Scattered Papers

My Theory of Unpracticed Love October 14, 2025
I have been thinking about my non-existent love life lately, and for once, I am not trying to romanticize it. I have always told myself that I am not ready. That love, at least for now, is a chapter I am not equipped to open. But this self-awareness has been on repeat for so long that I am beginning to wonder if my hesitation is less about timing and more about fear.

When I like someone, it rarely has anything to do with them as a person. I fall in love for the impossibility of it all. I turn fleeting moments such as an eye contact, a brief exchange, a late-night conversation into full-blown narratives. for me it’s easier to love from afar, where the idea of someone remains intact, untouched by reality.

People have tried to bridge that distance. There have been men who wanted to court me, to take me out, to start something. Each time, I pull away as soon as the possibility becomes real because I’m afraid of what would happen if I said yes.

I’m 23 now, and I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never been kissed. Sometimes I lie about it out of self-preservation. There’s a certain shame in being untouched by romance in a world that treats experience as proof of worth. I know it shouldn’t matter, but when everyone around me has a story to tell, my silence feels like an absence I have to justify.

Part of me believes I have a “type,” though I struggle to define it. Maybe it’s not even about the type of man, but the type of love I expect: something intentional and emotionally intelligent. The problem is, while I can imagine the man I want, I don’t think I’m yet the kind of woman who could match him. I believe love requires a version of me that doesn’t exist yet.

And then, there’s fear. I’ve seen what love does to people. I’ve watched women I admire crumble under the weight of betrayal, and it makes me wonder if love is just another form of self-destruction we willingly sign up for. Sometimes I ask myself, is my dream man just a fantasy stitched together by my delusion? Or is he out there, quietly proving me wrong?

I hate to admit this, but I’m drawn to handsome men. And then I shame myself for it, as if wanting beauty is a moral flaw. I call myself “conventionally ugly” to soften the guilt, to preempt rejection by rejecting myself first. I tell myself that if I were my type, I wouldn’t want me either.

Maybe my problem is not that I don’t want love, but that I want it too ideally. I want it to be painless and perfect. And anything less feels like settling. But perhaps that’s what keeps me lonely, this refusal to engage with love in its imperfect form.

I keep waiting for a love that won’t hurt, forgetting that pain is not the opposite of love but a part of its anatomy. I don’t know if I’m ready. Maybe readiness is a myth, and love only arrives when you’ve stopped preparing for it.

A Long-Term Tenant of Rock Bottom October 13, 2025
There’s a strange numbness that comes after too many failures. Not the soul-splitting kind of pain that arrives with the first fall, but something duller. A fatigue that feels like apathy. I’m somewhere in between: not in hell, because I’m no longer suffering, but not in heaven either, because I’m far from thriving. It feels like being trapped in an emotional purgatory, where nothing hurts enough to move me, and nothing shines enough to lift me.

I once failed three major subjects before managing to pass them, but I’ve failed my four pre-rev subjects twice. Now, I’m taking them for the third time. The same syllabus. The same exams. The same suffocating sense of déjà vu. Rationally, I know the odds are not in my favor. Statistically, I might fail again. Yet, what unsettles me most is not the fear of failing, but how ordinary it now feels to live in the aftermath of failure. Rock bottom used to be terrifying, a place of despair and regret. But after two years, it has begun to feel like home. And that comfort is far more frightening than the fall itself.

Still, I know I can’t stay here forever. My privilege to fail is running thin. Tuition fees, time, and patience are not infinite currencies. I tell myself this often, hoping urgency will ignite discipline, but my body remains still. I rarely panic, except maybe once a month or the night before an exam, when the question inevitably arrives: What have I even done with my life these past few weeks?

When I failed the first time, it was because I was too afraid to fail. I clung to the belief that I wasn’t as capable as everyone else, and in the end, that belief fulfilled itself. The second time, I failed for the opposite reason. I was too busy escaping. I lost myself in games, in conversations, in late-night laughter with online friends. I chased instant gratification, pretending each small joy was worth the long-term cost. So, this third time, I tried to do things differently. I went cold turkey, cutting off distractions and isolating myself in the name of focus.

But isolation bred a different kind of self-destruction. Whenever I sit down to study, my mind wanders elsewhere. Sometimes, it drifts toward fantasies of a different life. Most times, it drifts toward K-dramas. I’ve finished more than twenty series since classes began, each one more comforting than the silence of my unread notes. Somewhere along the way, I lost the grit that once kept me going. I lost the discipline that made me believe I had a purpose. I’ve forgotten my “why.”

I keep asking myself: Am I really meant to be here? I spend hours watching tarot readings that promise success I never see, listening to self-help videos I mock yet still replay, searching for divine signs in coincidences I don’t even believe in. It’s all an elaborate ritual to find meaning. And yet, for all my searching, I remain lost. Being lost isn’t the problem but refusing to move while lost is.

When Thoughts Refuse to Rest October 14, 2025
Writing feels like thinking out loud, except sometimes it’s just my thoughts running laps around my head. I analyze everything, why things happen and how I feel about them. Yet I’m not sure if I’m actually learning or just orbiting the same thought, mistaking motion for progress.

Writing is an act of untangling. When I write, the loops slow down just enough for me to see what they’re really made of: fear, curiosity, or sometimes plain boredom. So, I write to meet myself halfway: the part that overthinks and the part that longs for silence. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise in my head. When I ignore it for too long, the noise grows louder. It starts to spill into my day and turns into misplaced daydreams, where I start acting out inner dialogues like someone schizophrenic.

My brain demands the right vocabulary before it can rest. I can’t just say I’m happy. I need to know if it's fulfillment, contentment, or pleasure. I can’t just say I’m sad. I have to identify if it's regret, upset, or melancholy. Who is this feeling directed toward? Myself? Someone else? Only when I find the precise words does the noise die down temporarily, for about 24 hours before the cycle begins again. The tricky part, though, is how fast my mind changes. The moment I gain a different perspective, what I wrote a week ago might already feel wrong, like I’ve betrayed my old self with new information.

The hardest part of writing essays is figuring out when I’m being cautious, when I’m self-censoring, or when I’m straight-up lying. Because there’s that invisible potential reader who I subconsciously try to please and who makes me self-conscious, pushing me to polish my truth into something prettier than it is. Fortunately, self-awareness is my antidote to recognize the impulse to impress. I can mute it long enough to write something closer to honesty. So I write to make peace with my own noise. My thoughts tend to wander, and writing is how I call them home.

Why Everything Feels Cringe October 14, 2025
Lately, everything feels off. Things that never bothered me before, as well as things that once brought me joy, now trigger an involuntary wince. I scroll through social media and spot a video that gives away its agenda too soon. A bright thumbnail, a suspiciously tidy apartment, a voice too enthusiastic to be real and I swipe away before it has the chance to hypnotize me. It was an unskipabble Ad.

Even my actor and idol crushes, whose aegyo poses once gave me butterflies, now make me cringe. I find myself thinking about how awkward they must have felt doing that as an adult in their 30's, which they sometimes admit themselves and only confirms my suspicion that we’re all part of this ongoing collective act.

The worst offenders, perhaps, are the productivity gurus and lifestyle coaches who perform authenticity for a living. I can’t unsee the calculated spontaneity of it all. I wince at the idea of them turning on the camera before pretending they’re just waking up, or at how they always set up a tripod to capture the perfect cinematography for a walking montage. What was meant to be motivation now feels like manipulation, and the sincerity they try to sell collapses under the weight of its own curation.

Then there’s the trend of reaction videos, where people film themselves reacting to other people’s moments. Layers of performance stacked on top of each other until meaning evaporates. I watch them act shocked, tearful, or amused, and all I can think is how rehearsed it looks. Once, out of curiosity, I tried recording myself while crying. But as soon as I hit record, the tears retreated. My mind shifted from the reason I was hurt to how I looked being sad. Was I expressive enough? Did the angle flatter me? The lens made me self-conscious.

Sometimes I wonder if this hyper-awareness makes me an awful person. Seeing through the bullshit of everything has made me cynical. It’s as though I’ve lost the ability to believe in anything at face value. It’s exhausting to view the world as one long audition. Maybe this cynicism is my defense mechanism. When everything feels like performance, disbelief becomes a form of self-preservation.

If I expect less, I spare myself the disappointment. But the irony is that beneath this numbness, I still crave something that isn’t optimized for engagement or designed for the algorithm. I want to stumble upon unfiltered sincerity. Perhaps disillusionment isn’t the end of wonder but the beginning of discernment. Maybe learning to see through artifice is the first step toward recognizing what’s genuine. The world might be full of counterfeits, but there’s beauty in realizing that not everything can be faked. And when I finally encounter something that doesn’t beg to be recorded or performed, it feels like a small act of rebellion.

Not Knowing What You Want October 11, 2025
Lately, I’ve been thinking... What do I really want in life? And the honest answer is I don’t exactly know. It’s not that I feel lost, it’s just that nothing feels quite definitive. I know what I need to do: study, work, move forward. But when it comes to what I want, I find myself hesitating. Because deep down, I actually want to be surprised.

I think I stopped wanting too much because I’ve come to believe that maybe the universe has something better planned for me than I could ever imagine for myself. After all, as humans, our view is so limited and shallow. When I was a kid, all I wanted were toys. As a teenager, I wanted to be pretty and popular. And now, as a young adult, I think about wanting stability and success. But what if life is more than just that, something I cannot imagine yet.

Lately, I’ve also noticed that I daydream a little too much. It’s scary how much it’s been disrupting my daily routine. Sometimes, I unconsciously speak the dialogues out loud, like I’m losing control of my own thoughts. I enjoy the silly thrill of it and let myself get carried away because that euphoria feels so addicting. But the more I let myself drift into those daydreams, the harder the embarrassment hits when I snap back to reality. The shame of entertaining those cringe fantasies just swallows me whole.

Honestly, I feel torn between my realism and idealism. The realist in me wants to stay grounded, to “get it together”, while the idealist keeps whispering that life is supposed to feel more magical than this. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel paralyzed by my own thoughts, afraid that if I choose one path, I’ll lose all the other possible versions of me.

When I think about it, maybe I’ve been detaching myself from wanting too much because I’m scared of disappointment. I often think, “It would be nice to have that, but I wouldn’t mind not having it.” It sounds neutral, but really, it’s just a soft armor I’ve built against heartbreak.

A quick segue: I recently bought a GOT7 album that came in seven versions. I was really hoping I’d get my bias’s version (Jinyoung), but thinking about the one-out-of-seven chance, I immediately gave up hope and thought, “It would be nice if I got Jinyoung’s version, but I wouldn’t mind if I don’t, I might learn to like the others.” While my parcel was in transit for a couple of weeks, I drowned myself in GOT7 videos during my free time, laughing nonstop and eventually finding each member’s charm. Long story short, when my parcel finally arrived, IT WAS JINYOUNG! I screamed from excitement and felt like the universe’s favorite child for an hour, flipping through the album filled with his face. (I might write a separate essay just geeking out about GOT7, honestly.)

