It’s funny how the deepest questions—the ones that keep you up at night—suddenly have a price. Not in pesos for a coffee or a jeepney ride, but in recurring monthly fees. I wasn’t just lost in life anymore. I was lost in the marketplace of self-help apps and online courses, all promising to fix the parts of me that feel like they’re falling apart. “Subscribe now for ₱399 a month,” one app blared, offering me peace of mind I never thought I needed to buy. My existential crisis had become a product, and I was the customer. Every month, I’d pay just to get a little closer to understanding myself—except the closer I got, the more it felt like I was leasing my own identity. I downloaded reminders to breathe, to journal, to meditate—each with a small fee attached. It’s like the more I tried to fix myself, the more I realized I was trapped in a cycle of consumption disguised as healing. My suffering wasn’t mine anymore; it belonged to the algorithms and marketing teams that turned my confus...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.