Fragments of the Quiet Mind

It always starts with a broom. Not a better policy. Not a more efficient process. Just… a broom. Or a new shelf. Or a bright red label that screams “TAPE HERE” like that’s going to fix systemic inefficiency. We call it 7S. I call it performance art for the underpaid and over-managed. In my current workplace, 7S has become our favorite illusion of progress. We polish our tables like it’ll reflect competence. We realign folders like it realigns priorities. We proudly display our “before and after” photos as if anyone asked. Meanwhile, the actual deliverables? Delayed. Disjointed. Disregarded. We aren’t improving systems—we’re decorating dysfunction. There was a time last week when I spent an entire afternoon watching coworkers argue over the font size of cabinet labels. Not the report deadlines, not the implementation gaps—just labels. And I realized: we’ve turned 7S into a religion. Not of discipline, but of distraction. Let’s be honest. Nobody dares question it anymore. To cha...

No one warns you that choosing a toothbrush can feel like choosing a version of yourself. Aisle 7. Fluorescent lights. Hundreds of bristles staring back at you. Soft, medium, charcoal-infused, biodegradable. Every choice is a quiet manifesto: who you’ve been, who you’re becoming, who you quietly promised to be after your last breakdown. You don’t say this aloud, of course. You just stand there, pretending to read labels, but really you’re grieving something. Maybe time. We outgrow people the same way we outgrow objects — silently, then all at once. The old brush sits in your bathroom like a relic—worn out, bent at the neck, holding morning rituals and midnight guilt. Throwing it away feels cruel. Not because it’s useful, but because it knew you when you weren’t. It was there the morning after you said too much. The night you didn’t say enough. It held silence between your teeth. Even the most ordinary objects become archives when you’re paying attention. And this new one—this seem...

Last night i was scrolling through my feed, watching friends share grief after grief—losses, heartbreaks, moments that should have made us gather, cry together, hold each other close. Instead, all I did was tap a heart emoji under each post, one after another, like I was ticking off some empathy checklist. I felt this strange disconnect. Was that really me caring? Or just a shadow of it? It hit me then—this paradox we live with every day. We’re more connected than ever, but somehow the caring feels hollow. The digital world teaches us to perform empathy in tiny clicks and quick comments, but it rarely lets us be there. The silence, the awkwardness, the weight of someone else’s pain—those don’t translate well through a screen. I keep asking myself: When did empathy become a set of symbols? When did “I’m here for you” turn into an emoji? There’s something unsettling about caring that feels rehearsed, like a script we all read but don’t fully understand. It’s empathy reduced to conven...

It always starts the same: light through blinds, the click of the kettle, the soft groan of plumbing. You don’t realize you’re building a ritual until the ritual disappears. Then suddenly, the absence has shape. My old apartment had a window that faced nothing special—just a brick wall, faded graffiti, a stubborn weed that grew through concrete. I used to stare at it while waiting for the toaster to pop. I never thought I’d miss that view. But now, it visits me uninvited. In sterile hotel rooms. In the blur between meetings. In the quiet moments before a notification chimes. We think we miss people or places. Sometimes, what we miss is the version of ourselves that existed in those hours we never thought to notice. Mornings are forgettable by design. They're repetition, maintenance, routine. But there's something sacred in their silence. The way the world is half-asleep, and so are you. No performance yet. No crisis. Just the click of a spoon against ceramic and the low hum ...

Hope works best in the morning. It’s a new day, fresh start, new beginning – hoping that the rest of the day be filled with life.  It’s inexplicably soothing to sit for a couple of minutes and stare at the morning scene, how a once dead atmosphere is slowly being filled with life.  The change of immobility to dynamism – from death to life. It’s like this stargazer lily that I have, it’s amazingly epic to see the buds start to bloom. It’s the same case when I open a new document in my laptop as I wake up. As I stare at this meaningless blank page, I let my heart flow and do its art (if I may call my writing an art).  The words reverberate and stumble with one another, seducing my mind, intoxicating the very core of my being and I notice my jaws doing their usual involuntary movement. The only sound I'm hearing is the clickety clacks and tickety tacks of the keyboard – fueling my heart with warm fires of passion in this cold weather, dripping blood from my spirit, resurgi...

As I strolled through the sunlit streets of our neighborhood, feeling the gentle warmth of the morning,  a familiar figure came into view—the "Kuya" with his Taho cart. His presence, though seemingly modest, represented a ri tual woven into the fabric of daily life, transforming the ordinary into something profoundly reflective.   "Manong" has been a comforting part of the neighborhood’s daily rhythm  which made this supposed morning walk into a moment of quiet reflection. The Taho he sold was more than just a treat. It was a small, sweet indulgence that combined silken tofu with rich caramel syrup, offering a fleeting but genuine comfort. The steam rising from each cup seemed to promise a moment of warmth and simplicity amidst the busy pace of life.   What struck me most was the deeper role of  "Manong"  as he engaged in this daily ritual. His smile, warm and genuine, was not just a courteous gesture but a bridge connecting him to the lives of those ...

Grief isn’t loud anymore. It used to be—a crash, a howl. Now it’s quiet. Familiar. It moves like steam from a mug, or the sound of a drawer opening where nothing’s been touched in months. It shows up in the little things. The second plate you don’t reach for. A song you skip because the first note ruins you. The way you almost say their name, then don’t. Not out loud. At first, I thought grief was the crying. The breaking. But what stays isn’t dramatic. It’s the soft ache of remembering during breakfast. The moment you laugh, then stop. Because how dare you. But also—what else can you do? Some days it’s lighter. Some days it floors you, out of nowhere. Like in line at the grocery store when you see their favorite cereal. Or when you’re folding laundry and realize you don’t have to fold theirs . It’s strange—how absence takes up space. It feels like they’re just in another room. Like if you waited long enough, they might walk in and say something dumb. Or brilliant. Or both. You c...

The day creeps in before the world has fully exhaled its night, suspended in that fragile breath between darkness and light—where dawn is not a promise but a question carved from silence. To rise before the sun is to challenge inertia itself, a quiet rebellion against time’s slow erasure. Every morning is a gamble with oblivion. Here, the mundane is not mere habit but a sacred ritual—each motion a stitch in the fragile fabric of being. The boiling water hisses its impatience, caught between warmth and rupture, comfort and confrontation. It is the human condition— torn between the safety of the known and the terror of becoming. To engage with the world is to stand on the razor’s edge of vulnerability, to carry the weight of endless possibility in a single breath. Sunrise bleeds crimson and blue across the sky, a daily fresco of impermanence. Nothing holds still; even light is a restless traveler. What we see is always incomplete, an illusion crafted by shadows hiding truths just be...

It was supposed to be a simple Sunday—a light, breezy day where life just flows, no plans, no structure. You know the type: the kind where spontaneity is your guide, nudging you in whichever direction the wind blows. After a satisfying run in the rain—my body alive with the rhythm of the droplets—I found myself wandering toward the cathedral. Not because I had to, but because something deep within me craved that connection to something larger than myself. Spiritual, not religious—that’s the badge I wear. I just wanted to pray. Just wanted to whisper my thoughts into the vastness, to reach out to that elusive spirit that weaves through everything, binding us all. But when I arrived, I was greeted by a tarp—a drab banner of rules pretending to be divine law. "Dress codes," it proclaimed, like some sartorial decree. “No shorts, no sleeveless tops,” it warned, as if God had suddenly developed a taste for high fashion. Seriously? Instead of communion with the divine, I turned on m...