Fragments of the Quiet Mind

It’s not the knife that breaks you. It’s the hand you thought would never hold one. I’ve had people talk behind my back. I’ve been insulted, excluded, underestimated. I’ve had strangers throw shade, coworkers act petty, random people online say stupid things. It stings for a second, but I forget about it by the next day. Because honestly, I expect that from people who don’t know me. Who have no investment in who I am. It doesn’t really get in. But what stays—the thing I carry—isn’t from enemies. It’s from people I trusted.  And it always catches me off guard. Every single time. Because you never expect it from them . The ones you let in. The ones who knew your soft spots. The ones who said, “I’m here, always.” The people who didn’t just know your story—they were in it. And then, somehow, they become the ones who hurt you in ways no stranger ever could. It’s never loud. It’s not some explosive betrayal with dramatic exits and slammed doors. No, it’s quieter than that. It’s the u...

There are goodbyes that shatter, and then there are silences that echo. Not all endings announce themselves. Some just slip quietly into the background — like static you stop noticing until you realize the music’s been gone for a while. No slammed doors, no explanations. Just a gradual erasure, like watching ink fade from a letter you read too many times. You keep checking your phone, not because you expect a message, but because some part of you still hopes silence can be broken like a fever. Unspoken words hang heavier than shouted ones. The things we never said take on lives of their own — mutating into doubts, rewrites, what-ifs. You rehearse arguments you'll never have, play both sides until you forget which one was yours. And isn’t that the cruelty of silence? That it offers no shape to mourn, no moment to collapse against? Just a formless absence where meaning used to live. Closure is a myth we invented to survive unfinished stories. But silence — silence tells you there was...

Over rated na ang relationships…   As usual, nakatambay nanaman ako dito sa isang tahimik na coffee shop/bar na hilig kong tambayan pag nais kong magsulat. Mag iisang oras na din ako sa kinauupuan ko nung narinig kong nasabi ito nung babae dun sa katabing table. Isang grupo sila ng mga college students (I think) na mukhang inumaga na sa celebration. Alas 7:00 palang and either it’s too early or too late depending on how you see it, the point is, nag iinuman padin sila. Madami dami din ang boteng nakahilera sa kanilang table at madami na din ang naipong walang laman dun sa ilalim ng table kasama ng mga upos ng sigarilyong kung saan saan na lang itinapon. Hindi naman sa chismoso ako at nakikinig sa kanilang usapan, pero kung ang mga katabi mo ay nakainom na, di maiiwasang di marinig kanilang pinagsasabi. Ganyan siguro mga lasing, akala mo nakalunok ng megaphone at kung magsalita animo’y nasa kabilang bundok yung mga kausap nila. Tatlong babae at dalawang lalaki ang nasa kabil...

Nakaka… ...Panibago ...Lito ...bato… Palagi na lang bang ganito? Mga alaalang pilit bumabalik Tulad ng Tubig Umaagos ng tahimik Dumadaloy Tumatahak Pumapatak. Mga oras, araw, buwan binalot ng karimlan Ilaw sa kadiliman Muli bang masasaksihan? Panahong tinikman sikretong kasiyahan Ikaw at ako Tila Dugong dumadaloy Nagbibigay... ng buhay... ng Pag-asa... ng Sakit... Sa isat isa Mga araw at gabing naglalakad masayang magkasama may halong pangamba Nalulunod sa salita At mga pangakong Itinali sa mga tala. Ngayon Kailangang lunukin ang pagdurusa Nag iisa Hapdi ng Alaala Wasak na pusong di na maaayos pa. Pag gising sa umaga, Nangangamba Ako kaya'y Naaalala mo pa?

In the dark, silent hours of the night, As I cling to a bottle of solace, My heart speaks with a resounding voice, Echoing louder than the world's noise.   I could shatter a picture frame with force, Reduce it to fragments of shattered glass, But the agony that consumes my soul, Beats with a heavy, incessant pulse.   I could burn every memory to ash, Watch them vanish into wispy smoke, But the pain in my chest persists, Refusing to leave or be revoked.   I could erase her height from the wall, Efface every trace of her existence, But the void that she left behind, Is an indelible wound that resists.   I could beat a punching bag until it breaks, Until bruises cover every inch of skin, But the ache within my shattered heart, Is a battle that I simply can't win.   I could spend an entire day with a friend, Wrenching sobs from my chest until my voice is gone, But the magnitude of my loss remains, A weight that...

There really are certain songs that has the ability to dig deep  and when it hits you, you become one with the song. It’s like a shovel breaking the surface of buried truths . For one, “Snuff” by Corey Taylor has this feeling that pulls me into a fog, weaving an intricate web of unspoken memories and hidden regrets. It’s like a haunting echo that just won’t fade. As the first line goes:  “Bury all your secrets in my skin,”  I can feel the weight of those unaddressed fragments pressing against my mind. It takes me back to past relationships—those bright sparks that once lit up my world but eventually dimmed into shadows, leaving scars behind. Those sparks that dwindled into darkness, which often makes me wonder where I went wrong. I’ve clung to the idea that love could fill that aching void, only to realize it often resembles a cruel mirage—always just out of reach. And then there’s that line, “Love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage.”   It hits hard. Really...

Let’s begin with the obvious: some of us were simply built different. And by different, I mean wired to fall in love with people who treat us like foot rugs from NOVO—slightly discounted, questionably stitched, and always replaceable. You'd think we’d aim for warmth, tenderness, a hint of decency. But no. Our emotional GPS reroutes straight to the nearest emotionally unavailable person, preferably with a tragic backstory and 13 unread messages from us. We love them because they don’t clap when we win, they don’t check if we ate, and they only reply with “k.” In short, ideal partner material . Psych majors call it anxious attachment. Your tita calls it “ kulang ka lang sa palo .” But we know the truth: it’s probably our inner child cosplaying as a martyr. Some of us were not raised with affection; we were raised with conditional love and jokes that hurt a little too specifically during family reunions. We say things like: “but I see their potential” or  “they’re just going throu...

Some voices stay long after they’ve left the room. They cling—not like perfume, not like memory, but like smoke in the throat. Invisible. Unshakable. The kind that turns soft when you’re alone and vicious when you're trying to sleep. I heard someone say my name yesterday. Not really, not meant for me. Just a stranger in a crowd calling out to someone else who happened to have the same syllables stitched into their skin. And yet—my whole body paused. Like a bone remembering where it once broke. It’s terrifying how voices live inside us. Not the words—they blur over time. But the tone . The way a person says “stay” like they mean “leave.” The way someone says “I’m fine” through gritted teeth you once kissed. These aren’t things you forget. They become background static, humming beneath the everyday noise. I carry so many voices inside me it’s hard to tell which are still real. There’s a certain violence in soft words. I think about that often. How someone once said “take care” ...

There was something cinematic about my collapse. You know the kind. The aching stare into space. The playlist suddenly making sense. Ashtrays filling up like metaphors. That slow descent where even your breath feels like dialogue from a French indie film. You can romanticize that. You can write about that. But healing? Healing is brushing your teeth. Again. It's drinking water when it doesn't taste like anything. It’s putting your phone down because there’s nothing to say and nothing to scroll for. It’s the slow erosion of the version of you that needed chaos to feel alive. No one writes songs about oatmeal. No one makes a montage out of "I got out of bed today." You sit in silence. You count breaths. You rearrange the furniture hoping something inside moves with it. And yet—this is where life actually begins again. Not at the peak of the heartbreak, but somewhere on the third Tuesday after it, when you realize you haven't cried in a week and you’re not sure h...