Anyway, back to the point, giving up all hope is, in a strange way, my method of trusting that something special will happen, something I can’t predict. I want to believe that life still has surprises waiting for me. For now, I think I’ll just let things unfold. I’ll stay curious, keep daydreaming, but maybe with one foot on the ground, and let the universe meet me halfway.

Lies I Have Told Myself (and you) July 16, 2025
I do not think I have ever confronted the full unfiltered truth about myself without flinching. When I write in my journal, I instinctively avert my gaze or pause after recording the uncomfortable thoughts, the ones I would never dare share publicly. There is a friction between what I know and what I admit, a subtle self-censorship that has become almost instinctive.

If I am brutally honest, every time I open my mouth, my words are almost always coated with lies. The small distortions, the exaggerations, the delicate alterations I make to seem more interesting, more experienced, more worthy of attention. My stories carry kernels of truth, but I stretch them, polish them, reshape them. Somehow, I believed the version of myself that emerged from those edits was more impressive, more memorable, more acceptable.

For instance, when people ask about relationships, I say I’ve never had one, which is technically true. But I’ve been in countless messy situationships that felt real, that confused me, that taught me difficult lessons. And yet I erase them because saying “NBSB” feels cleaner than admitting I’ve been emotionally entangled and left with nothing to show for it.

I despise how natural the lies feel, how effortlessly I can sculpt myself into someone I believe others want to encounter. The most disquieting realization is that this performance has lasted so long that I sometimes cannot distinguish between acting and existing. I start to believe my own narratives. I gaslight myself.

Yet I understand why I do this. Deep down, I never believed that the unpolished version of me, awkward, uncertain, ordinary, was enough. I constructed a different self, someone brighter and more lovable. And now I am ready to leave her behind. I do not hate her. On the contrary, I am grateful. She helped me survive. She protected me when I lacked the tools to protect myself.

I no longer need her. Honesty, even when it is uncomfortable, promises a deeper kind of connection, both to others and to myself. It offers self-respect that no polished lie could ever replicate. The act of telling the truth, of inhabiting my flawed and complicated self, may be terrifying, but it is also liberating. I am learning that to live fully is to accept all facets of who I am, even those I once thought unworthy.

Male Version of My Own Bullshit February 8, 2025
Last night, I spent three hours on a call with a friend. We went on a full-on rant about people, laughing, venting, oversharing, the whole thing. I actually enjoyed it. There’s something quietly comforting about someone who chooses to spend hours just talking to you. It feels rare, like being seen without having to ask for it. But somewhere in the middle of the conversation, something in me shifted. I started noticing red flags, not the usual scattered ones, but an entire red carpet unrolling before me, inviting me to walk straight into it.

He’s manipulative, though I don’t even think he realizes it. On the surface, we don’t share much in common. He’s old-fashioned when it comes to relationships, which already makes me twitch a little. He talked a lot about himself: his INTJ label, his self-deprecating humor, his grand declarations about giving his all when he loves, and withdrawing completely when he doesn’t. It sounded self-aware at first, but the more he spoke, the more it felt like someone building walls while pretending they’re bridges.

Then he brought up his recent breakup. He mentioned his new gym routine, then casually admitted to flirting with several girls he chats with. At one point, he let me overhear him flirting with a drunk, vulnerable girl. It was uncomfortable to witness. Yet what struck me most wasn’t the act itself, but how effortlessly he controlled the flow of their conversation, steering it, shaping it, bending it to his will. And then came the truly unsettling part. Because as I listened, I realized he was a lot like me. Or maybe, I was a lot like him.

I’ve done similar things. I controlled narratives, curated impressions, chosen words like chess moves designed to provoke specific reactions. The difference, I told myself, is that I know when I’m doing it. But that’s a flimsy distinction. Watching him was like staring into a mirror and seeing my own reflection smirk back, equal parts humbling and horrifying.

Still, I didn’t end the call bitter. In fact, I felt oddly grateful. For all his flaws, he was transparent in his own way, and that transparency forced me to confront my own habits. How I connect, how I protect myself, how I sometimes confuse control with intimacy.

I can see the performance he tries to maintain. The version of himself he wants the world to believe. And I recognize that duality because it lives in me too. Maybe that’s what conversations like this are for, to remind us that connection is not always clean or comforting. Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes it’s a mirror. And if we’re lucky, it reflects not just who they are, but who we’ve been pretending not to be.

How to Be Delusional and Happy February 15, 2025
I’ve been thinking about how ridiculous I can be sometimes, and honestly, it makes me laugh. There’s a strange comfort in realizing how foolish I can be and still finding amusement in it. Once again, I’ve placed someone on a pedestal, constructing an elaborate fantasy around a person who, by all evidence, is not remotely interested in me. Perhaps they even find me intolerable. And yet, for a moment, it’s liberating to float in that little fantasy world of mine. It’s cringe, yes, but it’s mine to embrace.

I know I’ve lost my moral compass a few times. If someone else behaved the way I have, I’d probably raise an eyebrow too. But being human means making choices that don’t always make sense. Sometimes I overthink, sometimes I lie to myself just to make it through another day. That doesn’t make me a bad person; it makes me a person trying.

My delusions are a bit unhinged, but at least they’re harmless. They belong entirely to me. They add color to the grayscale of routine. My mind can be messy, but it’s a mess I’ve learned to navigate. I’ve realized that I’m both my fiercest critic and my most loyal supporter. I fall apart, then I laugh at my own drama, then I rebuild. There’s a rhythm to my imperfection that I’m beginning to appreciate.

I don’t believe in manifestation anymore. None of my wild fantasies ever came true, thankfully, because most of them were absurd. What I believe in now is effort. The quiet, unglamorous kind that doesn’t always yield visible results but keeps me moving forward anyway. I may not have everything figured out, but I no longer punish myself for it. Growth is rarely tidy, and for now, I’m content with having space to grow.

I’ve learned to enjoy my own company. I take pride in feeling things deeply, even when it hurts, and in noticing subtle shifts in people that others might miss. I love that I’m flawed but capable of change, that no matter how often I repeat the same mistakes, I still choose to try again. I may not say it enough, but I’m proud of myself for surviving with both humor and grace.

So I’ll stop judging myself for being messy. Life’s too short to live in apology. I’m a little crazy, but I’m learning. I’ll keep embracing the cringe, laughing through the discomfort, and loving myself in the process.

How to Properly Fall Apart May 23, 2025
Sometimes I think about death and wonder if it’s just like returning to the void. Quiet without expectation, no afterlife, no grand revelation, just nothing. Lately, that idea feels oddly comforting. I’ve been fighting myself a lot, denying what I feel because I keep comparing my pain to others’. I tell myself, people have it worse, as if that invalidates my own hurt. But the other night, I finally sat with it. I gave myself permission to feel angry, to cry. Sometimes, that’s all you really need, to allow yourself to be human.

Boredom has a strange way of waking you up. When life feels repetitive and dull, it quietly dares you to change something. But change doesn’t always mean fixing what’s broken, sometimes it means letting things fall apart. I’ve realized that not every shattered piece of me deserves to be put back. Maybe some parts are meant to stay gone. Maybe I’m not falling apart after all. Maybe I’m just falling into place.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about healing. People say it’s about breaking old patterns, but no one tells you how to start when those patterns feel like the only thing holding you together. There’s this strange comfort in chaos, you hate it, but it’s familiar. Still, I think I’m meant to feel lost right now. Maybe that’s part of healing too, learning to sit in uncertainty without needing all the answers.

Some mornings I wake up with this hollow ache, like something’s wrong but I can’t name it. It’s not about any one thing; it’s everything. The joy that used to come so easily now feels out of reach. I watch people laugh, and I can’t join in. The words I need never quite form, so I stay silent. It’s like there’s this invisible distance between who I was and who I’m becoming, and I don’t know how to bridge it.

That’s the hardest part: being stuck between versions of yourself. The things that used to make me feel alive don’t hit the same anymore. I want to change, but I don’t know what I’m changing into. I just know I can’t go back. So here I am, somewhere in between, trying to understand who I’m becoming while everything else shifts around me. Maybe this low hum of unease isn’t something to fix, but something to listen to. After all, not every ache needs an answer.

The Cost of Being Too Available April 14, 2025
I’ve been spring-cleaning my social life. Unfollowing acquaintances. Muting people I used to check in on every day. I suddenly had clarity. Turns out, most of those connections only existed because I kept them alive. I was the one reaching out, checking in, sending memes at 3AM, being the emotional charger. The second I unplugged? Silence.

I understand that people are busy. Life is overwhelming, and time is scarce. I get that. But if I can make the effort, then perhaps others could too. Or perhaps they simply do not want to. Self-help literature advises not to take such things personally, framing it as a “them” problem, not a “me” problem. Theoretically, I agree. In practice, it still stings to realize that some people only appreciate you when you are convenient, cheerful, and easy to manage.

The pain is almost imperceptible. Realizing nobody checks in when you go silent. Noticing how how they ignore your messages for weeks but double-tap your stories like that makes up for the ghosting. Like, thanks for the emotional crumbs, I guess?

Sometimes it feels like the bond only exists when I keep showing up. I reach out? We laugh, we connect. I don’t? Suddenly, we’re strangers with memories. Some friendships are so one-sided, I could’ve sworn I was texting a wall with a profile picture. And yes, maybe I overacting. Maybe I take things too personally. But how do you not take it personally when you’re always the one reaching out, and people only love you when you’re curated and filtered and fun? The moment you show up flawed, weird, or even just quiet… they back away like you're a glitch in the system.

I’m learning now, not everyone deserves a pedestal. Not everyone needs to be defended when the energy isn’t mutual. And no, I don’t want performative connections. I don’t want people who only remember I exist when I post something funny or vaguely sad. I want people who show up even when there’s no audience.

Is it a me problem? Possibly. Yet it seems reasonable to want to feel chosen, to want reciprocity without shame. Love, even in its platonic form, should demand mutuality and not martyrdom. So now, I’m pulling back, not out of bitterness, but out of self-respect. I’m not burning bridges. I’m just not begging people to cross them anymore. I am not hard to love. I'm just tired of being the only one trying.

The Art of Embracing Pain October 18, 2024
Lately, I’ve been haunted by a thought that feels both oddly comforting and slightly twisted: no matter how many times love has disappointed me, I never really give up on it. Despite every emotional whiplash, every heartbreak that left me gasping for clarity, I still believe in love, perhaps more than I should. You’d think that after all the mess, I’d learn to protect myself better. But instead, I’ve reached this strange conclusion that maybe it just wasn’t the right time.

It’s not that I’m grateful for the pain, exactly. It’s more that I’ve learned to see meaning in it. The highs and lows, the heartbreak. Yes it’s all maddening, but it also feels real in a way that nothing else does. Love’s turbulence reminds me that I’m alive. The ache that follows isn’t proof of failure; it’s proof of feeling. Pain, after all, doesn’t last forever. It comes and goes like weather, but while it’s here, it colors everything vividly. Without it, would joy even make sense?

