Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Minsan, feeling ko, ang buhay ay parang talent show na walang final performance.  Lahat tayo nag-a-audition, nagbabaka-sakaling makuha ang main role ng “being loved and understood.” Gusto natin yung spotlight moment , pero sa totoo lang, takot din tayong magkamali sa harap ng audience. Kasi paano kung imbes na palakpak, ang sumalubong sa’yo eh nakakabinging katahimikan at tunog ng mga crickets ang sasalubong pala? The desire to be seen is universal. Kahit yung kunwari chill lang sa buhay, pero deep down meron din yung  “Uy, pansinin niyo rin ako minsan” moments. The thing is, sa real life, hindi yan gaya ng selfie na may filter—effortless and mostly, perfect. Reality is raw, messy, and involves showing the parts of yourself na hindi ka sure kung Instagram-worthy. Eto ang dilemma: gusto mo ng recognition, pero takot kang ipakita yung tunay na ikaw. Kasi sa mundo ngayon, ang bilis mong ma-box in. Pag masyado kang confident, ang sasabihin ng mga tao: “Feelingero.” Pag masyado ka...

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.

  I sat across from my friend, both of us staring at screens instead of each other. Her last message was bold, raw—something she needed to say out loud. But all I could offer was a double-tap emoji. “Seen.” It struck me how much weight that single word carries now. “Seen.” As if visibility alone were enough. As if scrolling past someone’s pain, liking their fractured confession, was somehow a substitute for true presence. I realized “seen” is the new “I’m listening,” but emptier. It’s the hollow echo of attention in a world drowning in noise. To be “seen” is to be momentarily noticed, then swiped away. It’s the illusion of connection without the risk of vulnerability. Maybe we have traded depth for distance, presence for pixels. Because listening demands silence, patience, a willingness to be unsettled—and those are luxuries few afford in the rapid scroll of modern life. I remember a time when “I’m listening” meant leaning in, eyes soft and open, breath held gently to hear what...

Sabi nga nila, ‘Everyone wears a mask’ daw.  Minsan talaga napapatanong ako sa sarili ko kung ilang maskara nga ba sinusuot ko sa pang araw araw? or technically, ilang maskara nga ba meron ako? Paano or kailan ko ba isinusuot ito?  Madalang? Madalas? or naging natural na sya at unconsciously, automatic na syang naisusuot depende sa situation?  Minsan napapaisip din ako kung eto ba'y kaplastikan?  Pagkukunwari?  Pandaraya? is it a kind of betrayal sa ibang tao lalong lalo na sa sarili ko?   Masama nga bang magsuot ng maskara or this is just how humans navigate through life? Pero syempre, logically speaking, we can't generalize things. Sometimes we need to know the reasons behind things.  Minsan, kailangan nating laliman ang pang unawa para maintindihan nating yung mga reasons behind kung bakit nga ba tayo nagsusuot ng maskara Eto ang point ko jan, what if bawat isang mask na isinusuot natin ay may sariling kwento? Paano kung bawat mukha ay merong  ...

Once, the weight of words fell directly into another's hands.  Over a table.  Beneath a your cheap slow ceiling fan bought at shopee.  In the shadowed pause between heartbeats where one dared to be seen . But now? Now we bleed into screens. We scatter our grievances across fiber optic veins, each confession wrapped in curated mystery — a status here, a story there — hoping the algorithms might understand the things we are too afraid to say aloud. It is not dialogue. It is performance. Therapy for an audience we cannot touch. We call it connection. We call it healing. But sometimes it feels like shouting into a void that only reflects your own voice back at you. We craft vague laments and exquisite accusations in 280 characters or less, praying for the balm of a like, the lifeline of a comment. We trade the raw, trembling labor of conversation for the quick narcotic of validation, forgetting that what we seek cannot be delivered by a tap on a screen. The person we...

At night, everything unravels. The day folds itself into strange corners, and the shadows start speaking again. Sometimes there’s a kind of quiet, where for a second, breathing feels like a choice, and not a battle. Those moments are rare. Most days feel heavier than they should. You wake up already losing, like something invisible got its hands around your throat, feeling suffocated even before you opened your eyes. And you don't know why. You drift. Half there, half somewhere else. Staring through people. Forgetting how to answer simple questions. The world feels like a broken mirror, with each shard showing a version of you you don’t recognize. You reach for yourself and cut your hands open. People try to help. They mean well. They tell you to talk, to "get out more," to laugh at things that feel hollow. You nod. You shrink. You learn how to smile without meaning it. You could pretend. You could meet them halfway. Lower yourself into that easy, forgettable noise. But y...

