Fragments of the Quiet Mind

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 remember sitting alone in a crowded room, the air thick with unspoken words. Around me, laughter bubbled and voices rose, but my own thoughts were a fragile thread, barely holding. Somewhere in that noise, a name was mentioned — hers — and suddenly the room seemed smaller, the light dimmer, as if a shadow had slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t just a story being told. It was a fracture, a fissure in the smooth surface of what we had all pretended was safe. The #MeToo movement began as a simple phrase — a way for survivors of sexual harassment and assault to say, Me too. It grew into a tidal wave, a collective outpouring of truth that exposed the hidden scale of abuse embedded in systems of power. It’s a movement that refused to let silence be the default, turning private pain into public reckoning. But beyond the headlines and hashtags, it is a profound shift in how we understand consent, autonomy, and the very nature of freedom. This movement is that fissure made visible...

Twirling, churning, spinning….. Gephyrophobia…  Never in my wildest dreams did I consider this a fear, nor did I think that this is even possible. (Coz who the heck is afraid of bridges, right?).  In what appears like a cruel joke being played by Fate on me, NEVER did it occur to me that of all the possible phobias (besides arachnophobia. Who in their fudgin’ right state of mind isn’t afraid of spiders --- ) In a satiric twist of fate, the universe seemed to play this one on me. Okay, Universe, you won this round! I am not afraid of heights, in fact I love heights. I love hiking mountains. I love standing at the edge of cliffs, buildings or in any high place and bask on that ephemeral feeling where anxiety transforms to bliss. I love the  thrill of having that breeze touch your face and your shirt pressing against the wind.  I dwell on that ineffable feeling of being on top as you gaze at the world below you. HOWEVER, looking at the scene below while on a b...

I used to believe the world had a place carved out for me—a bright, undeniable purpose, a calling whispered through the chaos. A dream job that would illuminate the darkest corridors of doubt. But the truth I found was more elusive, more quiet. There is a shame in not having a dream, not because ambition is shameful, but because the silence of absence is deafening. It’s a soft, persistent ache—a question that gnaws beneath the surface when the crowd chants “Find your passion!” as if it were a command rather than a gift. I carry this shame not as a scar, but as a shadow—one that stretches longer than the daylight. It’s the shame of drifting, of not belonging to some grand narrative of destiny. Of waking every morning to a life that feels like a rehearsal without a script. And yet, I realize: maybe this absence is not a void, but a space. A quiet room where I learn what it means to exist without ceremony. This quiet room teaches me something radical—there is dignity in the ordinary,...

  I was walking home that evening, the city buzzing around me like a restless beast. The streetlights flickered unevenly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch just to reach us. Ahead, a girl moved alone, her steps quick but cautious. Then I heard it—voices, low and crude, slicing through the hum of the night. A group of boys, laughing and shouting lewd remarks, their words sharp and unwanted like a sudden gust of cold wind. The girl didn’t stop. She didn’t even glance back. But the air between us shifted. That noise—cheap, careless—was enough to freeze the moment, to make the invisible weight of the streets tangible. I saw her tighten her shoulders, quicken her pace, vanish into the shadows faster than before. Something inside me snapped. I walked up to the boys, my voice low but steady, making sure they knew their game wasn’t welcome here. They faltered, surprise flickering in their eyes, shadows retreating as the tension thickened. The girl looked at me, gratitude soften...

I used to believe faith was a steady flame handed down—warmth that sheltered me from the cold winds of doubt. It was a map drawn by hands older than mine, with clear roads, familiar landmarks, and promises stitched into the sky. I carried it like armor and sanctuary, the kind you don’t question because it’s part of your bones. But growing up is learning to step outside that light and see the shadows it cast. The edges blur. The roads fork. The promises twist in ways you never expected. Outgrowing faith isn’t a clean break. It’s a slow peeling back, a quiet unlearning, an ache that feels like betrayal and freedom all at once. It’s realizing that what once protected you may now confine you. That your soul, hungry for something deeper, refuses to be tethered to the stories you were told. I see now that faith is less about certainty and more about courage—the courage to face the unknown without the safety net of old truths. It’s a paradox: losing belief but not losing hope. Letting go b...

Amidst the depths... When life has scraped the marrow of your being,   and hardships outnumber the stars in the night sky. Yet, in that abyss, there lies a flicker, a spark of resilience refusing to be extinguished. For it is in the darkest moments,   where the strength to endure is forged with every breath,   and the embers of hope persist against the odds. Amidst the depths,  a transformation takes hold,   where wounds become scars,  and vulnerability turns into fortitude. With each trial endured,  a fragment of wisdom is gained,   a lesson etched deep within the dark crevices of the soul. And as the weight of the world threatens to suffocate,   the spirit within rises,  defying the gravity of despair. For even amidst the depths,   there exists an unwavering belief,   t hat the human spirit is indomitable,   and from the depths,  it shall ascend,   t o pierce the night with a beacon of resilience.