Right now, I’m in that familiar ache again. And here’s the confession: part of me doesn’t hate it. Not in a masochistic way, but in a strangely anticipatory one. There’s something deeply human about knowing the end is coming and still staying for the final scene. Heartbreak has this cinematic quality, melancholy at its most elegant. It’s the final chapter you already know by heart, yet you still read it slowly, savoring every word. It hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt that makes you feel honest.

And yet, beneath that romanticized layer lies something darker. The truth is, I’m often the first to wound myself. I’ve learned the art of self-inflicted pain, through doubt, rejection, and quiet withdrawal. It’s not that I enjoy it, but it feels safer that way. If I break myself first, no one else gets to. It’s a kind of self-preservation dressed as self-sabotage. I’ve learned my limits through it, the boundaries of what I can endure.

I’m not sure if anyone else would understand this logic, or if it even qualifies as logic. Maybe it’s just the way I’ve made sense of my own tenderness. Maybe it’s how I cope with the risk of being human. Because to love, really love, is to gamble with pain and I suppose I’d rather lose beautifully than not play at all.

How to Detach Without Being a Jerk February 19, 2025
Lately, I’ve been realizing how much I try to control things. I send the text, check if it’s “seen,” reread our conversation, and overanalyze every word. Was I too much? Too little? Too weird? Too me?

I used to think control meant safety, that if I could just anticipate every outcome, I wouldn’t get hurt. But the truth is, control is an illusion. The tighter I hold on, the faster things slip away, like sand, like pride, like that guy who couldn’t even spell my name right.

I’m learning that detachment isn’t about being cold or pretending not to care. It’s not about acting unbothered so people chase me. Detachment, when it’s real, feels peaceful. It’s that quiet moment when I accept that love, respect, and connection can’t be forced, they either flow or they don’t. And when they don’t, I don’t push anymore. I pull back. I rest in my self-worth.

Because honestly, constant chasing only drives people away. And I’m tired of chasing. I want to attract, not from arrogance, but from stillness. The kind of stillness that says, I know what I bring, and I don’t need to beg for it to be seen. The version of me who can walk away with grace and not make it a grand exit. The one who doesn’t crumble when someone leaves.

Sometimes I ask myself: Am I in love with them, or with the fantasy of being loved by them?

Most of the time, it’s the fantasy. Because they’re kind of available, but mostly not. And I’m finally done mistaking breadcrumbs for effort.

When I stop over giving, something shifts. I become full again. Whole, even. I realize that emotional independence isn’t about cutting people off; it’s about knowing I’ll still be okay if they do. And ironically, the moment I stop trying so hard, people notice. They feel the shift. Maybe it’s human nature, scarcity creates curiosity. But I’m not doing it for them anymore. Silence has become my new boundary.

And maybe that’s the whole point: to meet my own needs first, so no one has to complete me, they just compliment the masterpiece I already am.

How to Get Over a Crush February 16, 2025
Having a crush feels like being intoxicated on a fantasy. It begins with innocence, becomes a private obsession, and often ends in disappointment. Somewhere in the middle, I’m crying over someone who hasn’t even liked my FB story. Pathetic, I know.

I think I am beginning to understand the lesson. I have a pattern of being drawn to people who do not reciprocate my attention. I convince myself that if I try harder, if I show more care or cleverness, they will notice me. Instead, my efforts only push them further away. I feel like the universe is telling me to chill the fuck out and take the lesson before I waste more time on people who were never meant to be mine to begin with.

So, I’m trying something new: out of sight, out of mind. It works. The less I see them, the faster the spell breaks. If thoughts of them persist, I deliberately scrutinize their flaws until the obsession fades. That’s my detox plan. Also, I seriously need to stop living in my head. My imagination is way too wild. I’ll start daydreaming about a whole future with someone who hasn’t even said “hi” to me properly. Like, girl, get a grip. That’s not romance, that’s delusion. And it’s kind of cringe.

Another thing I’ve learned: I need to stop over-giving attention. I’m not everyone’s free therapist or personal entertainer. My energy is valuable. If they want my time, they can earn it. At the end of the day, a crush isn’t that deep. It’s not love. It’s not destiny. It’s literally my brain being dramatic. I know in a few months I’ll look back and laugh at how obsessed I was. Crushes are for teenagers, and I’m too grown to be spiraling over someone who can’t even reply to a message.

I’m also done letting people play with my emotions. If someone isn’t showing up for me, that’s my cue to leave. No waiting, no emotional games. If they wanted to, they would. Period. Maybe I just need a new crush, one who actually likes me back. Or maybe, better yet, I don’t need a crush at all. Instead of waiting for a text that may never come, I’m going to focus on me.

So yeah, moral of the story? I’m done obsessing over people who aren’t obsessed with me. My life is too important for that. If they come around someday, fine. If not, who cares? I’m still out here thriving. Here is to self-respect, to healthy boundaries. I am finally sober, not just from infatuation, but from the illusions I once fed so willingly.

Thank you, Weplay! October 4, 2024
Weplay played a surprisingly significant role in my 2024. What began as a casual pastime slowly evolved into an obsession that consumed most of my waking hours. I played in between work tasks, during meals, even in the bath. There were days when I would log on before class and stay online until dawn. On average, I spent eight hours a day in that virtual world, neglecting my responsibilities as a student, a crafter, and a daughter.

Yet, despite how unhealthy it became, the game saved me from the loneliness I had quietly carried. It offered me what reality, at that time, could not, companionship. Within its digital walls, I found a strange new sense of purpose: to be someone’s friend, to listen, to share, to exist in the presence of others who were also searching for meaning through a glowing screen.

Each night, I met people whose stories were heavy with pain and resilience. They spoke about betrayal, loss, and survival with startling honesty. Through countless lock rooms, we trauma-bonded, and I absorbed fragments of wisdom from their wounds. It was comforting to realize that everyone was, in some way, trying to outgrow their own ghosts.

My favorite games were Space Werewolf and Who’s the Spy. They demanded both strategy and empathy, skills that blurred the line between play and real connection. Weeks passed where sleep felt optional, meals forgettable. Eventually, I was invited to join several in-game families and chose one with the worst reputation because they seemed the most alive. The group, aptly named Pugante, was a mess of chaos and laughter. We teased each other relentlessly, fought, made up, and for a time, it felt like belonging.

Months later, I helped form a new family with close friends: PKKBRWN. Drama followed us like a shadow, but I stayed because it made me feel something. The emotions were raw and real, even though everything existed behind screens. It’s fascinating how something so intangible can stir feelings so authentic. Turn off the WiFi, and the entire world disappears, yet the ache remains.

As time passed, I watched people grow emotionally and even financially invested in the game. I was no exception. My own stories from Weplay were filled with the sweetness and heartbreak of online friendships, bonds that formed overnight and fell apart just as quickly. By October, I made an impulsive decision to leave everything behind: Pugante, PKKBRWN, and all the attachments I had built. I slipped quietly into another room, the Shinigami Family, not to socialize, but to hide.

My friends were confused. I couldn’t explain it then, but I was confronting something deeper, old abandonment wounds, defense mechanisms that once protected me but now ruined what I tried to nurture. I realized how much I had curated myself online: the mask I wore to seem likable, funny, and relevant. I was tired of performing connection. The fear of missing out kept me tethered, even when my heart longed for silence.

Eventually, I decided to quit Weplay entirely. No grand farewell, no emotional announcement. I simply vanished. I wanted to reclaim the pieces of my real life I had abandoned while living through an app, the hobbies, the solitude, the self I had misplaced in a sea of usernames.

To leave a world where you once felt seen is no small thing. But sometimes, you must become a ghost to find yourself again.

Why Self-help Books Can't Help January 14, 2023
I guess we have all been there, scrolling through online recommendations to find that one book that will unlock the secrets to a better life. Usually, this happens when you hit rock bottom. So you get off from bed, brush your teeth, and take action. But you don't know where to start, plus people keep telling you to meditate as all the answers you need are within yourself, which never really helped at all, since as of right now, the only thing you can get deep within you is a booger in your nose.

I've read more self-help books than I've had hot dinners. I've tried positive affirmations, and manifestation, and even attempted to communicate with my inner child. Spoiler alert: she's grounded for life. So here is the problem. First up, oversimplification. Life is complicated, like trying to assemble Lego blocks without the step-by-step manual. Yet, self-help books make it seem like all we need is a simple three-step plan to solve every problem. Step 1: Think Positive. Step 2: We profit. Step 3: Your Life Changed!

Then there's the paradox of choice. Seriously, picking a self-help book is harder than choosing between Netflix shows. I spend more time deciding which book will change my life than I do attempting to change it. The more options we have, the more we freeze in indecision. I've spent more time debating whether to delve into "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People" or "How to Win Friends and Influence People" than I have practicing any of those habits or making friends.

Additionally, self-help books, despite their well-intentioned promises, often leave me feeling worse. Initially, the authors present a utopian vision of a transformed life, akin to a promised land of self-discovery. First, they assure you that reading them will instantly transform you into a superhero, but all you end up feeling is more like a sidekick with an inferiority complex as the book highlights everything wrong about you in the first five pages.

All that being said. I don't know whether I am making any sense or whether I am just ranting. But if the self-help books did change you (for the better), then I am genuinely happy for you. As for me, life's a dance and I have chosen to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

How I Became a National Officer August 16, 2023
I never had a grand philanthropic purpose, nor did I boast stellar grades. Becoming a national officer was an experiment of curiosity more than ambition. I was glad I tried, but I would not willingly repeat the experience.

The journey began awkwardly. In my first interview, I stuttered through every question and left most of them unanswered. By some miracle, the interviewer granted me a second chance. In the final interview, I prerecorded a self-introduction video, sparing myself the cringe of articulating my skills out loud. When asked why I wanted to join the national council, I delivered the most generic answer imaginable: to grow, serve others, and improve the community. I sounded cliché, unremarkable, and yet, shockingly, I passed.

My first tasks brought immediate panic. I knew nothing. I avoided asking for help, fearing I would bother my department or that they might usurp my responsibilities. When deadlines loomed, completing someone else’s tasks proved faster than teaching them. In the mess, I learned a lesson that no orientation handbook could have taught me: competence often comes from humility and persistence, from observing, copying, helping, and throwing oneself fully into every event.

Meetings became a microcosm of my anxieties and growth. Interacting with the Regional Council Presidents felt like witnessing a midnight quarrel between my parents, intimidating, tense, unavoidable, but they revealed themselves as formidable student leaders. Departmental meetings, by contrast, were the highlight, ending in laughter and gossip long past midnight.

Yet, the calendar remained indifferent to my growth. As final exams approached, I disappeared like a ghost, leaving disappointed co-officers in my wake. Fear and inadequacy often shadowed my every step, yet I was still entrusted with leading sub-events. I had not asked for responsibility, and the months that followed were both terrifying and exhilarating. I led, stumbled, learned, and ultimately saw the events materialize successfully.

