Fragments of the Quiet Mind

On the freedom of not knowing where you're going—and not caring who sees. We walk as if we’re always headed somewhere. As if movement itself is the purpose. But what if not moving was the truest form of existence? To be lost is not to be absent, but to be fully present in the world’s unspoken chaos. It is the only place where you can truly hear yourself. There’s an odd kind of peace in being directionless. The world demands a map, a plan, a goal. But in that silence, that unknown, I feel a truth that others miss— that the journey itself is the destination . We rush toward an illusion, pretending that destination will give us meaning, but the truth is, meaning is found only in the wandering. When I stand in the middle of a crowd, I am a whisper among shouts. I am invisible and, yet, I have never been more real. People are too busy trying to place their feet on the right path, but I’m learning the path is nothing more than an arbitrary line drawn by those who fear getting lost. ...

I once felt proud for skipping sleep to finish a report. Thought it meant I was dedicated. Thought the bags under my eyes were merit badges, that my value could be measured in unread emails and caffeinated resolve. Someone even called me “inspiring” for it. It felt good. Until it didn’t. No one ever warns you that burnout doesn’t arrive like a storm—it creeps in like a whisper. You start forgetting birthdays. You eat meals with one hand, scrolling with the other. You hear a laugh and don’t remember the last time you made that sound. You mistake productivity for meaning. You mistake being needed for being loved. I used to think the grind was noble. Now I think it’s just well-marketed self-neglect. There's a quiet violence in how we've romanticized exhaustion. We give standing ovations to people who sacrifice everything except their deadlines. We confuse busyness with importance, and rest with weakness. We admire the person who never stops—but we never ask what they’re runnin...

It hit me in the middle of a Tuesday, eating reheated sinigang beside a cracked window and a dying plant I no longer had the guilt to water. The sun had that lazy 3PM slant, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to conquer anything. No new goal. No side hustle. No "next big thing." Just soup, soft silence, and the soft rot of my once-capitalized ambition. Once upon a time, I was starving for more—more recognition, more meaning, more numbers that moved up. I used to equate stillness with failure. Rest with regression. I wore burnout like a badge. I treated exhaustion like proof of my importance. They don’t tell you that ambition, unchecked, is just a prettier name for self-erasure. You wake up one day and realize you’ve been chasing a version of yourself that exists only in PowerPoint slides and LinkedIn bios. The cult of “potential” doesn’t believe in sabbath. It demands worship. Metrics. Motion. A productivity app for your soul. But what if I told you the most rebelli...

Tutal normal na lang ata ang humilata pag weekend at mag surf, manood or magdownload sa phone no? isang sabado, habang nagsusurf I decided to download some android games ( babala: wag magdodownload ng pirata– suportahan natin ang mga mukhang perang mga kapitalistang manufacturers at game programmers sa over priced games nila ) so pumunta ako sa isang sikat na forum para sa mga hackers.  Pagkatapos nakakita ng games , shift to super download mode at salamat sa PLDT dahil PAGKABILIS BILIS ng connection nila 😑😑😑.  While waiting, nag browse at napadpad ako dun sa literati section. Dahil wala namang magawa, inaliw ang utak sa pagbabasa ng original pieces na gawa ng mga tao dun sa forum. May mga poems, short stories at talaga namang mawawala ka sa realidad habang binabasa yung mga gawa nila. Ang nakakatuwa pa ay yung mga comments ng mga netizens at narealize kong sa comment pa lang pala, maaari mo ng masilip ang part ng personality at kung paano ang takbo ng utak ng bawat for...

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.

Sometimes, there are moments that just hit me, like a sudden gust of memories that reminds me of things I’ve tried to forget and perhaps hide in the compartments of my mind. Also, it’s in the stillness— in these calm, unguarded moments— all of it comes back to life. Before I know it, the weight of those memories hits me, pulling me into a space where I’m left standing at a crossroads, with nostalgia on one side and reality on the other, wondering how I ended up here, caught between what was and what could have been. Chasing dreams sometimes feels like balancing on a knife’s edge, and in the rush, I end up hurting those closest to me without even realizing it. I sometimes get so locked onto the goal that the quiet chaos I left behind slips right past me. It often feels like I am wandering through an endless maze, and with each turn, it feels like I’m losing pieces of the world I once thought I had figured out. What once shimmered with hope now feels distorted and distant. Justice and lo...

I never really liked commuting although I enjoy travelling. It’s weird, but what I mean by this is that, I don’t like the feeling of being inside of something. Enclosed, bounded and not doing anything – the feeling of being static while the world around you is moving. It’s not the speed, it’s the feeling of being able to go somewhere or achieve something without you exerting any effort but still getting that which you want to get.  It’s how I feel when I'm commuting, I just sit there then the next thing you know, you are already at your destination. What’s more than this perverted idea is perhaps because of this certain irrational fear that’s building up inside me whenever I’m inside a car, jeep, taxi or a van.  The stillness of the air inside the vehicle creates the very ground for my paranoid thoughts to germinate and breed. I find enclosed spaces fettering, but no, it’s not claustrophobia (because I don’t have issues with elevators), it’s just that riding makes me feel ir...

