Fragments of the Quiet Mind

The soul does not whisper—it starves or screams. All in between is the illusion of peace. In the silence between the soul’s starvation and its outcry, we find the illusion of quiet—an artificial stillness that keeps us from confronting the essential hunger of being. It’s in the cries we refuse to hear, the ones we bury beneath distractions, that the true self makes itself known. The peace we crave is often the peace we’ve made of compromise, a truce with our most uncomfortable truths. But peace, in this sense, is not reconciliation—it’s resignation. We imagine that the soul's desire can be satisfied by a soft murmur, by polite introspection. We overlook the primal scream that rises when we’ve neglected the body and spirit for too long. To experience truth is to starve, to let ourselves hunger for more than what the world offers—only then can we hear the scream that shatters the quiet. It is only when the soul’s yearning is left unchecked, when we are stripped of the comforts of ig...

Alright, listen up—my muse is in full-on concupiscent mode lately, which is a fancy way of saying she won’t let my brain rest. So here I am, trying to capture the experience without smashing it to bits under the weight of words. If you came here expecting a highbrow academic paper... nope. You can bail now. This ain’t that. Picture me: balcony, laptop, coffee, and my muse—lusty as ever—deciding now is the perfect time to show up. Since writing without smokes is like trying to dance without music, I grabbed my umbrella and braved a rainstorm on steroids. Oh, and did I mention I live half a kilometer from civilization? Cows, horses, crickets—mountain life perks. Welcome to the wild. Made it to the store and here’s Manang with the bad news: “No Marlboro, kuya. Nobody buys those anymore.” I blinked. “Champion lang po.” Champion? I thought I was gearing up for a symphony, not a fight with a cigarette. But whatever, I bought it. Back on my throne (balcony chair), I lit my Champion… Puf...