Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Funny how life casts you in roles you never auditioned for. Me? Always the background character — the reliable extra who’s there, but never quite seen . Like a houseplant nobody remembers to water but somehow still alive. I hold the umbrella when no one wants to get wet, carry groceries nobody remembers, and pop up just in time to fix problems — then disappear faster than free food at a meeting. It’s a strange kind of existence: essential, but uncredited. Honestly, I’m beginning to think my superpower is perfecting the art of invisibility... or maybe just excellent at hiding behind the snacks. Sometimes I wonder if I’m secretly an invisible superhero. Not the cape-wearing kind — more like the person who makes sure the coffee’s brewed and the Wi-Fi doesn’t throw a tantrum. Meanwhile, the spotlight hits, and I’m already offstage, watching from the wings — probably scrolling through my phone pretending to be busy. Exhausting, really. But maybe that’s the point — being background means ...

I used to think the universe was out to get me. Not in a dramatic, lightning-strikes-twice kind of way, but in the quiet, petty way it forgets to answer your prayers and lets your socks vanish in the dryer. You know, the small stuff that feels personal even though it obviously isn’t. Eventually, I stopped waiting for signs. Stopped thinking the traffic light was red because I needed to slow down metaphorically. Maybe it was just red. Maybe the universe wasn’t teaching me anything—it just was. Motionless in its vastness, humming its own tune, not even aware I existed. And weirdly, that helped. There’s a strange relief in realizing no one’s scripting your life behind the curtain. That fate isn’t micromanaging your heartbreaks or curating your triumphs like some cosmic film editor. Things just… happen. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you don’t. And it’s not personal. It never was. But that doesn’t mean it’s meaningless. You can still assign meaning. Stitch it into the fabric of or...

1.  Hindi ang pagsisimba kada Linggo o ang pagdarasal kada oras ang basehan ng pagiging mabuting tao kundi kung papaano ang aplikasyon ng pananalig at pananampalataya ng tao sa kanyang pamumuhay. Ang pananalig ay di nakikita kung gaano kalaki ang loyalty mo sa religion mo kundi kung gaano kalalim ang connection mo sa pinaniniwalaan mo . Hindi lamang sa simbahan maaring makita ang Maykapal kundi ito’y makikita rin sa atin kalooban. Minsan kailangan lang nating manahimik saglit at makinig, eventually, mararamdaman din natin yung connection. 2. " The universe is not made up of atoms, it is made up of tiny stories " ika nga ni Joseph Gordon-Levitt  sa kanyang children's book na the Tiny book of Tiny Stories, sabayan pa natin ng "The world is made up of facts, not of things" na sinabi ng pilosopong si Wittgenstein sa kanyang Tractatus. Napaka radikal na sabihing ang pisikal na anyo ng mundo ay walang katotohanan, di naman yan ang punto. Maganda ding pagisipan na s...

As I ran in this cold early morning with the wind flowing through my hair, the mist and the sweat mixing together in a health hazardous unity (pneumonia). The sun isn’t up yet and I can still see the dark sky filled with stars, I am left dumbfounded with a realization as I was staring at the universe above me. My dreams are so ‘ostentatious’ and ‘grand’, or so I thought but those dreams mean everything to me… perhaps, I look at things based on my subjective egocentric perspective and that it’s actually not me staring at the universe, but the universe enveloping my consciousness, pulling me closer to it’s majestic grandeur and vast oceanic mystery. It’s more logical to say that the universe is the one staring at me. I am just a tiny and insignificant creature whose dreams aren't as magnificent as I thought they were. I mean, I don’t matter to the universe, who am I to be noticed by it? I feel like an ant… struggling to be noticed, struggling to exist. or worse, i am an ...

To suddenly come to the realization that I bring nothing but pain and hatred... Is this because of the belief that  happiness is possible in a seemingly futile case?  In this futile attempt in trying to reach for dreams, we seldom think of consequences, and technically, we end up killing people close to us. I guess people have  to weed out all remaining hope in this utterly meaningless condition. In as much as this kills us, staying away is the most sane option. It’s as if the entirety of our situation where people once believed in the achievement of goals and dreams is now turning into a realistic nightmare where they are weighed down by their very definition of universal concepts regarding justice, love, hope, bliss and others – but the saddest thing is, people don’t actually agree with an objective perspective of how things are. Most often than not,  concepts are defined through people's pompous and subjective understanding of everything. What's worse is the stu...

