Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Today I realized… ... That beautiful memories do not demand forgetting. They only ask to be touched gently, like a scar you’ve come to love. ... That Marlboro Gold tastes like dried sweet potato leaves—bitter, earthy, the kind of disappointment that reminds you you're still alive. Some truths don’t burn, they just wither. ... That silence is not emptiness. It's where wisdom blooms in the corners of the mouth that chose not to speak. There is grace in the unsaid. ... That too much care can drown the very thing you love. Like the stargazer lily I tried to keep alive—I watered it with good intentions, smothered it with tenderness. But love, without listening, kills softly. The wilt was not betrayal. It was instruction. ... That no matter how tightly you hold your pain behind a smile, someone will always see through it. Soulmates are not just found—they are the ones who see you and don’t flinch. You can’t wear masks around them. They were never fooled to begin with. ... That...

There are people who don’t look at you — they watch you. And there’s a difference. Looking is human. Watching is something else. It’s that strange hunger that lingers in the shadows of civility — quiet, but not kind. You can feel it in the silence between “how are yous” and the hollow click of a like that doesn’t mean I see you , but rather I’m keeping count. Watching, always watching — not out of care or curiosity, but calculation. They say envy is a mirror held by the weak. But no one warns you what it’s like to live under its gaze. There’s something profoundly unnerving about being perceived through someone else’s unfinished wounds. You become a reflection of everything they buried — their doubts, their failed chances, the versions of themselves they gave up on. And still, they watch. Not because they care who you are, but because they cannot bear that you’ve become something they didn’t have the courage to imagine for themselves. It’s not hatred, exactly. It’s fascin...

I walked home along a path I’ve memorized only through muscle and mistake. The trees—tall, quiet—didn’t whisper anything new, but they didn’t need to. Tonight felt unlike the others. The moon, usually indifferent, decided to throw a bone—some light. Enough to make out the green of coffee trees, the gleam of beany fruit, the patch of rusted metal meant to warn off snakes or trap them—hard to tell these days. I could see. That’s all. And in seeing, I began to unravel. Light—what a manipulative bastard. It offers clarity, but only under certain terms. Moonlight, in particular, is truth wrapped in a blue lie. Colors bend. Shadows pretend. And somehow, things feel more honest when half-concealed. Like people. They say it's all just photons—weightless things bouncing off matter. Physics wants us to believe it’s all random, probabilistic. That comfort of uncertainty. The Heisenberg lullaby. But I’ve never trusted comfort that comes too easily. How random is randomness, really? There a...

Sitting in the jeepney with my child, I found myself quietly observing the scene next to us—a mother with her own little one, perhaps six years old. Unlike my kid, who seems to have inherited a relentless curiosity, drilling down into every detail until the universe surrenders its secrets, this child sat silently, her eyes wandering around in a restless search for something to latch onto. Boredom, perhaps—a boredom she couldn’t quite contain. Every so often, she would ask her mother a question, her voice a soft interruption to the hum of the journey. “Ma, may baon na ba ako?” “Ma, nagbayad na tayo?” “Ma, bakit nagjeep lang tayo?” Simple, practical questions. And each time, the mother would respond with a brief nod or a shake of her head, her attention never fully leaving that small compact mirror she kept pulling out to pat her face with powder. It’s funny, isn’t it?  the things we notice when we let our minds wander?  There she was, clutching a designer bag, scrolling through...