Now, as the federation nears its end, I reflect on the journey with a quiet surprise. My peers see growth, resilience, and leadership in me, qualities I often doubted I possessed. On November 4, 2023, an unexpected parcel arrived. Inside was a plaque recognizing me as one of the Top Performing National Chief Associates. I appreciated it, yet the real reward was the journey itself. Full of missteps, lessons, and the humility to realize that growth rarely comes from grand intentions, but from curiosity, persistence, and the courage to try despite knowing very little.

Confessions of an Apathetic, Burned-Out Slacker December 21, 2021
Tomorrow marks my final exam for the second year, first semester. I should feel anxious, or at least compelled to open my notes, but I don’t. Instead, I spent the past week indulging in anime, immersing myself in stories of heroes who never waver. They fight, fail, and rise again with unwavering conviction. Every obstacle they face eventually yields to determination, intellect, or, conveniently, a plot armor. Their worlds reward persistence. Mine doesn’t.

It’s humbling, perhaps humiliating, to admit that I lack that same burning resolve. I have everything I need to succeed: access, guidance, and privilege. Yet what I lack is the one thing I cannot borrow from anyone, the will to grow. I often tell myself I want to live simply, one day at a time, with no grand plans. Just existing, quietly and comfortably. But beneath that comfort is the dull ache of knowing I am choosing stagnation.

Motivational quotes used to ignite something in me. “Pain is temporary,” “Discipline equals freedom,” “Dream big.” Once upon a time, I believed in those lines. They felt like sacred mantras for the ambitious. Now they feel hollow, like rehearsed justifications for unnecessary suffering. I’ve grown numb to the kind of pain that used to fuel me. Perhaps because I learned that endurance doesn’t always lead to triumph; sometimes, it just leads to exhaustion.

Lately, I’ve cultivated apathy as a shield. I control my emotions so tightly that I rarely feel joy or sadness anymore, only irritation when things inconvenience me. Empathy, once my strength, now feels like a burden. The world is filled with problems too vast for my reach, and it’s easier to detach than to care helplessly. I still help others when I can, my classmates, my friends, but the act feels mechanical. There’s no satisfaction in it, no warmth.

I often wonder whether I am good simply because I lack the opportunity to be otherwise. I am easily swayed by temptation, and when I do wrong, I justify it with the same tired excuse: I’m only human. A sinner by nature, capable of kindness yet inclined toward ease. The thought unsettles me. It makes me question who I really am beneath the veneer of civility.

As Christmas break approaches, I find myself at a crossroads. Will I continue to drift aimlessly, indulging in apathy disguised as peace? Or will I finally confront the hollowness I’ve nurtured and learn how to live with intention again? I feel sorry for my parents and loved ones, who continue to believe in the version of me that once believed in myself. I feel sorry, too, for the fragments of friendships I’m letting fade, the versions of me I’m abandoning along the way. My reflection grows stranger each day; my eyes, once bright with curiosity, now look tired even when I smile.

And yet, despite it all, I wish for transformation. One that begins in stillness, in honesty, in small acts of choosing to care again. Next year, I hope to be someone who doesn’t just exist comfortably, but someone who lives meaningfully, even if that means beginning from the hollow place I stand now.

The Comfort of Stagnation November 14, 2021
I've been physically and physiologically lethargic the majority of the months in 2021. Simply speaking, I'm in a slump for a while, felt stagnant, yet I am oddly comfortable too. I read an unhealthy amount (800+) of manga, many of them laughably cliché, their titles too long to remember. The more I read, the more I felt like a collage of the stories I consumed, a bundle of secondhand emotions stitched together from fictional lives. I wasn’t improving, only accumulating.

By my second year of college, I had perfected the art of avoidance. I was doing only the things that gave me momentary satisfaction while quietly deteriorating underneath. I turned to nihilism for comfort. Its philosophy offered me sanity, but it never provided the energy to move forward. It’s strange how something that validates your pain can also become a trap that keeps you there.

When the world outside feels too much, I turn to fiction. Particularly, dark fiction manhwas. They are bleak, cruel, and oddly comforting. Their twisted plots and tragic endings remind me that pain is universal, that someone, even if only a fictional character, always has it worse. There’s comfort in witnessing despair that isn’t yours. Perhaps that’s why I keep reading, to be reminded that my suffering, however small, still counts as something survivable.

I'm so lucky right now to be only worrying about my career choices, and facing the dilemma of too many options and things to do but too little time. It's like I need to do this, then after a couple of minutes, I want to do that, and then this too, and then that over there. Unsurprisingly, I finished nothing at the end of the day. Oh yeah and I badly miss my friends, at the same time, I'm too exhausted to meet them. I did meet up few of my friends, I was delighted, but I felt drained after getting home. Lol. It's like 90 percent of life force was sucked out from me. I am so indecisive, to be honest.

What I truly want is peace, but it’s difficult when the greatest obstacle is myself. The mind, I’ve learned, can be both a sanctuary and a battlefield. Whether my surroundings are calm or loud, the war never really ends. And I feel like I'm slowly rotting inside. Understanding oneself sounds noble in theory, but in practice, it’s exhausting.

How to Accept Being Ugly And Dumb March 16, 2025
When I look at people, I always find something to love--
Their kindness, their laughter, the warmth in their eyes.
But when I look in the mirror, all I see is everything I despise.

There was this guy I confessed to and he replied.
Ew you are the ugliest girl that has ever talked to me.
It hurt and it taught me three things:

Your inner voice were once outside noise,
So disown them before it destroys
Be kinder with words, don’t be mean,
Because they hit, like a punch unseen.
When someone calls me conventionally unattractive
It means I'm "unconventionally attractive"
I know can't be everyone's cup of tea,
But I never fear because I’m a bottle of beer.

I thought I could outsmart insecurity.
Told myself, At least I'm smart.
But life hit me fast, I'm the dumbest in our class
Then I tell myself, It’s fine if you're ugly or dumb,
At least you’re a good person. Right? Lol. NO.

I spent years chasing things
That would make people love me,
Make me worthy in their eyes.
But the more I achieved, the emptier I felt.
And now, I have nothing--
Yet for some reason, I feel so fucking happy.

I used to think I was a star,
Destined for something bigger.
But maybe I was just a flickering lamp--
Small, quiet, easy to snuff,
And maybe that is enough.

I now sleep seven hours, non-negotiable.
Gone are the days I wore exhaustion like a crown,
As if sleep depriving made me worthy somehow.
I used to be serious, lost in the chase,
Consumed by the need to keep up the pace.
Now I just live—no pressure, no race,
Finding the magic in life’s quiet space.

Maybe I should thank the people who destroyed me,
Coz I'm now piecing myself in colors they'll never see
I ghosted my friends and family but I hope they know,
My affections for them still linger and flow
Maybe I don’t need to be great.
Maybe I don’t need to be special.
Maybe I just need to be.

I forget myself sometimes,
But I always find my way back.

How to Set Impossible Goals And Collapse December 29, 2021
I’m proud to have checked off exactly one item on my very long 2021 goals list: starting a blog as a hobby. The act of contemplating, typing, and refining my essays has been genuinely enjoyable. Yet, I discovered that the simple practice of handwriting my thoughts surpasses digital recording.

Traditional journaling feels more authentic because it resists endless revision. Each entry in my notebook carries a sense of finality, a permanence that digital platforms like Weebly lack. Writing privately allows me to be honest with myself, free from the self-consciousness that accompanies publishing online, where anyone can read and critique my words at any moment.

This year, I am also learning the subtle art of letting go. Gradually, I am decluttering my space and parting with possessions that no longer serve me. I have likewise distanced myself from certain relationships. This is not born of dislike but rather from the exhaustion of sustaining too many connections. I find that a small circle of meaningful relationships suffices, while maintaining looser, low-maintenance ties with others. In essence, I am practicing the principle of quality over quantity.

One of the most important lessons I have learned in 2021 is that life does not allow me to have everything I desire at once. Excellence in academics, improvement in drawing, participation in social gatherings, immersion in literature, regular exercise, and family time cannot all coexist without overwhelming me. Pursuing all these ambitions simultaneously leads only to holistic collapse. I have come to understand that selective sacrifice is necessary to cultivate growth and success in the areas I value most.

If I were to summarize 2021 in a single word, it would be lethargic. Procrastination and anxiety have formed a strange alliance in my daily life. I often feel exhausted even when doing very little. The reason for this perpetual fatigue eludes me, and I cannot help but laugh at its absurdity. Despite this, I feel eager to redeem myself in 2022.

I aim to pursue what I missed, embrace responsibility, and learn what it means to be a capable adult. I want to immerse myself in my accounting studies and, in time, cultivate genuine passion for my course. I hope to forge new friendships and continue offering support to those around me. For now, I will sip my lemon tea, savor this moment of reflection, and allow the day to end peacefully. Goodnight.

What to Do in Life Besides Cleaning My Room May 26, 2021
I’m in the middle of my one-week summer break when a thought flashes into my mind. Just a few days ago, during the final week of school, I declared with all the confidence I could muster that I would do everything I wanted once break arrived. Fast forward to Wednesday, and aside from cleaning my room, I haven’t done any of the things I planned. Most of my days are spent lying on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, murmuring the same question into the quiet air: What am I doing with my life?

Thinking about life feels like trying to untangle a thousand invisible threads. There’s the future and its looming uncertainty, school and its relentless obligations, family and the weight of expectation, friends and their unspoken comparisons, and distractions that blur the line between living and merely existing. I ask myself that question repeatedly, hoping that by doing so, I can make sense of where I’m headed. Maybe it’s my way of trying to maximize my time and minimize regret before everything slips away unnoticed. Eventually, some answers began to surface, and to my surprise, they weren’t grand or impossible. They were simple, almost embarrassingly so.

With roughly three thousand eight hundred days of life expectancy left, I realized what I truly want isn’t to conquer the world, but to live meaningfully within it. I want to reconnect with my old friends, maybe through a road trip, a house party, or an unplanned vacation. I want to revisit the hobbies I once forgot: playing badminton, sketching, writing poems, or learning to play a few songs on the guitar.

I want to kiss my mother goodnight every day and never miss a chance to tell her I love her. I want to laugh with my brother and offer him the best version of myself whenever he needs help. I want to meet inspiring people who ignite the part of me that still believes in growth and wonder. I want to occasionally visit distant relatives, work out not to change my body but to feel alive in it, and lend a helping hand to strangers without expecting anything in return.

If I were to measure fulfillment by these quiet intentions, I could honestly say I am living a good life. And if, by some strange twist of fate, I were to die tonight, I wouldn’t have regrets. I only wish to keep growing, slowly, intentionally, into a better person each day. I want a serene life filled with small, meaningful memories and, perhaps, a few chapters of love when the universe decides it’s time.

People see the world in countless ways. Some call life miserable, others pointless. Some see it as a blessing, while others believe it’s a cosmic accident. Yet one thing remains true: our perception of life shapes the quality of our peace.

