Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There was this boy who used to sit alone on a rusted porch a few blocks from my childhood home. I don’t remember his name—just the stillness of him. Like he was holding his breath for a world that would never exhale. Some kids wear silence like a hoodie; he wore it like skin. People said his parents were “complicated,” which is adult code for we’d rather not get involved. He vanished sometime before junior year. No one asked where. It’s strange how easily a person can be erased just by not being wanted. Not hated, not bullied. Just… unchosen. And when someone goes unseen long enough, they begin to wonder if they were ever real. Lately, I think about him when I scroll past the headlines—another teenager radicalized online, another manifesto, another explosion of grief dressed as rage. People gasp, ask the same tired questions: How could this happen? Why didn’t anyone see the signs? But invisibility doesn’t leave signs. It leaves absence. We like to believe harm begins with intent. But i...

 There is no justification for walking into a place of worship with a weapon. No cause, no grievance, no theory—nothing—can make sense of that kind of cruelty. To kill people in the middle of prayer is not rebellion, it is desecration. It is not rage—it is rot. The kind that begins in the soul and spreads through history, disguised as ideology. On October 27, 2018, a man entered the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh and opened fire. Eleven people were murdered. It was the deadliest attack on the Jewish community in U.S. history. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t surprising. The world had been inching toward this—subtly, then shamelessly. Hatred no longer hid. It posted. It shouted. It ran for office. It wore suits and badges and usernames and smirks. And when it pulled the trigger that morning, it did so with the confidence of someone who had already been told: yes, you belong here too. The Tree of Life. Etz Chaim. A name that echoes through both scripture and longing. A symbol of ...

Tutal normal na lang ata ang humilata pag weekend at mag surf, manood or magdownload sa phone no? isang sabado, habang nagsusurf I decided to download some android games ( babala: wag magdodownload ng pirata– suportahan natin ang mga mukhang perang mga kapitalistang manufacturers at game programmers sa over priced games nila ) so pumunta ako sa isang sikat na forum para sa mga hackers.  Pagkatapos nakakita ng games , shift to super download mode at salamat sa PLDT dahil PAGKABILIS BILIS ng connection nila 😑😑😑.  While waiting, nag browse at napadpad ako dun sa literati section. Dahil wala namang magawa, inaliw ang utak sa pagbabasa ng original pieces na gawa ng mga tao dun sa forum. May mga poems, short stories at talaga namang mawawala ka sa realidad habang binabasa yung mga gawa nila. Ang nakakatuwa pa ay yung mga comments ng mga netizens at narealize kong sa comment pa lang pala, maaari mo ng masilip ang part ng personality at kung paano ang takbo ng utak ng bawat for...

As I strolled through the sunlit streets of our neighborhood, feeling the gentle warmth of the morning,  a familiar figure came into view—the "Kuya" with his Taho cart. His presence, though seemingly modest, represented a ri tual woven into the fabric of daily life, transforming the ordinary into something profoundly reflective.   "Manong" has been a comforting part of the neighborhood’s daily rhythm  which made this supposed morning walk into a moment of quiet reflection. The Taho he sold was more than just a treat. It was a small, sweet indulgence that combined silken tofu with rich caramel syrup, offering a fleeting but genuine comfort. The steam rising from each cup seemed to promise a moment of warmth and simplicity amidst the busy pace of life.   What struck me most was the deeper role of  "Manong"  as he engaged in this daily ritual. His smile, warm and genuine, was not just a courteous gesture but a bridge connecting him to the lives of those ...