Fragments of the Quiet Mind

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...

What if the universe is just one giant thought — like that embarrassing moment you had years ago that suddenly crashes back into your mind at 3 AM, uninvited and vivid, leaving you desperate to forget? It’s a cosmic thought, sprawling yet fragile, teetering on the edge of memory and oblivion. Maybe existence itself is a fleeting spark in a mind so vast, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of its own reflection. The stars, those ancient witnesses, might just be neurons firing in an endless dream, a pattern trying to make sense of its own chaos. Black holes? Not devouring matter but swallowing meaning — the universe’s own way of erasing parts of itself it can’t bear to face. We think we live in a place of permanence, but what if permanence is just the illusion of a thought clinging to its last thread? Time stretches like a fading echo, and reality flickers like a candle in a drafty room, trying to hold on to a story that’s slipping away. In this vast forgetfulness, we’re both the unive...

Sitting in the jeepney with my child, I found myself quietly observing the scene next to us—a mother with her own little one, perhaps six years old. Unlike my kid, who seems to have inherited a relentless curiosity, drilling down into every detail until the universe surrenders its secrets, this child sat silently, her eyes wandering around in a restless search for something to latch onto. Boredom, perhaps—a boredom she couldn’t quite contain. Every so often, she would ask her mother a question, her voice a soft interruption to the hum of the journey. “Ma, may baon na ba ako?” “Ma, nagbayad na tayo?” “Ma, bakit nagjeep lang tayo?” Simple, practical questions. And each time, the mother would respond with a brief nod or a shake of her head, her attention never fully leaving that small compact mirror she kept pulling out to pat her face with powder. It’s funny, isn’t it?  the things we notice when we let our minds wander?  There she was, clutching a designer bag, scrolling through...