My point is simple. Whatever it is you want to do, do it now. Never postpone joy, never underestimate time. Because if you don’t use your time today, it might quietly slip through your fingers tomorrow. And so, with four days left in my break, I plan to finally do the things I said I would. Maybe it’s not too late to live the version of life I keep promising myself.

How to Live Intentionally in the New Year January 30, 2021
Setting worthwhile intentions and feasible plans at the beginning of the year is one of my favorite practices. Taking the time to clarify who I am and what I value feels essential. Planning an end helps me determine what to say yes to and what to say no to, to recognize when I have reached my goals or when I have strayed from the path. Setting plans is not a guarantee of achievement. Yet, having no plan at all guarantees nothing will change.

The four values that mattered most to me in 2021 were Spirituality, Education, Creativity, and Relationships. Each of these areas represented a lens through which I sought growth, understanding, and fulfillment.

Spirituality

I prioritized spirituality because I wanted to confront my frequent existential doubts. I have countless big questions about life, and although books and conversations provide answers, I often doubted them. I observed that clarity comes only when I turn inward, surrendering to the Being, the Soul, or the Unknown, while trusting my own reasoning. I longed for genuine happiness, beyond the optimistic façade I often presented.

By the end of 2019, I felt lost and spiritually starved. I was torn between the fear-driven prospect of baptism and staying agnostic while continuing to inquire and investigate. Old beliefs shattered, and I experienced many unlearning and relearning moments. By the end of 2020, I had embraced the humility of knowing that I know nothing. I grew comfortable with uncertainty and observed that every person who entered my life had a lesson to offer.

In 2021, I aimed to read deeply on philosophy, spirituality, and the complexities of life. I wanted to continue exploring, diving into the unknown, and openly experiencing life’s full spectrum of joy and pain.

Education

I prioritized my college studies because I wanted to equip myself for life’s complexity after graduation. I wanted to reduce fear of adulthood and strengthen both technical competencies and professional skills.

By the end of 2019, I was carefree, cutting classes, bending rules, and seeking memorable adventures. I believed my final year of high school should be filled with playfulness, reserving responsibility and seriousness for college. By the end of 2020, I discovered that I enjoyed college far more than I expected. Writing reflection papers, analyzing accounting transactions, and completing daily tasks brought a sense of satisfaction and maturity I had not anticipated.

In 2021, I aimed to balance academics, health, and home life. I realized that my previous study habits, though effective, were not sustainable. I wanted to maintain high academic performance while attending to other dimensions of my life, preserving both well-being and scholarship eligibility.

Creativity

Creativity brought me my deepest joy. In writing, drawing, or blogging, I often lost track of time and space, reconnecting with the inner child within me. I cherished the feeling of experiencing life beyond the ordinary dimensions.

By the end of 2019, I explored my art style, composing over thirty poems and experimenting with language. Despite their flaws, I relished the creative process. By the end of 2020, I had committed to daily drawing and writing. Yet, burnout and inner critique forced me to take a break, including deleting my art account.

In 2021, I sought to integrate creativity into my studies and everyday life. I aimed to improve my writing, refine my artistic skills, and approach life with a more aesthetic mindset. Creativity, I realized, extends beyond art and poetry; it is the pursuit of better solutions and meaningful improvement in everything we do.

Relationships

I prioritized relationships because human connections are among the few constants in life. As an extrovert, I thrive on meeting new people, fostering connections, and deepening family and platonic bonds.

By the end of 2019, I attempted to reconnect with old friends, discovering that many had changed and that friendships can be seasonal. By the end of 2020, I nurtured new friendships formed in senior high, cherishing both virtual and in-person connections. I also spent more time with my beloved pets, whose presence enriched my life.

In 2021, I sought to gracefully release relationships that no longer served their purpose while deepening meaningful ones. I learned that true friendship does not require constant communication but persists despite distance or time. Genuine connections remain steadfast even when lives diverge.

Reflecting on these four areas, I recognize that living intentionally requires both clarity and courage. Spirituality grounds me, education equips me, creativity enlivens me, and relationships connect me. Together, they offer a compass for navigating life with purpose, awareness, and joy.

Moments Worth Remembering at a Family Reunion May 10, 2021
I feel profoundly grateful for the time I spent with my cousins, titas, titos, and Tatay during these unprecedented times. I recognize the privilege that allowed me to travel legally and safely, a privilege that many cannot claim. After two years of limited communication and physical distance, the reunion was unexpectedly heartwarming. Conversations flowed effortlessly, laughter returned easily, and the feeling of familiarity was immediate. Even though subtle family dramas lingered among my titas, I chose to focus on the joy of connection, reveling in playful moments with my cousins. We engaged in joke battles, performed TikTok dances, and shared stories that reminded us of our closeness despite the passage of time.

The reunion coincided with Enzo’s second birthday, and our family enjoyed a serene three-day vacation. Auntie Alma prepared sumptuous dishes at every meal, and our shared air-conditioned room comfortably accommodated sixteen people. Life during those days seemed to revolve around three things: eating, resting, and playing Bingo with the entire family. We also visited Tita Em’s home, where Nanang and Tatang welcomed us warmly. Together, we watched movies and savored small indulgences such as chocolates, ice cream, chips, and slices of bread. I remember the details vividly because I want these moments to remain etched in my memory, preserved against the inevitable fading of time.

I contributed a little to the venue preparation, and I found myself captivated by the colorful bags of sweet prizes. On the afternoon of May 2, the birthday celebration began. Everyone wore coordinated blue attire, and the program was both entertaining and extraordinary. I marveled at the emcee’s magic tricks woven seamlessly into the event, and my stomach ached repeatedly from laughter during the parlor games. Twice I tumbled from my chair, a testament to both my clumsiness and the sheer joy of the occasion.

After the festivities, we returned to Davao where Mama greeted us with her signature homemade dishes: Macaroni Sopas, Beef Steak, fried chicken, and sweet potato fries. Even though appetites were modest after the day’s excitement, no one hesitated to fill their plates generously. It is difficult to resist the comfort and delight of Mama’s cooking.

Reflecting on this time with my family, I realize that it was full of heart. The hugs, conversations, and shared laughter were priceless. Our family is not without flaws; shouts and disagreements arose, yet even these moments strengthened our bond. Each misstep and reconciliation deepened the significance of our connection. I am grateful to the Universe for allowing me these moments of joy, connection, and familial love, moments that remind me of the enduring beauty of shared human experience.

How Vincenzo Hijacked My Heart May 5, 2021
Vincenzo series finished airing its 20th and final episode. And I'm so attached to the characters, including the Guegma tenants, the Jipuragi Trio, the NIS Agents, and Hanseo. Vincenzo K-drama was my weekly happy pill. It's what pushed me through the mundane school days, knowing that Vincenzo will get released at the end of the week. I was always so excited when Saturday and Sunday arrives.

Right now, I'm experiencing withdrawal syndrome with the drama. Although I've re-watched the episodes for the third time, replayed the behind-the-scenes, and stalked the cast, I still couldn't get enough. Vincenzo series was a chef's kiss. It served comedy, action, a compelling plot, and a splash of romance and heartwarming scenes. Song Joong Ki's acting was super great. He was also very fashionably attractive and charismatic throughout the series. Hong Chayoung was so badass, fab, and tenacious that I somehow wish to be like her.

I admire Chayoung and Vincenzo in the drama as much as I love the actors, Joongki and Bennie, off-cam. The actors' personalities and their characters' personalities were opposites which I find interesting. I'm just a little sad that Joongki thinks he didn't do well enough in acting when in fact, his micro-facial expressions were very impressive. Like almost everybody, I have a big fat crush on Joongki that his face is all over my home screen, lock screen, profile picture, Instagram feeds, and phone gallery. He aged like wine, and I'm so in love with that 35-year-old elegant, eye candy, and intelligent man. Why is he so perfect?

I also loved the director, cinematographer, and screenwriter. The director's laugh was contagious. It was evident that the director was having so much fun with the cast, along with their funny adlibs. The screenwriter did a very exceptional job on the plot and satisfying cliffhangers. The cinematography on the action scenes, the emphasis on hand gestures, micro-expressions, and everything on the frames were all very outstanding. Salute to all the staff behind the Vincenzo series. I will miss everything about Vincenzo, the Zippo lighter, Kopiko candies, Inzaghi, and Cassano Guegma Family.

Vincenzo K-drama will always have a special place in my heart. I remembered, I rarely blinked an eye while watching, afraid I might miss a clue. I was continually squealing in excitement and thrill while watching, sometimes giggling and laughing too. I'm utterly grateful for this series because it's one of the reasons that drives me to wake up and push through the week. Now that Vincenzo will no longer air on upcoming weekends, I'm trying to adjust to the new routine and find a way to fill the void I'm feeling from post-Vincenzo. Although I'm at peace with the happy-realistic ending, I'm still finding it hard to let go. I will miss Vincenzo a lot.

Why Find Meaning In a Meaningless Life April 22, 2021
I am not here to sound profound. I am just here to rant, or maybe to think out loud, about why life feels both meaningless and precious at the same time.

At nineteen, I often think that life makes no sense. Before I became the kind of person who stares blankly at walls and questions the point of existence, I used to be baffled by people who got deeply depressed. I would think, why can’t you just be happy? Happiness seemed like a choice, not a mystery. But now that I’ve joined the ranks, I realize how naïve that thought was. Sadness can be strangely comfortable. It lures you in until you no longer remember what “normal” felt like. Maybe this is what melancholy truly is, not just sadness, but the familiarity of it.

What makes it even more confusing is how contradictory I’ve become. Just last March, I was overflowing with gratitude for life. I wrote poetic things about sunsets, friendships, and serendipity. Now, I stare at the same sky and think, what’s the point? That’s the irony of being human, our emotions are seasonal, shifting without permission. One day, you’re basking in light; the next, you’re convinced the sun will never rise again. But I’ve learned that every phase deserves to be honored, even the dark ones.

Looking back, I think my endless K-drama marathons weren’t just procrastination. They were my escape. Escapism, as if reality were too heavy to hold. It sounds harmless until you realize how deep it goes, when you start breathing through panic just to return to the present moment. I’ve had nights when I laughed and cried at the imaginary scenes in my head as though they were real, and mornings when I felt detached from my own body. Sometimes I think I’m going insane from overanalyzing the condition of my soul.

Yet after each spiral, I return to one reminder: life is short. Terrifyingly short. If I keep doing things that drain me, I am quietly wasting it. The future is uncertain, but I have faith that I’ll find my way. Worrying too much feels like a cruel way to spend the only life I have. If existence truly has no inherent meaning, then maybe the most meaningful act is to create joy out of the mess, to do what I love, and do it relentlessly.

And then, of course, there’s college. Oh, college. That word alone could be an entire genre of pain. Every time I hit a low point in my major courses, when numbers blur, formulas mock me, and comprehension feels impossible, I begin to doubt every decision I’ve ever made. It stings more because I used to be “the gifted kid.” I was told I was smart, capable, exceptional. But no one tells you that giftedness doesn’t protect you from failure. No one prepares you for the moment you start struggling and realize that being praised for your potential does not guarantee anything.