  I once drafted a three-paragraph reply to a message that only said “cool.” Then I deleted it and sent a thumbs-up. Not because the longer version was wrong—but because it felt too much . Too honest, too layered, too likely to be misunderstood in a world that measures meaning by brevity and speed. That blinking “typing…” bubble is its own kind of limbo. A space where we practice vulnerability without risk. A modern confessional booth with no priest on the other side—just the fear of being “seen” the wrong way. It’s easier to live in the anticipation of a message than to deal with its consequences. We’ve mastered the art of holding back. You draft a message to clarify your tone, to explain your silence, to ask a question that matters—and then you close the app. Not because you changed your mind, but because you started imagining the worst possible reply. Or no reply at all. So you send a meme instead. Something safe. Something that doesn’t require anyone to actually respond —ju...

I remember the night clearly—the kind where the city hums low, and every door is shut tight except mine. I was alone in the apartment, sitting on the edge of the bed, and the silence pressed in like a weight I hadn’t noticed before. I began to speak—not to anyone, but to the empty room itself. Words I’d never dared say aloud poured out, honest and unfiltered, like a confession whispered to shadows. There’s something strange about talking to empty rooms. They do not judge or interrupt; they absorb. The quiet becomes a canvas for the parts of ourselves that people seldom see—the raw, unfinished edges we hide behind smiles and scripts. In that silence, I found the courage to be more truthful than I ever was in company. Honesty is rarely a gift we give others. More often, it is a debt we repay to ourselves—spoken quietly, without expectation. These confessions don’t seek applause or agreement; they simply demand acknowledgment, a witness in the absence of another. When I spoke to that e...

Wishing to be alone at times so as to understand the self does not necessarily mean that we are shutting ourselves off from people. Sometimes, it’s just that we don’t want others to be sucked in our depression or perhaps sometimes, we just owe time to ourselves and to provide us an opportunity to understand a small part of our personalities. We move away from people for their and our sake. In doing so, not many would understand it. Some would even think of us as pompous bastards which usually result to haters. Indeed, some people hate what they don’t understand. Even though I want to say that we are not responsible for what people think of us (or what people say about us), the truth of the matter is that; it’s still painful to hear words and exaggerated stories people make to pull others down.  Life is like this. No matter how you struggle to move forward, there will always be people who would prove you otherwise. It doesn’t only happen in schools or in work, but it happens in alm...

The desire to be alone at times in order to understand oneself does not necessarily mean that one is shutting oneself off from others. Sometimes, it is simply because one does not want others to be affected by their own depression, or because they need time to understand a certain aspect of their personality. Moving away from others is done for both our and their sake. Unfortunately, not many people would understand this, and some may even view it as pompousness, leading to negative comments and hate. Although we are not responsible for what others think of us, it can still be painful to hear the negative words and stories that people use to bring others down. Life is like this. No matter how you struggle to move forward, there will always be people who would prove you otherwise. It doesn’t only happen in schools or in work, but it happens in almost every conceivable place and time. As critics, these people would wait for you to do something wrong or say something stupid – which is the...

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...

“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...

Philosophical writing is the only sensible kind of writing. That’s what a ‘friend’ posted as his Facebook status. It’s sad to see how pride eats up a person and this usually happens to people who thinks in levels and not kinds.  The dismaying thing here is not against his premise but in his injunctive conclusions.  Philosophy isn’t for the elite, it belongs to all those who have a taste for meaning and questioning.  It’s horribly flawed to assume bizarre and contentious propositions regarding writing (as how people don’t think and simply post updates on FB) and end up with, let me say, a similarly horrible flawed conclusion. Facebook statuses, twitter tweets, instagram captions, blog entries and all, it’s basically a form of writing. I think the primary purpose of writing is to share information (either it’s an info that people are concerned with or not, the argument here is that, the writer wants to bare it anyway.)  Although some pompous people create a series of ...