TBR 2014 is perhaps the most memorable run I’ve had for some reasons:  First, it was my first official full marathon,  secondly, it’s practically chasing your DREAMS  and lastly, it was run specifically summarizing my life at that point.  Six months before the big race, my left foot started playing a painful tune. So, I thought, "Hey, let's have a doctor jam session!" Turns out, Doc told me to rest and quit my long-distance running because my ankle was hosting a uric acid party. Apparently, running would be like adding an extra beat to the pain playlist. Plus, I was given some dietary restrictions, like watching what I eat. Did I listen? Nah! I turned a deaf ear and went on to conquer not one, but two half marathons. And guess what? The day after those "fun"-runs, I transformed into a limping maestro. Every step felt like a cruel punishment. But you know what? I'm just a stubborn virtuoso who finds solace in the symphony of agony. On November 24, 2013, lif...

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...

"Goin' Where The Wind Blows" Someone said life is for the taking Here I am with my hand out waiting for a ride I've been living on my great expectations What good is it when I'm stranded here And the world just passes by Where are the signs to help me get out of this place? Linggo, Habang kalong ng kadiliman ang katahimikan sa kalaliman ng gabi, naririnig na umaawit sa aking cellphone ang tinig ni Eric Martin. Ah, Mr. BIG – bakit kailangang napaka lamig ng iyong boses? Bakit kailangang magbigay ka ng alaala ng kalungkutan mula sa iyong mga awitin? Tipong lullabye na paulit ulit kinakanta sa batang walang nais gawin kundi matulog na lamang… Stranded – ito nga siguro ang salitang mag dedescribe sa gabing ito. Habang abala ang mundo sa pag ikot, sya namang pakiwari mo’y tumigil ang lahat sa paggalaw. Kapayapaang hanap, di na matanaw. Walang liwanag, walang pag-asa. Wala. Nagnanais tumakbo at lumayo sa lahat. Habang lumalalim ang gabi, sya namang hi...

The abyss calls not from a distance but from the marrow of our bones. To look into it is to stand before the essence of what we are. Nietzsche knew it well—the abyss is not a metaphor, but a living, breathing presence within us. And to stare into it, to confront it head-on, is to challenge the very fabric of our being. But here lies the paradox: in facing it, we don’t fall in. No. We transcend it. We become something more, something that dares to live at the edge of everything we are told to fear. We are conditioned to avoid the abyss, aren’t we? It lurks in the quiet corners of our darkest thoughts, the edges of our deepest fears. It’s that gnawing feeling that tells us we are not enough, that our lives are but fleeting whispers in the wind. Yet Nietzsche didn’t fear the abyss. He beckoned us toward it, urging us to walk through the darkness—not as victims, but as victors. “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he become a monster,” he warned. But the abyss ...

There is a peculiar sort of modern courage, one that is bent not on facing the abyss, but in avoiding its presence altogether. It’s the courage to look away, to create comfort and shelter, to craft a world where suffering is stifled, avoided, and anesthetized. But what if the pain we fear is the very catalyst for the growth we desire? What if the deepest well of transformation is carved not by careful chisels of comfort, but by the jagged edges of struggle? Pain, in its rawest form, is the hammer that shapes the soul. We are born into a world that constantly asks us to stretch—to grow, to break free from the comforts of our immediate surroundings and engage with something greater, more complex. But how often we shy away from it! How often we pursue the quiet hum of distraction, the soft embrace of what feels familiar. We retreat into well-worn paths, clinging to the illusion of peace. Yet in doing so, we lose the essence of who we are meant to be. The modern condition is one of strat...

In a world that never stops, where the hum of ambition drowns out the silence, there’s something radical about stillness. Something defiant about simply existing, without the weight of tasks, without the tick of a clock pressing down. We call it laziness, this refusal to move, this soft rebellion against the rush. But perhaps it’s not laziness at all. Maybe it’s the first act of courage— the courage to refuse to be consumed, the courage to be nothing and still be enough. We are told to produce, to grow, to constantly be reaching, always becoming, always striving. But what if there’s wisdom in the pause? In the slow, deliberate moments where nothing is expected and everything is allowed to breathe? Sometimes doing nothing is the only way to find everything. In the spaces where we are "doing nothing," we find pieces of ourselves that get lost in the noise. We remember what it feels like to simply be, to exist without purpose, without striving fo...