Still, maybe that’s the quiet wisdom in all this confusion: life is not supposed to make sense all the time. It’s supposed to be felt, endured, questioned, and sometimes, simply survived. Meaning isn’t something we find, it’s something we make. And on the days I forget that, I remind myself that even in the absurdity, the fact that I’m here, thinking about all this, already makes life precious.

How Do We Measure a Year Lost May 15, 2021
I could not believe that three months of 2021 had already passed. Last March marked one year of lockdown, and I had imagined my eighteenth year would be a milestone. Instead, it was personally uneventful. The world was quarantined, and thousands of people were dying every day. Whenever I tried to watch the news, I only saw COVID case counts and death rates, a relentless tally that left little room for hope.

It was difficult to feel inspired during such an unprecedented time. The scale of the world’s problems was overwhelming, leaving me emotionally exhausted and eventually apathetic. My sympathy and compassion for others began to feel useless, knowing I could do little beyond trying to preserve my own sanity. Why worry about what I cannot change? It seemed only to double my suffering.

Life had changed in so many ways, yet so little had occurred in practice. I did not draw, write poetry, exercise, or read books. Gradually, I became a sedentary observer of my own days, lying in bed for half the day, eating constantly, and binge-watching sixteen episodes of a K-drama every two days. After finishing a series, I would stare at the wall and ask myself what I was doing. Silence became the most honest answer. And in those quiet moments, small epiphanies would emerge.

Getting out of bed each morning felt like the struggle of a beetle crawling over a great obstacle. My only motivation was impending deadlines. I broke down twice in front of my mother, overwhelmed by the mental weight of it all. The hardest part was realizing that others were suffering more, which made me invalidate my own feelings. I reminded myself constantly that I should be grateful rather than complain.

Yet, I was fortunate to have a loving and understanding mother. She welcomed my tears and frustrations, comforting me with hugs and words of encouragement. "Take one step at a time. Live one day at a time," she would say. When I pray, I often ask for her safety in her travels rather than for grades or achievements. My love for her has become a quiet anchor. Nights feel empty when she is away, and her presence is a balm to the strangeness of these months.

Reflecting on my alignment with my goals, I would rate myself six out of ten. I survived midterms, stayed in touch with friends, and created cherished memories with my family. Yet I did nothing creative; I did not draw, write poems, or read books, and I abandoned my exercise routine. Still, I endured. I maintained my sanity amidst one of the strangest periods of my life, and for that, I must raise a quiet toast to survival, perseverance, and the small yet significant acts of self-care that kept me moving forward.

What Does It Mean to Truly Live April 6, 2021
After five days of endless homework and sleepless nights, I collapsed into a fog of exhaustion. For three straight days, I did nothing but lie in bed and binge-watch the K-drama W: Two Worlds. I had carefully planned my Saturday, but not a single task was accomplished. In those empty days, I began to wonder: What kind of life do I actually want to live? This question has haunted me for years, yet every time I think I’ve found an answer, it slips away like water through my fingers. I realized that reflecting, just like healing, is not a single revelation but an unending process. Each time I shed an old version of myself, my idea of “meaning” shifts with it.

They say pain is inevitable and suffering is a choice. I’ve always found that quote both wise and irritating. There’s this romantic notion that life’s purpose is found through struggle, that the more we suffer, the more we grow. I used to believe that. I thought the universe kept a ledger, that my misery would one day be rewarded with something divine. But waiting for that reward only made me numb. It taught me to postpone joy, as if happiness were a prize rather than a state of being. Eventually, I stopped buying into the myth that suffering is sacred. People often glorify their pain, as though endurance itself guarantees wisdom. But maybe wisdom is simply realizing that we have the power to choose what wounds us and what teaches us.

The first thing I want now is simplicity. I dream of owning two-thirds of my time each day, a life free from the constant hum of busyness. I want to dance around my room, take long baths, play with my pets, stare blankly at walls, and spend quiet hours with people I love. To many, that might sound lazy. But to me, it sounds like freedom. Modern life treats stillness as sin and productivity as virtue. Everyone is rushing to achieve, to build, to prove something, while quietly forgetting how to exist. My father used to scold me for taking breaks, saying, “Stay busy. You’ll have plenty of rest when you die.” For a while, I believed him. Now, I think the opposite is true: if we never rest, we never truly live.

When I ponder why we exist, I always circle back to the same truth: humans complicate everything. We chase milestones that eventually fade, piling achievements like trophies in a museum no one will visit. I think we’re simply here to love and to enjoy the miracle of being alive. That’s all I want, to practice compassion, to release judgment, and to savor the small, fleeting joys that make life tender. The second thing I want is experience. I was lucky to have a childhood filled with music, art, and laughter, thanks to my mother’s habit of enrolling me in random classes. Those moments stitched warmth into my memory, and I want more of that. I want to collect experiences the way some people collect stamps, with each one tells a story about who I was at the time.

And finally, I want contentment. A simple life where happiness blooms from ordinary things, sunlight streaming through the window, flowers after rain, a full fridge, a clean home, a healthy mother, a soft bed, a few good friends, and a piece of chocolate melting slowly on my tongue. I don’t crave luxury or titles anymore. I just want “enough”. That’s what I think it means to truly live, to live so gently and deliberately that meaning reveals itself in the tiniest moments.

My Five Extraordinary Friends March 29, 2021
My Senior High School years often feel like living inside a Wattpad story. I did a lot of reckless things and collected countless memories, but the most vivid ones revolve around five extraordinary friends: Shea Blest, Shabby, Mia, Grace, and April. Together, we became inseparable, spending lunch breaks, skipping classes, pulling pranks, and even intruding queues like a perfectly uncivilized team. We only had one house party at Shabby’s place, yet it remains unforgettable, a testament to our bond.

Being with Shea meant a balance of laughter and nonsensical conversations. Fifty percent of our time was spent laughing, the other fifty immersed in absurd jokes. We shared the latest memes and schemed our next adventures, sometimes even pretending to be sick just to collect pills and painkillers while easing our tuition expenses.

Grace and I were opposites in every way. I was optimistically insensitive, while she approached life with a cautious pessimism. Our personalities often clashed, resulting in occasional arguments. Yet every conflict ended in a long hug, revealing the depth of our understanding and strengthening our connection. Riding home together, we would sing indie songs, turning ordinary commutes into moments of intimacy.

Shabby was like a protagonist from a novel, admired by everyone yet profoundly reserved. While others saw her perfection, I recognized her thoughtfulness and warmth. Her personality unfolded in layers, and two years of friendship barely scratched the surface. Nevertheless, she remains one of the most remarkable people I have ever known.

Mia and April brought different flavors to our circle. With April, I shared a love for workouts and diets. She was the party girl, often missing in action but unforgettable when present. Mia’s laughter was iconic, and she, alongside Grace, shared a passion for athletics, particularly volleyball. Faith and awareness also shaped our dynamics. Shea and Mia found meaning in discussing the wisdom of the Bible, while Shabby acted as our newsletter, always up-to-date on political issues and current events. Our differing perspectives never divided us; instead, they encouraged respect and enriched our conversations.

We celebrated one another with intentionality and humor. Shea’s birthday left her in tears from laughter, while Shabby’s birthday banner resembled a funeral poster in the most hilarious way. Grace’s birthday was a mix of pranks and challenges, including a medal awarded by Shabby as a playful reward. Every gesture reflected the joy we found in each other. Out of nowhere, we named our sisterhood Flatters. Every lunch outing involved twenty minutes of indecision over where to eat. Our post-meal ritual always included trips to the comfort room, where pranks and giggles marked the passage of time.

Two years of daily lunches may sound repetitive, yet those moments were extraordinary. We laughed, schemed, backstabbed teachers, shared memes, debated ideas, and supported one another through life’s frustrations. And then, one day, we realized we were having our last lunch together. Friendship, I learned, is not just shared laughter. It is the intricate weaving of personalities, differences, and experiences that makes ordinary days extraordinary.

What Does It Mean to Celebrate Life March 29, 2021
Last March 27, 2021, I turned nineteen. The day unfolded with quiet simplicity, yet it carried a profound sense of bliss. I spent the morning studying Accounting while laundering two piles of dirty clothes. I washed dishes, tidied the house, and completed my usual chores. Despite the routine, I felt unusually alive. I had finally understood the Receivable Financing lesson, was so productive with the household chores, and unexpectedly, many of my friends remembered my birthday and greeted me with long sweet messages and warm wishes.

Mama was the first to greet me, as always, whispering “Happy Birthday” before dozing back to sleep. She has a way of marking these moments that makes them feel sacred. Later, my mother, brother, and I ventured to the mall, our first outing together in over a year of lockdown. We feasted at Tong Yang, savoring a dozen different dishes and decadent desserts, sharing laughter and stories. The afternoon continued with shopping at Watson’s and Bench, capturing dozens of fleeting moments in photographs, before ending with two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts purchased by Mama.

When I returned home, I replied to each friend who had taken a moment to send love and wishes. As the day concluded, I realized that this birthday had been my happiest yet. There were no strangers visiting as on my eighteenth birthday, nor the loneliness of my seventeenth. I celebrated surrounded by family, with friends who reminded me of the value of my existence.

I am grateful to the Universe for guiding me through the past nineteen years. More than anything, I am thankful that the constant weight of existential worry has lessened. I have begun to reprioritize what truly matters, awakening from the autopilot life I once led. Small joys, studying a challenging lesson, completing chores, walking with family, sharing laughter, have become sources of happiness. I am no longer running the same race I once thought I had to win. I accept the cards I have been dealt in this life with gratitude. Each day offers a quiet opportunity to feel, to reflect, and to grow. For this, I thank God, and I thank life itself.

Love, Chesca

Is Losing Myself in Stories a Way to Find Myself Feb 15, 2021
Lately, I’ve been binge-watching Lucifer on Netflix. That in itself is strange because I’ve always disliked movies and series. I used to see them as time-stealers, mere distractions from real life. I prided myself on being selective with what I consume, believing that only intellectually or practically useful information deserved my attention. But somewhere along the line, the structure I clung to, the neat schedules, the endless productivity, the predictability, became suffocating. I felt like I was living the same day on repeat.

So, for the first time, I gave in. I clicked play.

One episode turned into two, two into five, and before I knew it, I had finished all five seasons in four days. My homework sat untouched, my virtual classes skipped. When the final episode ended, a strange emptiness replaced my excitement. I wasn’t just sad because the show was over. I was heartbroken. It was as if a small world I had lived in for days suddenly vanished. I had fallen in love with a fictional character and grown attached to people who didn’t exist, figments of someone else’s imagination. The realization felt both ridiculous and painful.

