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 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...

There’s a specific kind of shame I feel when I’m not doing anything. Not just laziness. Not procrastination. Something quieter. Something more existential. Like I’m betraying the invisible boss I carry in my chest. The other day, I laid on my back for an hour. Just... laid there. No productivity podcast humming in the background. No stretching to justify it as “restorative.” I watched the ceiling peel in silence and felt like I was doing something wrong. Like the world was moving without me and I was failing to keep up. The guilt didn’t come from outside—it was internal, insidious. A ghost of every achievement post I’ve ever scrolled through. Because the grind doesn’t clock out. Even when you do. We talk about rest like it’s a reward. A treat after obedience. But I’m starting to think real rest—the unearned kind—is dangerous. At least in a world like this. A world that romanticizes burnout with cute mugs that say “Rise & Grind” and calendars that look more like confessionals...

The other night, I sat alone in the kitchen, reheating leftover rice and eggs, the kind of meal that tastes like nothing but fills you anyway. The silence wasn’t heavy — just there, like an old friend who doesn’t need to speak. I didn’t do anything extraordinary that day. No breakthrough, no milestone, not even a witty reply to a text. Just dishes, emails, socks that don’t match, and a sky that forgot to impress. But there, in that unremarkable moment, something settled in me. A quiet knowing. That I might never write a masterpiece. Might never be remembered by strangers or quoted in someone’s wedding vows. And maybe — maybe that’s okay. We spend so much time trying to matter loudly. As if worth needs a witness. As if love only counts when it’s performed. But some days are just meant to be lived, not captured. Some joys come in lukewarm cups of coffee and inboxes with no emergencies. And maybe that’s the rebellion — choosing softness over spectacle. There’s a kind of courage in waki...

Ang karakter ng isang tao ay di nabubuo in an instant, kundi ito’y nakakamit sa pamamagitan ng mahabang proseso at mas mahaba habang pasensya.  Sa pagbuo ng isang matatag na karakter, kalakip nito ang kawalan, heartaches na nakakapang-emo, masasakit na aral at syempre sandamakmak na kamalian.  Mangilan ngilan lamang ang mga taong kilala kong may malakas na karakter dahil di lahat ay nagnanais makaramdam ng sakit. Ang pinakamagandang istorya ay isinilang mula sa  hindi maipintang dusa at ang pinaka appreciated na pagkapanalo ay yung mga winning moments mo na iniluwal mula sa pasakit. Kanina habang nagkakape, meron akong isang former student na isa na ding instructor ngayon (yehey so proud of her!). Nakiupo sya sa pwesto ko at sabing: “Sir, ibang iba kasi karakter mo kapag nagtuturo ka. Gusto kong gayahin estilo mo.” Bigla kong namiss ang pagtuturo. Mag iisang taon na din pala akong atrophic and I am struggling to make sense of this fudging world.  Habang nag iisip, ...

Ito siguro ang tanging bagay na ayaw ko tuwing Disyembre. Kung di man reunion ng batchmates, reunion naman ng pamilya ni misis ang magaganap. Every 3 years nagkakaroon ng grand reunion ang kanyang mga relatives at sa tuwing ito’y mangyayari, atubili ang lahat ng tao sa pagbili ng mamahaling damit na isusuot, make up dito at doon na parang kasal ang pupuntahan. Ito ang panahong magsisiuwian mula sa iba’t ibang bansa ang mga sosyalerang titos at titas – na sa pag uwi, wala naman talagang pinag uusapan kundi kung gaano sila mas naka aangat sa inyo. Ganoon naman yata talaga, ang sistema ng pagtingin sa kagalingan ng isang tao ay nababase sa dami ng digits sa iyong payslip. Sa malas nga lang, mas madami pa ang digits ng loan ko kesa sa income, at syang dahilan kung bakit ako’y isa lamang langgam sa paningin nila. (o di kaya, pulgas) Ang sukatan ay wala sa abilidad. Oo, sabihin na nating artist ka, writer, poet, musikero, subalit ano bang kwenta nito sa kanila? Ang mahalaga ay kung mama...

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...