Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I want to feel something… it feels like I’m in a coma identical to that moment when you’re half asleep and you got no control of your body… you want to move but it’s like there’s an invisible entity controlling your body. But technically, that’s still feeling something right? Is the apathy eating me? Feeling apathetic? But that’s self defeating. For how can one feel and be indifferent at the same time? Feeling the apathy? Or not feeling the indifference? Whatever. The morning sun feels so fudgin’ good, the petrichor after a night’s rain fills my soul with quiet hope. Silently streaming through my soul, coursing through my veins, surging in a torrential path as it fills my cold heart with sudden warmth... The blackened abyss of my being is starting to see colors as the feeling slowly paints this death filled milieu with life. World tainted, seemingly broken, yet still, aesthetically acceptable in the most twisted perspective one can muster. This warm feeling – To be able to be on...

Di na kayang suyuin ng mainit na kape ang nanlalamig na pagkatao. Itong kakaibang ginaw na dulot ng panahon ay tila yelong bumabalot sa pananaw ng isang pilosopong nangangarap. Nakakahumaling at nakakalungkot… nahuhumaling sa lungkot. Walang katapusang pagtakbo, pagtago – paglayo, ngunit hanggang kelan kaya ito dapat gawin upang maatim ang katahimikang matagal ng ninanais? Sa pagsilip ng buwan, kusang bumabalik mga emosyong ikinukubli at isinasantabi. Mga patak ng sarkastikong liwanag na umaaninag sa isang aninong naliligaw. Nawawala? pero paano nga ba mawawala ang isang bagay na di pa nahahanap? Bigo nga bang masasabi kung mas nanaisin ng isang taong sumuko na lang? pagkabigo bang maituturing kung mas pipiliin nilang bumitiw na lamang? Walang kagandahan sa paglagapak, walang kasiyahan sa pagkakahulog at walang nakakatuwa sa pagkakadapa. Mas madaling umangat sa pamamagitan ng paggamit ng mga tao, mas madaling bumagsak sa pamamagitan ng pagsunod sa sariling paniniwala. Subalit eto nga...

The empty realization regarding a universe so vast handling all possible combinations and permutations of synchronistic events is too profound for my tiny mind. Reading a book about reincarnation and hope makes me a complete sissy.  I mean, hope should be simple, right? After the storm there’s a new dawn, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, it’s not how many times you fall down but what matters is the fact that you stand up every time you fall down and all those Facebook and internet memes about hope. It brings hope to people in search of it. (it should give hope or presumably, die hoping.) Then here comes reincarnation, where your soul based on your past karma will be thrown in another space, another time – a theory where, in a grand scheme of things, order will be put in place as your soul will be raped and ripped somewhere, it can be in the past, present or future. (well technically as a subject, you will always be in the present, but you get my point. Since I...

I sometimes wonder about the versions of me who never made it. The ones who took different roads, made different choices, turned left when I turned right. In some parallel space, they’re out there, living lives I could’ve had. And I wonder if they ever think of me—the version of themselves who stayed behind. What would it have been like, to live in a world where I said yes instead of no? To choose love when fear whispered otherwise? To leave when I stayed, or stay when I should’ve left? I can almost feel them, those alternative selves, like ghosts of what could’ve been. And I wonder if they feel the same pull toward me. The quiet ache of lives we never shared. There’s a longing, isn’t there? For the paths not taken. Not because we regret them, but because there’s something thrilling in the mystery of who we might have been. What would have happened if we hadn’t been afraid? If we had trusted ourselves more, or cared less what others thought? Would we have become someone different, ...

Leaving all the noise that surrounds the world Admonishing the fear that leaves me curled, Battered heart still shouts your name, Yearning to forget the memories of our flame. Running away from Pandora’s tragic box, Irrelevant hope in fixing all those cracks, No hope in miracles, no hope in bliss, Tampered memories, ending with a kiss. How I miss the moments we were together, I yearn for the walks in a foggy weather, No more soft hands that I hold so tender, Even that chaotically structured hair, I remember! Unspoken emotions behind those light brown eyes, Nostalgic visions of your laughs, grunts and sighs, I remember how you used to cuddle me, Vestigial love killed by a malevolent destiny. Every promise I made to you won’t cease, Right in this very place where we found our peace, Strapped on a promise, I pray for you happiness Even if I descent to an ineffable madness.

"It is not our abilities, but our choices that make us who we are."   -Albus Dumbledore This quote, simple in its elegance, conceals a deeper truth about the interplay between potential and action. Abilities—those latent talents and skills—are akin to seeds waiting for the touch of an artist's hand. They hold the promise of what we might become. Yet, it is our choices, those conscious acts of will, that determine whether these seeds will blossom into something extraordinary or remain dormant. Consider the sculptor before a block of marble. The marble is a vessel of potential, a silent monolith that can either remain as it is or be transformed into a masterpiece. The sculptor’s abilities might be vast, but without the deliberate choice of where to chisel, the marble’s latent beauty remains trapped. In this sense, we are both the marble and the sculptor of our own lives, our essence shaped by the choices we make—or fail to make. But what is the true nature of choice? Is it ...

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...

Six cups deep, caffeine thrumming like a restless pulse beneath my skin, I’m drowning in the endless scroll—the modern séance for distracted souls. And there it is: Plato’s whisper, half-buried in the noise, trying to stitch the fragments of an ancient truth back into the light. “Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature...” I freeze. Not a casual pause, but a sudden stop where thought crashes, and the heart clenches—uninvited. Soulmates. The word swells and buckles under the weight of all the longing it carries. Does such a thing live outside the dreamscape we paint it in? I’m not sure. Honestly, I’m not sure about much, but the void between uncertainty and hope pulls me in like a magnet. The idea of one perfect match—like a key fitting a lock, jagged edges aligned in quiet certainty—sounds almost too simple. As if we’re halves, unfinished sculptures searching fo...