It struck me how deeply we can feel for things we know aren’t real. What kind of hunger in us reaches out to fiction, only to ache when it ends? Perhaps, it wasn’t the show that hooked me, but the escape it offered. Watching Lucifer wasn’t just entertainment; it was a refuge from my own disquiet. I wasn’t ready to face the silent dread that waited when I wasn’t busy, my fear of meaninglessness, the thought that everything I do might ultimately lead nowhere. So, instead of confronting my own “existential daddy issues,” I indulged in Lucifer Morningstar’s.

At this point in my life, I find myself strangely detached from the usual anxieties that once fueled me. I no longer lose sleep over grades or obsess over building the perfect résumé. The idea of a “successful” future feels hollow when I picture the inevitable end of it all, the deathbed moment where titles, productivity, and prestige dissolve into irrelevance. Yet, that realization doesn’t bring peace. It brings fear of a different kind. If the things that once gave my life structure and purpose no longer matter, what’s left? What will make waking up tomorrow feel necessary? There’s a peculiar terror in realizing you’ve stopped chasing the very illusions that used to keep you alive. Maybe that’s what fiction gives us, a temporary illusion that feels real enough to remind us how to feel again. Through Lucifer’s drama, pain, and redemption, I glimpsed a reflection of my own internal struggle, the desire to understand, to find meaning, to feel something, just anything, deeply.

Finding Beauty in Simple Moments March 24, 2021
I woke up at five in the morning with a long list of tasks ahead, yet my anxiety was softened by the beauty surrounding me. The midnight blue sky was slowly giving way to bright white light, and I paused to watch the world transition. Mama was watering her plants, and the purple flowers and green leaves looked vibrant and renewed under the soft morning glow.

Roosters announced the sunrise with their familiar song, while four dogs chased each other playfully down the street. From the nearby yard, neighbors moved in rhythm, performing Zumba dances and sharing the joy of one another’s company. Stepping outside, Jemma, our cat, greeted me mid-path with a persistent meow, anticipating her morning meal. I fed her, then gave Georgia and Jemma Dog their portions of food. Finally, I prepared myself a simple bowl of cereal and a cup of black coffee. I ate mindfully, taking deep breaths to quiet my wandering thoughts whenever they threatened to disrupt the serenity of the moment.

The morning unfolded beautifully, and my gratitude only deepened when I heard that Tita Lab had given birth to a healthy baby the previous day. I prayed for blessings upon their new chapter, and I felt an almost tangible joy in their happiness. Reflecting on my own life, I realized how simple pleasures shape our sense of fulfillment. The world, when observed closely, offers countless small wonders. A simple sunrise, the sound of laughter, or the sight of playful animals can be as satisfying, or more so, than the pursuit of grandiose or shallow ambitions.

Time, in its steady flow, has made every second of existence feel precious. Moments like these remind me that life’s richness lies not in accumulation or spectacle, but in attentive presence. It is in noticing and appreciating these fleeting instants that one discovers true contentment. I am thankful to the Universe for this peaceful existence, for mornings that promise renewal, and for a life in which simplicity and wonder coexist so harmoniously.

Why Attending Class Feels Like a Waste of Time February 2, 2021
It is confusing to realize that I love school because I genuinely enjoy learning, yet I consistently dislike the act of attending class. In the past, the daily commute alone, losing two hours to traffic, felt like a punishment. Then, arriving in class, teachers would often simply read their PowerPoints aloud and hand out activities. Couldn’t we accomplish the same at home? Why must we wade through routine procedures instead of diving straight into the substance of learning, the part that requires a teacher’s expertise?

I often wonder whether the inefficiency of class attendance makes me prefer self-study. Studying alone is freeing. It is less anxious, more flexible, and genuinely enjoyable. There is no competition, no comparison, no unsolicited anecdotes from teachers, and no distractions from classmates. It is a private space where learning feels like a choice rather than an obligation.

My frustration with traditional class structures has only intensified during months of virtual learning. Professors reading presentations online and expecting competitive participation for “brownie points” feels absurd. I am not here to collect points or perform under artificial pressures. I am here to learn meaningfully and on my own terms. Life, I believe, holds more responsibilities than being confined to the artificial ecosystem of a college classroom.

I am grateful for the online learning system, despite the circumstances that necessitated it. I hope that even after the pandemic, students might still have the option to continue online learning. Though I identify as an extrovert in certain social settings, my personality is paradoxical. I neither crave social outings nor derive energy from casual interactions. I enjoy my own company immensely, whether wandering the city alone or spending an entire day in my room. Yet, when social circumstances demand it, I can be animated and talkative. Beneath that outward sociability lies a deeply anxious self, wary of being truly seen.

Online classes, therefore, suit me perfectly. They remove the pressure to socialize unnecessarily, creating a space where I can learn without the performance of belonging. They reveal a larger question: if learning is the ultimate goal, why must it be tethered to physical presence or enforced social engagement?

God Is Socially Constructed to Comfort the Ego January 23, 2021
There are moments in life when the floor beneath your convictions gives way. For me, that moment is now. I experienced what psychologists call the Dunning-Kruger effect, the cognitive bias where one overestimates their knowledge until reality humbles them. I used to believe I had everything figured out: morality, spirituality, even the nature of God. But then came a series of inner collapses that dismantled everything I thought I knew. What replaced it was not certainty, but awe and a kind of painful clarity.

I used to picture God as a powerful old man on a throne, bearded and robed, a divine bureaucrat who rewarded good behavior and punished sin. My childhood faith taught me that He monitored human virtue like a moral auditor, deeply concerned with our obedience and purity, especially a woman’s virginity. But as I grew older, this image began to feel absurd. Imagine, I thought, a creator who orchestrated galaxies, black holes, and the quantum existence, yet obsesses over whether a speck of carbon-based life on a small planet followed a moral checklist. Would such an infinite being really be preoccupied with human taboos?

The more I questioned, the more my inherited faith unraveled. It was terrifying. To let go of beliefs that once gave me security felt like erasing the foundation of my identity. I was ashamed of how stubbornly I clung to illusions, mistaking familiarity for truth. But in that unraveling came liberation. I realized that my previous idea of God wasn’t divine, it was human. A reflection of our need to control the unknown, to imagine the infinite in our image.

I won’t tell you what God truly is. That’s something no one can define for another. But I’ve come to understand God as being itself—formless, genderless, silent awareness. The divine, to me, isn’t somewhere “up there,” judging or rewarding. It’s the consciousness that allows existence to be perceived at all.

This shift didn’t come from reading holy texts or listening to priests. It came from questioning. From sitting with discomfort and admitting that maybe I don’t know anything at all. Truth cannot be borrowed, it must be experienced. Books can point, but they can’t show. Authority can preach, but it can’t reveal. You have to dive into your own uncertainty and see what remains when every belief dissolves.

I used to fear death, clinging to comforting images of heaven and hell. But now I see them as metaphors, not destinations. They describe states of consciousness, not geographical locations. Heaven is the peace that comes when the ego dissolves; hell is the turmoil when it refuses to. The soul doesn’t need gates or flames, it creates both within itself.

Looking at the night sky, I’m reminded of how insignificant we are. Our solar system is a single pixel in an infinite cosmic canvas. If Earth were to vanish tomorrow, the universe would continue expanding, unbothered, magnificent. How could I ever think that heaven and hell, concepts born in one small corner of one small planet, contain the fullness of existence?

The truth is, we don’t know what we don’t know. And that’s both frightening and beautiful. Certainty is comfortable, but it’s the enemy of understanding. Every time we decide we’ve solved the mystery, we stop listening to it. Perhaps wisdom isn’t about having answers, but about learning to live gracefully with the vastness of not knowing.

Is the Law of Attraction That Problematic January 9, 2021
When I was sixteen, I discovered the Law of Attraction, and I found it incredibly appealing. The idea that one could shape reality through thoughts and feelings felt almost magical. I was drawn to the promise that consistent positive thinking would attract only positive experiences. Indeed, I did manifest many things I desired, some surprisingly specific. Yet, despite these successes, I began to notice troubling consequences of this philosophy.

One of the most concerning aspects is the implicit culture of victim blaming. The Law of Attraction suggests that we create our own reality. By extension, it implies that we are responsible for everything and everyone that enters our lives. If taken to its extreme, this logic would mean that victims of abuse or crime somehow brought these experiences upon themselves, consciously or unconsciously. Such a framework dangerously erases accountability and shifts blame to those who are harmed rather than those who cause harm.

The philosophy also encourages the suppression of negative emotions. Believing that negative thoughts attract negative outcomes, I became fearful of feeling sadness, anger, or frustration. For years, I forced myself to remain cheerful, repressing the very emotions that make us human. In the long run, this relentless positivity damaged my mental health more than it protected me from misfortune.

Another problem lies in the pseudoscientific veneer of the Law of Attraction. It is called a “law,” and its proponents often invoke terms like “quantum energy” to lend it credibility. Many cite Dr. Masaru Emoto’s experiments with water as evidence, yet Emoto was a practitioner of alternative medicine with a degree from an unaccredited institution, and his experiments have been widely criticized for lacking scientific rigor. The more I examined these claims, the less they held up under scrutiny.

The Law of Attraction also reveals a striking self-interest in its application. Most practitioners focus on manifesting personal gains: wealth, relationships, career success, or physical appearance. Few consider larger societal goals, such as ending poverty, global health crises, or inequality. It often appears to work only in service of individual desires rather than collective benefit.

Finally, the Law of Attraction is unfalsifiable. When it seems not to work, the fault is always placed on the believer: insufficient belief, inner resistance, lack of desire, and so on. This endless cycle of self-blame ensures that the philosophy never truly fails its adherents.

In practice, the benefits of the Law of Attraction rarely extend to those who believe in it. The greatest gains consistently accrue to the preachers, authors, coaches, and business owners who monetize the ideology. Millions are made selling the promise of empowerment while the believers themselves remain entangled in an alluring but ultimately hollow philosophy.

Reflecting on my experience, I recognize that the Law of Attraction is seductive because it appeals to our desire for control and optimism. Yet beneath its glittering surface lies a framework that can harm, mislead, and exploit.

How to Make Life Bearable February 15, 2021
This too shall pass.

I often imagine tattooing these words on my arm, as a permanent reminder that nothing is everlasting. Everything is temporary and fleeting. One of the most exquisite truths of life is its impermanence. Death and discontinuity give time its value; every second becomes precious, every experience irreplaceable. Keeping this phrase in mind has taught me two crucial lessons. First, it allows me to detach from difficult circumstances. No matter how terrible a situation may seem, I remind myself that it too will pass. The heaviness of the moment is temporary, and by acknowledging this, I can endure without losing perspective. Second, it has taught me to cherish the moments of joy and connection as they arise. Happiness is transient, often rare, and its fleeting nature demands our full presence. To be fully present is to treasure life while it is happening, rather than clinging to it or letting it slip unnoticed.

There is no past or future, only the present.

