos. The planetary gods punishing me for believing I could survive on instant coffee and obligation. Because surely, it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault I forgot to save the updated Excel file and had to retype 87 names by cand...