Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There was this boy who used to sit alone on a rusted porch a few blocks from my childhood home. I don’t remember his name—just the stillness of him. Like he was holding his breath for a world that would never exhale. Some kids wear silence like a hoodie; he wore it like skin. People said his parents were “complicated,” which is adult code for we’d rather not get involved. He vanished sometime before junior year. No one asked where. It’s strange how easily a person can be erased just by not being wanted. Not hated, not bullied. Just… unchosen. And when someone goes unseen long enough, they begin to wonder if they were ever real. Lately, I think about him when I scroll past the headlines—another teenager radicalized online, another manifesto, another explosion of grief dressed as rage. People gasp, ask the same tired questions: How could this happen? Why didn’t anyone see the signs? But invisibility doesn’t leave signs. It leaves absence. We like to believe harm begins with intent. But i...

There you were again. Bittersweet. Mysterious. Smelling faintly of burnt hope and toasted almonds. I couldn’t place you, but somehow I already missed you. You arrived on a Tuesday — not a remarkable Tuesday, mind you. Just one of those limp, mid-tempo days that smelled faintly of budget cuts and existential dread. I found you sitting there, steam spiraling like a secret trying to escape, whispering things to my tired soul like: "You’ll survive this spreadsheet." "You are more than your inbox." "The meeting could’ve been an email." Was it your warmth that unraveled the corners of my anxiety? Or your bitterness — so artfully balanced, like heartbreak in a tuxedo? Loving you felt oddly familiar, like recognizing a skyline you’ve only ever seen in a dream. Or a crush on someone who doesn't exist — but has a Spotify playlist somehow eerily aligned with your breakup mood. I started timing my mornings around you. Measured my sanity by your pre...

Some ghosts wear zippers instead of faces. There was a time I couldn’t go anywhere without you. You were comfort on bad days, silence when words felt too sharp. You made cold mornings softer. Loneliness easier to carry. I didn’t question you. You were just there. Always. We went through everything together—late-night walks, grocery store breakdowns, bus rides where I tried to disappear. You hugged me when no one else knew how. I kept you even when you started falling apart. Even when I knew you were past your prime, unraveling at the edges, losing color in places that used to feel like home. You stopped fitting, but I made excuses. Called it loyalty. Called it love. And still, I held on. Maybe out of memory. Maybe out of guilt. Or maybe because I was afraid of what letting go might say about me. But the truth is— I don’t miss you now. Not really. Not who you’ve become. You're stretched out. Sagging. Smell like an old version of me I’d rather forget. You don't ho...

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 ...