There’s something sacred about revisiting old wounds, an ineffable truth to the passage of time that allows one to see what once was with a clearer, more tender eye. It’s been seven years since I last stood in these familiar hallways, and yet the sense of familiarity lingers as if time has frozen. But this return is not the reunion I imagined—it is instead marked by sorrow, filled with the chaotic rush of emotions as I navigate the corridors of memory and present. I had returned to this place for a reason I never thought I would—a hospital visit for my father, a moment that grounds me in a very different reality than the one I once inhabited. The school that nurtured my idealism now feels like a relic, a reminder of who I was—a young teacher still struggling to make sense of myself, my ideals, and my failures. I had come to this school as a fresh, wide-eyed soul with unshakable principles and an unwavering optimism, but life, as it often does, chipped away at the fortress of idealism...

This sign I give you: every people speaks its tongue of good and evil, which the neighbor does not understand. It has invented its own language of customs and rights.” ~ Nietzsche, 1892/1966,  Thus Spoke Zarathustra   (W. Kaufmann, Trans.), p. 49 Isn’t it fascinating how we all speak different languages when it comes to what we consider good and evil? Each person has their own unique set of values and beliefs, shaped by their experiences and background. Nietzsche was on to something when he said that every person speaks their own “tongue” of virtue and vice—clearly, he knew we’d be forever tangled in the mess of miscommunication. Picture this: you’re at a party, and someone hands you a drink. For you, it’s a sweet gesture of friendship. But for someone else, it’s like they’ve just handed you a live grenade. How did we get from “cheers” to “run for cover”? Because our moral languages are as different as ordering a coffee in Paris versus trying to decipher a secret menu at a din...

Do you hear the echoes, reverberating through the corridors of your mind? Memories, elusive and unforgiving, wrap their tendrils around your thoughts, playing a relentless game of hide and seek. Forgetting, they say, is the logical response to life's tragic joke. But perhaps, just perhaps, you spoke too soon. In the depths of your melancholic streaks, something stirred within you. Terrifying existential thoughts danced with ideas, casting a flickering light upon the shadows of your understanding. It's as if, in some peculiar way, you have been granted a glimpse of enlightenment, a fragment of comprehension in the vast tapestry of existence. Memories themselves do not inflict pain; it is our perception of them that does. The labels we attach—embarrassing, painful, blissful—those determine their weight. See, some souls cringe in utter humiliation at a person who stumbles down the stairs, while others doesn’t give a rat’s-ass and merely shrug on it. It is the lens ...

What’s the worth of utterly accepting life in all its’ pains and glories through complete surrender and having a full  Dionystic attitude? Does Nietzsche's ‘ amor-fati ’ justify the absence of regret and resentment?  In the first place, how should I begin with this rambling?  The answer perhaps, is through another question about regret and a pseudo-philosophical treatment of this. Such is life – too easy to say, yet indescribable in many aspects. It’s just difficult to understand it, additionally, it’s difficult to limit life into something that just randomly happens. We are thinkers and being such, we clamor for reasons behind everything. There SHOULD be a reason behind life and there must ABSOLUTELY BE A REASON for everything that’s happening. (without thinking we're just crazy to assume that there is a magnanimous ecclesiastical destiny that governs life) Life is maybe a very simple concept but was (and is) subjected to multiple definitions. I am even wond...

Most people hate philosophy. Not because it’s boring—but because of how it was shoved down their throats in school. You sit there, sixteen years old, half-asleep under flickering fluorescent lights, while someone drones on about metaphysics like it’s tax code for the soul. They toss around names like Descartes and Nietzsche like everyone grew up debating epistemology at the dinner table. And when you ask a question? They hand you more terms. More “frameworks.” More essays with footnotes. No wonder everyone bails on the first week. But here’s the thing no one tells you: philosophy isn’t dead words in old books. It’s the voice in your head at 2 a.m. asking, “What’s the point of all this?” It’s the moment you stare at your ceiling and realize you’re just a meat skeleton with WiFi, flailing through an uncaring cosmos. It’s real —more real than half the crap we learn for standardized tests. Philosophy isn’t about finding answers. It’s about learning how to sit with the questions withou...