Fragments of the Quiet Mind

It’s cold. September’s chill bites at my skin, a crisp reminder of change. As I settle into my chair, cradling my coffee cup like a small flame in my palms, warmth seeps into my fingers. I pause. It’s quiet. That early morning kind of quiet where the world still clings to slumber, and the air feels like an unwritten page, ready for the first strokes of thought. I flip open Simone de Beauvoir’s The Ethics of Ambiguity , a book that demands a dance, not just a read. And there it is, a line that lands softly but hits hard: “The notion of ambiguity must not be confused with that of absurdity.” I pause again, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I know absurdity. Absurdity is waking at 3 a.m., eyes fixed on the ceiling, grappling with the vast question of existence. It’s standing at a funeral, lost in the ache of grief, or looking out over a teeming city and feeling the weight of how small we really are. Absurdity is that breathless silence that follows a profound ques...

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...

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...

The truth is not hidden in the fleeting smiles we chase, but in the stillness that comes with truly seeing. And in that seeing, we become more than content—we become awake, truly alive. The clarity we seek does not promise comfort or ease; it is sharp, cutting through the veil of what we believe we need. In that sharpness, we are forced to confront the weight of our existence, the choices we have made, and the ones still waiting for us. Clarity doesn’t whisper; it roars with a quiet intensity, breaking us open. It reveals the lies we tell ourselves, the excuses that hold us captive, and the dreams that were never ours to begin with. And in that brutal revelation, there is freedom. Because once we see, we cannot unsee. And when we stop chasing happiness, we finally start to live the lives we were meant to, not in pursuit of joy, but in pursuit of the truth that makes joy irrelevant. In the end,  clarity isn’t a destination; it’s a radical transformation that leaves nothing untouch...

It’s a strange thing, the way we’re taught to crave choice. We’re told it’s freedom—this endless sea of possibilities, waiting for us to swim through. Each choice is supposed to feel like a victory, like we’re taking control of our lives. But sometimes, when I pause to think about it, I wonder if it’s really freedom at all. The more options I have, the more I find myself lost, staring at the endless doors and wondering which one should I take. The world gives us choices like confetti. They’re everywhere—what career to follow, who to love, where to live, how to live.  It’s all out there, shimmering with potential, promising that if we pick the right one, the perfect one, we’ll find happiness. But what I’ve realized, after years of standing at crossroads, is that too many choices often feel like a weight, not a gift.  The more doors I have to choose from, the harder it becomes to pick one. And every decision seems like a risk—one wrong move and I might lose everything... On...

I sometimes wonder about the versions of me who never made it. The ones who took different roads, made different choices, turned left when I turned right. In some parallel space, they’re out there, living lives I could’ve had. And I wonder if they ever think of me—the version of themselves who stayed behind. What would it have been like, to live in a world where I said yes instead of no? To choose love when fear whispered otherwise? To leave when I stayed, or stay when I should’ve left? I can almost feel them, those alternative selves, like ghosts of what could’ve been. And I wonder if they feel the same pull toward me. The quiet ache of lives we never shared. There’s a longing, isn’t there? For the paths not taken. Not because we regret them, but because there’s something thrilling in the mystery of who we might have been. What would have happened if we hadn’t been afraid? If we had trusted ourselves more, or cared less what others thought? Would we have become someone different, ...