Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Araw ng mga Bayani is the last Monday in August. You blink and it’s gone. One day. One flag emoji. Maybe a parade if you're in the right city or have a cousin in the military. Maybe not even that. But June? June is a full-blown event. It’s loud and layered and bright enough to make even the grocery store feel like it’s trying to come out. Thirty whole days of rainbow merch, playlists, themed drinks, hashtags, and heated arguments online. And I started wondering—not accusing, not judging, just… wondering. Why does the nation give a day to the people who died for its freedom… but a whole month to those still trying to live in it? I’m not saying Pride shouldn’t exist. I think there’s something beautiful about people finally being allowed to celebrate parts of themselves that used to get them hurt—or worse, made invisible. We live in a world that once forced queerness underground, so when it comes out dancing, yeah, let it dance. But it still feels strange that the people who died...

I used to own this small potted plant I kept by the window.  I don't remember its name—some hardy, leafy thing they said wouldn’t die easily. I believed them. That was the first lie. Or maybe the first faith. I never really watered it. Not on purpose. Not out of malice. Just... I got busy. Or I thought the sunlight was enough. Or I told myself I’d do it tomorrow, and tomorrow kept moving without me. Strange, how we forget to care for the things we once chose. Eventually, the leaves curled in, quietly. No protest. No drama. Just a slow folding, like a secret being buried alive. And still, I left it there. Watching.  Witnessing.  Me, in all my distractions. And it makes me wonder—what else have I left thirsty? What else did I promise life to, only to offer absence? Sometimes I think about legacy—not in the grand, carved-in-marble kind of way, but in the intimate, quiet ruins we leave behind. The forgotten promise to a hopeful person that we didn't really gave much thou...

In the chamber of somber memories, I beheld my father in slumber's embrace, A visage I wish not etched within my mind, For what solace lies in witnessing his plight? Once, I saw him a titan, a superhero grand, A notion familiar to all sons and daughters. When Bruce Banner turned green, a raging Hulk, I sought refuge beneath sheets, assured he'd shield me. He, adorned with strength, my idol and guide, Save for his eccentric fashion sense of yore, Mustache, flared pants, and vibrant floral shirts, A 70's action star in a modern world. But youth's embrace transformed my path, Adolescent fervor engulfed my soul, A rockstar's spirit beckoned my rebellious stance, Drenched in disdain for the world's unfolding. In my misguided conviction of rock and roll, I distanced myself, heaping blame upon his name, As if he were the root of all my misfortune, A prisoner in a realm where friends were solace. Together we embarked on explorations grand, Fueling curiosity with bound...