Ito siguro ang tanging bagay na ayaw ko tuwing Disyembre. Kung di man reunion ng batchmates, reunion naman ng pamilya ni misis ang magaganap. Every 3 years nagkakaroon ng grand reunion ang kanyang mga relatives at sa tuwing ito’y mangyayari, atubili ang lahat ng tao sa pagbili ng mamahaling damit na isusuot, make up dito at doon na parang kasal ang pupuntahan. Ito ang panahong magsisiuwian mula sa iba’t ibang bansa ang mga sosyalerang titos at titas – na sa pag uwi, wala naman talagang pinag uusapan kundi kung gaano sila mas naka aangat sa inyo. Ganoon naman yata talaga, ang sistema ng pagtingin sa kagalingan ng isang tao ay nababase sa dami ng digits sa iyong payslip. Sa malas nga lang, mas madami pa ang digits ng loan ko kesa sa income, at syang dahilan kung bakit ako’y isa lamang langgam sa paningin nila. (o di kaya, pulgas) Ang sukatan ay wala sa abilidad. Oo, sabihin na nating artist ka, writer, poet, musikero, subalit ano bang kwenta nito sa kanila? Ang mahalaga ay kung mama...

To seek belonging is to find yourself naked in the gaze of others, exposed not in your strength, but in your fragility. It is not the comfortable proximity of others that makes us feel connected, but the shared weight of our suffering. This is the irony of human existence—our need to belong can only be truly fulfilled when we allow ourselves to belong to our deepest wounds. Only in the acknowledgment of these scars, in the rawness of their truth, do we find the soft soil in which connection can root. It’s not the polished moments of joy that knit us together, but the fractured edges of sorrow, vulnerability, and brokenness. The kind of intimacy we yearn for—real, deep, enduring—emerges only when we stand in the darkness of our pain, not pretending to be whole, but embracing the cracks and fissures that make us who we are. But suffering is no easy companion. It doesn't offer comfort or quick relief. It pulls you into itself like a void, asking you to surrender pieces of yourself un...

Before we can construct anything that endures, we must first dissolve what we once were. It’s the paradox that runs through the very marrow of creation— nothing that is worth anything survives its first death. This is not the death of the body, but the destruction of the ego’s illusions, the slow collapse of our fantasies into the ruin of reality. Only when the old skin falls away, shredded and torn by the unrelenting passage of time, can the new emerge—scarred, remade, but alive in ways it could never have been before. In the quiet aftermath of disintegration, in the hollow echo of what was, lies the fertile soil of something pure. The self, as it is known, must die, for only in that grave of identity can we plant the seeds of something real , something unburdened by the weight of who we thought we were. Creation is never an act of construction—it is an act of surrendering the false, the pretended, the illusory, until only the core remains, raw and unprotected. We fear the coll...

Love is not blind—it is cruel enough to see you fully. To speak of love in the confines of simplicity is to rob it of its depth. Love, the greatest of forces, does not shelter us from the truth. It does not cloak us in the illusions of comfort; rather, it unveils us—stripping us bare of all our pretensions. The notion that love is blind, that it shields us from ourselves, is a lie perpetuated by the needy parts of our hearts, the ones that want safety, the ones that want to stay hidden in the quiet corners of longing. Love, in its truest form, is not a refuge from the world—it is a confrontation. A confrontation with yourself, with the person you love, with all the jagged edges of both. For how can you truly know another without exposing them to the rawness of who you are? To love is to endure. It is to sit in the discomfort of vulnerability and allow someone to see you—really see you—in all your complexity. To be truly loved is to be seen in your entirety, with all your flaws, your ...

There are people who don’t look at you — they watch you. And there’s a difference. Looking is human. Watching is something else. It’s that strange hunger that lingers in the shadows of civility — quiet, but not kind. You can feel it in the silence between “how are yous” and the hollow click of a like that doesn’t mean I see you , but rather I’m keeping count. Watching, always watching — not out of care or curiosity, but calculation. They say envy is a mirror held by the weak. But no one warns you what it’s like to live under its gaze. There’s something profoundly unnerving about being perceived through someone else’s unfinished wounds. You become a reflection of everything they buried — their doubts, their failed chances, the versions of themselves they gave up on. And still, they watch. Not because they care who you are, but because they cannot bear that you’ve become something they didn’t have the courage to imagine for themselves. It’s not hatred, exactly. It’s fascin...