Fragments of the Quiet Mind

It always starts with a broom. Not a better policy. Not a more efficient process. Just… a broom. Or a new shelf. Or a bright red label that screams “TAPE HERE” like that’s going to fix systemic inefficiency. We call it 7S. I call it performance art for the underpaid and over-managed. In my current workplace, 7S has become our favorite illusion of progress. We polish our tables like it’ll reflect competence. We realign folders like it realigns priorities. We proudly display our “before and after” photos as if anyone asked. Meanwhile, the actual deliverables? Delayed. Disjointed. Disregarded. We aren’t improving systems—we’re decorating dysfunction. There was a time last week when I spent an entire afternoon watching coworkers argue over the font size of cabinet labels. Not the report deadlines, not the implementation gaps—just labels. And I realized: we’ve turned 7S into a religion. Not of discipline, but of distraction. Let’s be honest. Nobody dares question it anymore. To cha...

Losing your keys is the quiet rebellion of order against itself. At first, it feels like life has hiccuped. The kind of rupture so small it shouldn’t matter, yet manages to unhinge everything. You check your bag three times, then the counter, then the jacket you haven’t worn in a week. It's not about the keys anymore. It's about what their absence unravels. Because keys aren't just metal. They are continuity. They are the mundane rituals that trick us into believing the world makes sense — that if you follow the same path each day, you'll arrive somewhere familiar. But when keys disappear, the path collapses. Suddenly you’re not just late—you’re disoriented, unmoored, estranged from your own routine. And in that moment, a door becomes a symbol. Not of what's locked, but of how little you understand your own thresholds. How many doors have you opened without knowing what they kept out? How many times have you walked in without noticing what you left behind? The l...

I remember the first time I caught myself censoring a story. Not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid. Afraid that the words I chose would mark me as “other,” or worse, unsafe. It was subtle—a hesitation before speaking, a carefully edited sentence—but it was there, like a quiet tremor before an earthquake. Language policing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whispered warning, a sideways glance, or the slow erasure of dialects and accents. It’s the constant pressure to speak the way power expects us to—neatly, politely, “correctly.” For marginalized communities, this isn’t just about words; it’s about survival. When your language is policed, your identity gets clipped at the edges. You start to doubt if your stories are valid if your voice deserves space. Freedom of expression becomes a minefield, where one misstep can mean exclusion or worse—silencing. But here’s the thing: language is alive. It breathes the culture, history, pain, and joy of a people. To police it is to...

It always starts with fabric. Not the fabric of culture or kindness—no, the literal kind. The kind stitched into skirts, cropped into tops, wrapped or not wrapped around skin. Because apparently, what you wear is the consent you forgot to give. And how convenient—how comfortingly lazy—that makes things for those too bored to question their own entitlement. I've overheard it in barber shops, read it in comment sections, seen it slide past like an afterthought in Sunday dinner conversations: “Eh, kasi naman, tingnan mo suot.” As if cloth is code. As if cotton speaks clearer than the person wearing it. We have managed to build an entire theology around knees, a doctrine around waistlines, an ethical system that begins and ends at the neckline. And the sermons are always the same: If you don’t want to be looked at, don’t be visible. But here's a thought: maybe the problem isn’t that we’re showing too much skin—it’s that some people were never taught to look at skin and see ...

"Hollow Life" Beating the fall I can’t help but desire of falling down this time Deep in this hole of my making I can't escape Falling all this time We come to this place Falling through time  Living a hollow life Always we're taking Waiting for signs Hollow lives... Fearing to fall and  Still the ground below me calls Falling down this time Ripping apart all  These things I have tried to stop Falling all this time Is there ever any wonder why we look to the sky? Search in vain? Asking why? All alone? Where is God? Looking down? We don’t know? We fall in space,  We can't look down, Death may come  Peace I have found What to say?  Am I alive,  Am I asleep?  Or have I died? (Wanting Peace) We fall in space (Wanting Peace) We can't look down, Death may come, (Something takes a hold of me) Peace I have found  (Something takes a hold of me) I want ...

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...

If it happens, then it happens. If not, then not. Those words echo through my mind, swirling in a whirlpool of uncertainty and resignation. There's a certain beauty in their simplicity, yet they carry a weight that's hard to bear. Life is a tapestry of possibilities, a series of intertwined threads leading us down divergent paths. And here I stand, at the crossroads, grappling with the notion of fate and surrender. There's a part of me that yearns for control, that desires to shape my own destiny. I long to sculpt my future with deliberate choices and unwavering determination. But deep down, I know that control is an illusion, a fragile veil we use to shield ourselves from the unpredictable nature of existence. Life, in all its chaotic glory, refuses to be tamed. Yet, why does this realization fill me with a sense of both freedom and trepidation? It's liberating to release the burden of trying to force outcomes, to relinquish the constant striving and instead embrac...