Fragments of the Quiet Mind

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...

  I was walking home that evening, the city buzzing around me like a restless beast. The streetlights flickered unevenly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch just to reach us. Ahead, a girl moved alone, her steps quick but cautious. Then I heard it—voices, low and crude, slicing through the hum of the night. A group of boys, laughing and shouting lewd remarks, their words sharp and unwanted like a sudden gust of cold wind. The girl didn’t stop. She didn’t even glance back. But the air between us shifted. That noise—cheap, careless—was enough to freeze the moment, to make the invisible weight of the streets tangible. I saw her tighten her shoulders, quicken her pace, vanish into the shadows faster than before. Something inside me snapped. I walked up to the boys, my voice low but steady, making sure they knew their game wasn’t welcome here. They faltered, surprise flickering in their eyes, shadows retreating as the tension thickened. The girl looked at me, gratitude soften...

I used to think growing up meant becoming some grand, polished version of yourself—the one your childhood self would cheer for, maybe even brag about at recess. But here I am, ordering my third cup of coffee at 9 PM, staring blankly at a screen, and wondering if I’ve just been winging adulthood all along. Growing up is realizing you’re your own unpaid intern. Turns out, the kid inside me would side-eye this version pretty hard. Not because I gave up on dreams, but because I forgot how to be recklessly hopeful. The fearless wonder? Buried under endless to-do lists and a growing collection of "shoulds" I didn’t even know I agreed to. Hope is the most expensive habit with the worst Return of Investment. But here’s the twist: maybe that side-eye is a good thing. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of reminding me that I’m still in progress. The kid’s shock is just a mirror—reflecting not failure, but the distance traveled. Sometimes the only thing growing faster than you is your coll...

I used to believe faith was a steady flame handed down—warmth that sheltered me from the cold winds of doubt. It was a map drawn by hands older than mine, with clear roads, familiar landmarks, and promises stitched into the sky. I carried it like armor and sanctuary, the kind you don’t question because it’s part of your bones. But growing up is learning to step outside that light and see the shadows it cast. The edges blur. The roads fork. The promises twist in ways you never expected. Outgrowing faith isn’t a clean break. It’s a slow peeling back, a quiet unlearning, an ache that feels like betrayal and freedom all at once. It’s realizing that what once protected you may now confine you. That your soul, hungry for something deeper, refuses to be tethered to the stories you were told. I see now that faith is less about certainty and more about courage—the courage to face the unknown without the safety net of old truths. It’s a paradox: losing belief but not losing hope. Letting go b...

Minsan napapaisip at napapatanong ako na sa paglikha ba ng art, music, or sa pagsusulat e mas naihahayag natin ang tunay na concept ng kalayaan? Di ba sa ARTS as a whole eh walang limitasyon, walang hindrances ng policies at laws, kundi guided tayo ng ating mga ideya lang. Kahit na ang ating mundo ay puno ng difficulties, insecurities and absence ng certainty, sa paglikha ay nadadama natin ang kalayaan at dito, pwede tauong magpakalunod sa mga emotions na tanging art lamang ang kayang mag express. Malaya ang taong gawin ang kanyang nanaisin,  Subalit hindi rin maiiwasan na sa kalayaang yan eh merong mga bagay na nagagawa at mga salitang nabibitawan na nagdudulot ng pain at difficulties sa ibang tao. Eto ang dahilan kung bakit marami din ang nagsasabing kailangan nating ic ontrol ang ating kalayaan dahil baka meron taong nasasaktan sa ating mga pinagsasabi or pinag gagawa. Basic civility , ika nga.  Pero di naman din ibig sabihin nito na kailangang manahimik ka na lang at ta...

I don't believe in the 5 second rule. I’m anal about germs and bacteria and I fear what could happen to me if I were to pick up a food that fell on the ground and eat it. Most people usually say that it’s okay as long as you do it within 5 seconds (hence the 5 seconds rule.)  People have always bugged and nagged me about it. They usually make fun of my OCD-ish attitude regarding germs. I really dunno if they're just being practical, they want to mess up with me or they're just plain scavenger (slapsoils) ps. pun intended Anyway, this morning, I opened the fridge and saw the box of choco-truffles that my sister sent me and oh boy! CHOCOLATES are my addiction (besides nicotine and caffeine). When I opened the box there were 2 pieces left. Personally, I always save the best for last and so I ate the smaller truffle first. It was heavenly and I was savoring the taste as I closed my eyes and tried to sense the dark chocolate slowly melting inside my mouth as my tongue was savor...

I was fourth in line, staring at the back of a denim jacket and pretending not to read the pastries twice. The man ahead of me kept adjusting his AirPods. I kept adjusting my thoughts. The café was full of the usual late afternoon static—laptop clatter, jazz no one listens to, baristas calling names like incantations. I ordered my coffee—black, no room—and moved to the pick-up area like someone playing a role they knew too well. That’s when I noticed the girl by the window. Not looking outside, not reading, not even pretending to. Just holding her phone up to her face—slow, deliberate, as if asking permission from her own image. A few filters later, her features glowed. Skin blurred to impossibility. Eyes enlarged just enough to seem slightly haunted. The picture looked nothing like the girl I was watching. But she smiled at it. Not vainly. Almost gratefully. I don’t use filters—not out of principle, just confusion. I can never find the right one. Nothing ever feels like me. Or ma...