Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Araw ng mga Bayani is the last Monday in August. You blink and it’s gone. One day. One flag emoji. Maybe a parade if you're in the right city or have a cousin in the military. Maybe not even that. But June? June is a full-blown event. It’s loud and layered and bright enough to make even the grocery store feel like it’s trying to come out. Thirty whole days of rainbow merch, playlists, themed drinks, hashtags, and heated arguments online. And I started wondering—not accusing, not judging, just… wondering. Why does the nation give a day to the people who died for its freedom… but a whole month to those still trying to live in it? I’m not saying Pride shouldn’t exist. I think there’s something beautiful about people finally being allowed to celebrate parts of themselves that used to get them hurt—or worse, made invisible. We live in a world that once forced queerness underground, so when it comes out dancing, yeah, let it dance. But it still feels strange that the people who died...

Once there was a candle, Confidence manifested in its sturdy built, A wax so thick, Coating an immaculate wick, Hiding inside the waxy mask, A recurring question constantly asked, A Decision has to be made, One so absurd – yet gratifying One so tragic – yet transforming, To taste the sap of immortality? Or to bask in the fire that kills it softly? A Living flame, impossible to resist, A spark that was made to exist, Blazing, enchanting, fiery unison Bold, scorching, fervent affection, Unable to control the eudaimonic destruction, Lost in the oblivion of synchronistic manifestations, Melting wax… Face the facts… Wicked wick waggling wishes then wane Hopeless heart hunting happy heat under the cold rain.

  They say to wake is to step into chaos. To exist, not merely to be. But what of those who remain cradled in the safety of sleep, lost to the quiet hum of dreams, untouched by the gnawing of truth? In a world that insists on slumber, wakefulness becomes a rebellion. To truly see is to confront the unbearable weight of reality — and few dare carry it. Most would rather fade into the comfort of illusion, where the world bends to the sweetness of their fantasies. But to be awake, to shake free from the shackles of the false comfort, is to become a stranger to the familiar. A wanderer in a land that asks for blindness and docility. The conflict lies in the tension: the dreaming world versus the one that burns with raw, unfiltered life. The soul, awake, is a battlefield. Each moment of clarity a war against the numbness. Each step forward a rejection of the lullaby that seeks to lull us back to sleep. This is the paradox of wakefulness. The more we see, the less we are understood. Th...

Before we can construct anything that endures, we must first dissolve what we once were. It’s the paradox that runs through the very marrow of creation— nothing that is worth anything survives its first death. This is not the death of the body, but the destruction of the ego’s illusions, the slow collapse of our fantasies into the ruin of reality. Only when the old skin falls away, shredded and torn by the unrelenting passage of time, can the new emerge—scarred, remade, but alive in ways it could never have been before. In the quiet aftermath of disintegration, in the hollow echo of what was, lies the fertile soil of something pure. The self, as it is known, must die, for only in that grave of identity can we plant the seeds of something real , something unburdened by the weight of who we thought we were. Creation is never an act of construction—it is an act of surrendering the false, the pretended, the illusory, until only the core remains, raw and unprotected. We fear the coll...

There is a peculiar sort of modern courage, one that is bent not on facing the abyss, but in avoiding its presence altogether. It’s the courage to look away, to create comfort and shelter, to craft a world where suffering is stifled, avoided, and anesthetized. But what if the pain we fear is the very catalyst for the growth we desire? What if the deepest well of transformation is carved not by careful chisels of comfort, but by the jagged edges of struggle? Pain, in its rawest form, is the hammer that shapes the soul. We are born into a world that constantly asks us to stretch—to grow, to break free from the comforts of our immediate surroundings and engage with something greater, more complex. But how often we shy away from it! How often we pursue the quiet hum of distraction, the soft embrace of what feels familiar. We retreat into well-worn paths, clinging to the illusion of peace. Yet in doing so, we lose the essence of who we are meant to be. The modern condition is one of strat...

Nakikinita ko mula sa aking pagkakaupo ang mga anino ng mga puno na nagsasayaw sa ilalim ng init na dulot ng haring araw. Sa isa naming dako, nakikita ko ang buwan.  Nakakatuwa, umaga na pero napakaliwanag padin ng glow nya. Rippled thoughts –  mga saloobing iniisip at pinapakiramdaman, mga ideyang di ko ma-organize dahil di ko mahanap kuneksyon… subalit, kailangan kong maisalawalat bago ko maubos itong unang tasa ng kape. Bakit mas maganda ang buwan sa gabi?  Ano nga kaya misteryo sa likod nito?  Pero teka, bakit buwan pa din topic ko?  Isip isip isip… hinahayaang mag flow ang mga ideya at saka ko na lang eto hahabulin mamaya. Kapag sinabi kong ako’y isang pilosopo, maniniwala ba kayo? Katotohanan isang napaka delicate na topic.  Lahat ng pwedeng malaman ng isang tao ay half truths lamang at mas madalas kaysa hindi, yung natitirang kalahati ay naitatago.  Tulad ng dark side of the moon. Yung lighted side lang ang tangi nating nakik...