Fragments of the Quiet Mind

May bahid kabaliwang pumapasok sa isipan sa tuwing ang tulog sa gabi ay di nakakamit.  Madalas, inaalala ang napanaginipan sa katatapos na gabi habang pinapakiramdaman ang malamyang ihip ng hangin na dumadampi sa mga pisngi. Di maiiwasan na ang kaabikat nito ay ang kalungkutang makikita sa mahinahong sayaw ng mga dahon sa awiting mapangaraping kaluluwa lang ang nakakasaksi. Sa pangarap sila’y padipang naipako –Pilit inaabot ang panaginip subalit lumulutang sa kawalan ang pag-asang masilayan pa ito… dahil sa pangangarap, pikit kanilang mga mata. Sa pagkakapikit, idinuduyan sila palayo sa realidad at patungo sa kapayapaang dulot ng kahimbingan… Kabaliwan… At lango sa katahimikang Kadiliman lang ang makapag bibigay.

I went to the mall one sunny-rainy-sunny afternoon (if you are from Baguio, you will definitely understand what I mean by this) with one goal in mind: PAY THE BILLS. I did not expect the number of people pressed along an unbelievably long line from the cashier. I seriously hate long lines and at that moment, I felt trapped. I wanted to go away but I can't. I have no choice but wait.  While standing and being on queue, I can't help but wonder and dwell inside the confines of my thoughts. This practically is my way of surviving this impatience building up. Once more, I started looking at faces, movements and reactions of people with me at the line. I was looking at how they deal with boredom. Most of them were busy with their cell phones, some were taking selfies, others were checking their social media accounts and some talking with their companions as they fall in line. Anyway, what tickles my attention is when people are already at the counter, I notice that everyt...

Creation is not a performance—it is a necessity. We create not to be seen, but because there is something within us that insists on becoming. Something unnamed. Something unsummoned, but persistent. Most people mistake destruction for power, yet it is restraint that reveals true strength. To destroy is easy—it is passive entropy. But to build something from silence, to shape what isn’t there into what now is—that’s where the divine whispers. And most days, we lack the patience for divinity. Creative expression, at its core, is a private rebellion. It is the unseen ritual of those who refuse to be boxed in, labeled, or diagrammed. We mask our truths in metaphors, hide behind pseudonyms, not to deceive, but to breathe freely. The world demands clarity. We answer with riddles. I’ve never felt compelled to explain myself. Not because I am proud, but because explanations waste energy—and energy, once distorted, rarely returns intact. This world spins with commentary. Silence is my protes...

Am I crazy? Probably. Mad for hunting happiness like a ghost in a hall of mirrors. Lunatic, fixated on the moon—this divine itch I can’t scratch. Crazy enough to enter the labyrinth knowing every turn tightens the noose, knowing the path back is steeper, darker, more broken. Yet this place — my fractured kingdom — is brutal, raw, and utterly beautiful. So damn beautiful it makes logic seem like exile. I built this asylum and it hums with a strange stillness, a playground of beasts, shadows, and myth, and somehow I belong, like a relic resurfaced from another lifetime. I want this rabbit hole to be the real escape. That the Mad Hatter and White Rabbit aren’t just fantasies, that waking up isn’t the cruelest plot twist. Sometimes I think sleep is the real world— where conversations unravel freely from physics to philosophy, where masks drop, where I’m stripped of pretense. This place alone feels like home. The labyrinth is a puzzle—harsh, complex, relentless— I stumble, fall, rise, ...