When twilight descends, as slumber draws near, 'Tis not the venomous words of foes that linger, But in the hush of companions, a cherished sphere. For in the depths of night's quiet embrace, The echoes of enmity slowly fade away, Replaced by whispers of friendship and grace. The wounds inflicted by adversaries' spite, Though painful and cruel in their transient might, Hold no lasting weight, no enduring might. Instead, 'tis the stillness of loyal hearts, The solace found in unspoken devotion, That etches itself upon memory's arts. When shadows dance and the world grows dim, The tender silence of friends speaks volumes, A symphony of trust and kinship within. So, as sleep beckons, reflect on this truth, That amidst life's trials and its endless bends, It's in the silence of friends, a treasure aloof.

Even the moon, in its pale brilliance, hangs distant in the night, a beacon for all those who have ever reached out and found only the cool, indifferent void between them. It watches silently as we spin, caught between the fragile hope that one day we might touch the unreachable and the bitter wisdom that our longing is bound to remain unfulfilled. There’s a strange kind of beauty in this distance, an unspoken harmony between the ache of yearning and the starkness of reality. And perhaps it is in this gap, between desire and the understanding that it may never be met, that the truest part of us is revealed. In this silence, we learn not only the shape of our dreams but the contours of our limitations. The moon, too, is a mirror of sorts—reflecting not what we have, but what we wish we could become, the version of ourselves that is somehow both close and unreachable. I think about vulnerability in these moments. How we stretch, reaching outward, hoping someone or something will bridg...

"Hollow Life" Beating the fall I can’t help but desire of falling down this time Deep in this hole of my making I can't escape Falling all this time We come to this place Falling through time  Living a hollow life Always we're taking Waiting for signs Hollow lives... Fearing to fall and  Still the ground below me calls Falling down this time Ripping apart all  These things I have tried to stop Falling all this time Is there ever any wonder why we look to the sky? Search in vain? Asking why? All alone? Where is God? Looking down? We don’t know? We fall in space,  We can't look down, Death may come  Peace I have found What to say?  Am I alive,  Am I asleep?  Or have I died? (Wanting Peace) We fall in space (Wanting Peace) We can't look down, Death may come, (Something takes a hold of me) Peace I have found  (Something takes a hold of me) I want ...

I once believed that no one could understand me, that my pain was mine alone, a sacred private wound no one could touch. This belief carried the weight of isolation, a shield against the world and its indifference. But, in truth, the arrogance of that thought is its own trap. It is not suffering that is private, nor understanding that belongs solely to the individual. Understanding, like truth, is born from reasoning, not from solitary pain. To claim ownership of understanding is to forget that truth is something shared—not a fortress to guard, but a bridge to cross. It’s easy to get lost in the duality of our lives—the physical world that demands our attention and the mental world that creates our reality. We draw lines between them, as if they were separate realms, but they are not. We are creatures of both, shaped by the tension between the two. Truth, in all its forms, is not something we possess. It is a communion, a moment of resonance between minds, fleeting but real. The ha...

The self-righteous-religious-fanatic who keeps on using the name of God in almost all her sentences and yet gossips about the life of others. A preacher who keeps on telling us about a merciful God and yet talks about punishment and how souls are hell-bound if ‘donations’ for the church are not made. (which gives me two points for reconsideration:  First, it’s an implicit way of saying that you must join their religion if you want to be saved,  and secondly, donations are defined with a specific percentage of your income.) ok, I don’t intend to wage a war against beliefs here, all I am trying to imply is that donations should be done wholeheartedly. Some does that, but I doubt if everyone really gives the ‘real’ percentage of their income.  Incidentally, faith without reason breeds mediocrity, and religions nowadays are doing the exact opposite of what Jesus preached. (or what they are really meant to do.) Quoting the song Holy Wars by Megadeth: Brothers will kill brot...

The power of the will.  I am always amazed by it. It’s glorious in fact as how ‘WILL’ can turn tides, shifting impossible feats to possible achievements. To change weaknesses to strengths require a lot of it.  Human beings have this insurmountable potent power within them that isn’t impossible to achieve as long as the will is there. Just imagine the limitless possibilities one can attain, the power once can muster, ah sweet will. Yesterday, I spent the entire day deeply thinking while watching the Green Lantern Animated Series. Literally, I was astounded with the development of the story. So we know that the power rings of the GLs are energized by WILL (as manifested by the green aura).  With it (will), they are able to create physical forms of anything that their mind can visualize. Constructs as they call it, they are able to make forms and appear in the physical plane through thinking.  Suddenly, a thought hit me. Humans are like these I guess, our will c...

The soul does not whisper—it starves or screams. All in between is the illusion of peace. In the silence between the soul’s starvation and its outcry, we find the illusion of quiet—an artificial stillness that keeps us from confronting the essential hunger of being. It’s in the cries we refuse to hear, the ones we bury beneath distractions, that the true self makes itself known. The peace we crave is often the peace we’ve made of compromise, a truce with our most uncomfortable truths. But peace, in this sense, is not reconciliation—it’s resignation. We imagine that the soul's desire can be satisfied by a soft murmur, by polite introspection. We overlook the primal scream that rises when we’ve neglected the body and spirit for too long. To experience truth is to starve, to let ourselves hunger for more than what the world offers—only then can we hear the scream that shatters the quiet. It is only when the soul’s yearning is left unchecked, when we are stripped of the comforts of ig...