Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I used to believe in karma—naïve, I know. That moral ledger balancing debts and credits, handing out justice on time. Turns out, karma’s broken. Or maybe it never existed, just a myth we told ourselves to sleep at night. The worst people don’t just slip through the cracks. They built the cracks. They thrive in the ruins, stacking money on the bones of those who trusted them. It’s not a game anymore. It’s a machine—greedy, ruthless, and programmed to reward the cruelest operators. The bad don’t just get ahead—they consume whole worlds, leaving scraps for the rest. And here we are, pretending fairness is around the corner while the cold truth settles in: the world belongs to those who take without guilt, who use without mercy. Kindness is weakness. Empathy, a liability. The soul is currency no one wants to buy. Sometimes I wonder if the good are just ghosts in this system—forgotten, erased, slowly fading into silence while the vultures feast. No grand justice is coming. No reckonin...

Time moves with a relentless rhythm, An unyielding current, quietly pulling me through the sands of time.  I often hear that life is fleeting, that moments slip away faster than I can grasp them, but there’s a deeper truth to this: it’s not just that time passes—it’s that I change with it, and with each passing second, I’m forced to reckon with who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. What is it about time that feels so heavy? Perhaps it’s the realization that I can never truly hold onto a moment. I cling to the idea of the present, as if it could last forever, but it drifts like sand, slipping through my fingers. I spend my life trying to capture it, trying to freeze it in place. Yet, the more I try to keep time still, the more it eludes me. I’m never quite here; I’m always a step ahead or a step behind, forever chasing a future I can never fully reach, and a past that keeps fading into memory. And still, there is something beautiful in that struggle. Time teaches me to app...

In the realm of endings, lingered remnants lie, Transformed, unrecognizable, yet enduring, No longer adorned with familiar labels, Nor the profiles once known, they persist. Imagine the actors in this play of cessation, Aware of its continuation, a paradox of existence, Unfolding within an unmarked relationship, Unveiling depths beyond the ordinary. Haunted parks, offices, and well-trodden paths, Bearing witness to flourishing connections, While also embracing the deaths of others, A cycle of creation, destruction, and rebirth. Now, envision a bond that chose stillness, Resigned to perish where it once thrived, Foregoing the openness, honesty, and tales, Conversations reduced to silent gazes. Yet, amid this perpetual continuity, Can we proclaim that it truly ended? For the essence of respect, care, and truth, Endures, transcending the labels cast aside. Thus, within the crucible of my weary mind, These thoughts surrender, bidding farewell, To contemplate the enigma of conclusion, Leavi...

  I remember sitting alone in a crowded room, the air thick with unspoken words. Around me, laughter bubbled and voices rose, but my own thoughts were a fragile thread, barely holding. Somewhere in that noise, a name was mentioned — hers — and suddenly the room seemed smaller, the light dimmer, as if a shadow had slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t just a story being told. It was a fracture, a fissure in the smooth surface of what we had all pretended was safe. The #MeToo movement began as a simple phrase — a way for survivors of sexual harassment and assault to say, Me too. It grew into a tidal wave, a collective outpouring of truth that exposed the hidden scale of abuse embedded in systems of power. It’s a movement that refused to let silence be the default, turning private pain into public reckoning. But beyond the headlines and hashtags, it is a profound shift in how we understand consent, autonomy, and the very nature of freedom. This movement is that fissure made visible...

Losing your keys is the quiet rebellion of order against itself. At first, it feels like life has hiccuped. The kind of rupture so small it shouldn’t matter, yet manages to unhinge everything. You check your bag three times, then the counter, then the jacket you haven’t worn in a week. It's not about the keys anymore. It's about what their absence unravels. Because keys aren't just metal. They are continuity. They are the mundane rituals that trick us into believing the world makes sense — that if you follow the same path each day, you'll arrive somewhere familiar. But when keys disappear, the path collapses. Suddenly you’re not just late—you’re disoriented, unmoored, estranged from your own routine. And in that moment, a door becomes a symbol. Not of what's locked, but of how little you understand your own thresholds. How many doors have you opened without knowing what they kept out? How many times have you walked in without noticing what you left behind? The l...

 There is no justification for walking into a place of worship with a weapon. No cause, no grievance, no theory—nothing—can make sense of that kind of cruelty. To kill people in the middle of prayer is not rebellion, it is desecration. It is not rage—it is rot. The kind that begins in the soul and spreads through history, disguised as ideology. On October 27, 2018, a man entered the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh and opened fire. Eleven people were murdered. It was the deadliest attack on the Jewish community in U.S. history. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t surprising. The world had been inching toward this—subtly, then shamelessly. Hatred no longer hid. It posted. It shouted. It ran for office. It wore suits and badges and usernames and smirks. And when it pulled the trigger that morning, it did so with the confidence of someone who had already been told: yes, you belong here too. The Tree of Life. Etz Chaim. A name that echoes through both scripture and longing. A symbol of ...

I remember the news trickling in, the way the earth gave way in Benguet and Cebu — houses swallowed, lives buried beneath rubble that was once the land we called home. It’s easy to point fingers at mining companies, at open-pit scars carved like wounds across the mountainside. But what about us? What part do we play in this quiet violence? Mining is a cruel pact. We dig not just for gold or minerals, but for the promise of progress. We tell ourselves the earth will forgive us, that the price we pay is worth the convenience and wealth it offers. But the land does not forgive — it remembers. The landslide is not just soil collapsing; it’s the earth’s way of whispering a bitter truth: we are strangers here, not masters. The calls to ban mining are calls to respect a fragile balance we have long ignored. Yet, the complexity of survival in a place like the Philippines makes this no simple moral judgment. The people who rely on mining for livelihood are caught in the same web of contradict...