This realization came from reading Eckhart Tolle, particularly The Power of Now and A New Earth. Both books emphasize that time, as we experience it, is an illusion. The past is colored by our emotions, interpretations, and assumptions, rarely resembling the events as they truly occurred. Similarly, the future exists only in our minds through projections, fears, or hopes. The only reality is the abundant and timeless present. Unfortunately, many of us live unconsciously in this psychological time, fixated on what was or what might be, while neglecting what is. We wander through life like sleepwalkers, blind to the immediacy of now.

Zoom out from the earth.

Whenever I am consumed by worry, anxiety, or self-recrimination, I imagine taking a step back from my physical body, rising above the city, the country, and the continent, until I see the planet in its entirety, a small blue orb, flecked with green, suspended in darkness. From this vantage, my worries shrink to insignificance. The petty dramas of daily life pale against the vastness of existence. This exercise reminds me that our anxieties often arise from treating minor events as monumental. From a broader perspective, the things we fear or obsess over are trivial. Fear diminishes, and a quiet courage replaces it, allowing us to move forward without unnecessary burden.

Live every day as if it is your last.

I used to interpret this motto as a call to savor every moment or hold tightly to every experience. Now I understand it differently. It is not about clinging to life but about accepting it as it comes, even its discomforts. When faced with a situation I would rather avoid, I remind myself that if today were truly my last day, resistance and irritation would serve no purpose. Letting circumstances unfold without opposition is a quiet way to live fully.

How do you eat an elephant? Piece by piece.

As someone driven to be productive, I am often tempted to tackle everything at once, only to feel overwhelmed and exhausted. Breaking tasks into smaller, manageable steps reminds me to enjoy the process rather than rush through it. It is better to move forward steadily, with consistent effort, than to burn out by attempting to give everything at once. This perspective transforms overwhelm into a series of achievable moments.

Life, in its essence, is a series of passing moments, each valuable in its own right. By embracing impermanence, practicing presence, and approaching challenges incrementally, we allow ourselves to move through existence with awareness and grace.

How College is Making Us Dumb February 1, 2021
I hate college. Not the campus or the social life, but the system itself. Professors constantly compare us, labeling some as promising and others as failures. They decide who has potential and who is a waste of time. The worst part is how much weight we give to their opinions. We cling to compliments and recoil from criticism as if our self-worth depends entirely on their judgment. But life is not a single race. It is a set of overlapping paths, and no authority can declare a universal winner or loser.

Everyone is a mix of strengths and weaknesses. Some students excel at every written exam. I try to emulate their habits but often fail, and yet I remind myself that grades are not the sole measure of value. Perhaps I am talented in ways that cannot be quantified by tests.

Education should teach us how to think, not just how to memorize. It should cultivate intelligence rather than cleverness. True learning allows us to grow into our unique selves instead of producing replicas of the generation before us. But when education rewards conformity and punishes deviation, where is the intelligence in that?

I resent the constant pressure to perform according to a system of rewards and punishments. College is supposed to prepare us for the complexities of life, not burden us with information that evaporates the moment an exam ends. Yet competitiveness is celebrated, ambition is applauded, and those who conform best are praised. But ambition often comes at a cost. A competitive person measures success by others’ failures. Happiness becomes relative and fragile, for there will always be someone better than you.

I want to learn freely, to explore ideas without fear, to grow organically rather than being molded into a predetermined image. The current education system favors imitation over innovation, producing generations who replicate the mistakes of the past. True evolution requires freedom, not conformity.

(End of rant)

Can Escapism Teach Us About Ourselves February 26, 2021
We all experience days when getting out of bed feels like triumph and days when even existing feels unbearable. Sadly, life does not provide a logout button. We cannot pause, disappear, or skip ahead until we feel ready. Simply surviving the day is often undervalued in a culture obsessed with productivity.

For me, this challenge stretched beyond a single day, it spanned an entire month.

February was a curious paradox: simultaneously lovely and lazy. I neglected my studies, procrastinated, and allowed myself to drift aimlessly. In place of assignments, I binged five romantic comedies. Touch Your Heart, Lucifer, Love O20, It's Okay Not to Be Okay, and Legend of the Blue Sea. I laughed, cried, and surrendered to the whimsical world they offered. I write now in the hope that my future self will remember how her eighteen-year-old version navigated life. Honestly, I was happy and serene, distracted and dreamy, with intermittent moments of indifference.

I was overwhelmed by internal anxieties and struggles, yet I chose diversion instead of confrontation. Romantic comedies became my temporary sanctuary, offering a playful and absurdly funny alternative to the weight of reality. Unlike the anxious obsessions that had consumed me in January, my fantasies were gentle and delightful. The stories allowed me to disconnect, to dwell in a world that was wholly different from my own, even if only temporarily.

Yet, reality inevitably reasserted itself. After completing the series, I woke to the truth of my existence: I am an eighteen-year-old with a comfortable ordinary life, overdue accounting assignments, and responsibilities I had momentarily abandoned. In the detachment of fantasy, I had almost forgotten gratitude for the life I live.

February was a month of pause, a braking of the relentless pace. It felt like residing in a fourth dimension, removed from time and expectation. I am not proud of my laziness or lack of discipline. However, I am grateful for the experience. In allowing myself this escape, I tasted love, humor, and joy in their simplest forms. I was reminded that even small, seemingly indulgent diversions can illuminate parts of ourselves we rarely acknowledge. Sometimes, stepping back from reality is not failure but a way to rediscover what makes life worth experiencing.

What Peace Look Like When You Finally Find It March 16, 2021
The day I used to wish for has finally arrived. It’s today. I’ve reached a point in life where tomorrow doesn’t frighten me anymore, and every day feels like Sunday. I’m on the last pages of my eighteenth year, and as I write this, I want to capture how peaceful, obscure, and serene life has become. It feels far removed from the chaotic days when my family’s life was a blur of noise and exhaustion, when taking a nap was a sin. I do not know how long this quiet chapter will last, but I write this with gratitude that it exists at all.

My days begin gently. I sleep for eight or nine hours, with a 30-minute nap in the afternoon, something my younger self would have considered a luxury. I wake up at seven, prepare two cups of black coffee, one for myself, one for Mama. It’s our small ritual, a shared silence that says more than conversation could. We eat breakfast at eleven, lunch at three, and tea with bread for dinner. Mama’s weekends are often filled with laughter, either with friends visiting her or her going out to meet them.

When she’s home, she tends to her garden. Every morning, I watch her water the plants, the sunlight brushing her face, her gestures patient and unhurried. The sight grounds me. It’s a moving portrait of peace. Then there’s my brother, forever the mayhem to her calm. He provokes her just enough to get scolded daily. Their constant bickering has an odd affection to it that I’ve started to think they’re soulmates.

Our home is dusty and imperfect, yet it radiates warmth. There are only three of us in this big house, but it feels full, almost crowded, with our many companions. The dogs, Jemma, Macky, Swabe, and Georgia, rule the space like mischievous children. My cat, also named Jemma, is aloof unless food is involved. And then there are the plants, lush, thriving, and somehow just as much part of the family. Together, they make the house feel alive, noisy in the best way.

Gratitude feels too small a word for what fills me these days. It’s as if I’m living in the very dream I once whispered in my prayers. I used to long for our lives to slow down, for Mama to experience lazy Sundays without guilt, for our home to breathe again. God must have heard me because now, every day feels like that long-awaited weekend.

I’m in university now, a stage I used to dread. Throughout high school, I braced myself for the hardships of college, especially as an accounting student. But here I am, oddly enjoying the struggle. My professor terrifies me enough to keep me sharp, and my to-do list journal drags me out of bed more effectively than any alarm. There’s a certain beauty in the discipline, a sense of movement that doesn’t disrupt the peace I’ve found.

Maybe peace isn’t about the absence of struggle, but the presence of rhythm, like the moments when laughter echoes after a scolding. I once thought peace was a destination. Now I realize it’s a habit: a way of living and giving thanks. And today, I think I’ve finally arrived.

Why I Deleted All My Social Media Accounts January 16, 2021
The last day of December 2020 was exhausting. We spent the entire day preparing extravagant meals meant for twenty people, even though only five of us would eat them. The purpose was simple: to look fancy in our New Year’s Eve photos and post them online, just like almost everyone else.

It is disturbing how my family appears so happy, loving, and luxurious in these photos when, in reality, ninety-five percent of our day is spent with our heads individually glued to our phones. As I scrolled through my feed and saw similar smiling family snapshots, I wondered how many of those moments were genuine. Was it only my family struggling with this social dilemma, or is this the silent reality behind the curated joy of so many feeds?

My relationship with social media has always been tumultuous. Whenever I notice myself slipping into unhealthy patterns, I impulsively delete all my accounts, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook. This ritual repeated annually for three years. What makes my relationship unhealthy is not mere usage but the ways it shaped my sense of self: tying self-worth to likes and comments, comparing my life to others’ highlight reels, striving to maintain a polished digital identity, and spending hours scrolling thoughtlessly through endless feeds. Admitting this is uncomfortable, even shameful. Yet awareness is the first step, and acknowledgment allows me to take full responsibility for my habits.

Over the years, I have observed a consistent truth. Each time I unplug, it feels as if an invisible weight is lifted from my shoulders. For brief, precious moments, I feel authentically myself. No matter how much I strive to be truthful online, I unconsciously filter parts of my personality to be liked. I edit, censor, and perform, even in spaces I consider safe. My digital persona, no matter how genuine it tries to be, will never capture the full complexity of who I am. And yet, people often assume they know me based solely on this curated online version.

This realization has led me to an executive decision. I will stay away from all social media platforms and resist creating new accounts. Social media can be a useful tool, but for me, the cons far outweigh the pros. Platforms are deliberately designed to be addictive, and I lack the self-control to resist their pull. More importantly, I have learned that my sense of authenticity and freedom thrives in spaces unmediated by screens and external validation.

Am I Studying Accounting or Contemplating the Void May 20, 2021
Recently, I completed my first two semesters in college, and I find myself reflecting on the experience. College life has been far from what I expected. During the first month, I approached each task with diligence and creativity, pouring my energy into every output. Burnout came quickly and unexpectedly, and before long, it became a frequent companion.

One factor contributing to this was the structure of online classes. Every Monday, activities are dumped into our emails, each with deadlines just three to five days away. I tend to finish everything in a day or two, driven by the desire for longer rest days. In some ways, online classes offer more freedom than face-to-face learning. There are no obligatory club activities, no exhausting commutes, and no extraneous obligations that demand energy better spent elsewhere.

College, I realize, is not inherently difficult when you have a clear vision for your future and the financial means to pursue it. I am extraordinarily fortunate to have received a full scholarship from the SM Foundation, which covers my tuition for four years and provides a monthly allowance. I cannot help but feel a quiet awe at the generosity that has allowed me to focus on learning without the burden of financial worry. My mother also provides unwavering support, offering comforting words and hugs when the weight of existence feels particularly heavy.

The challenges I face are not intellectual but existential. The lessons themselves rarely trouble me. What proves difficult is maintaining focus and resisting distraction. Sometimes, in moments of quiet reflection, existential questions rise unbidden. There is a strange emptiness that appears when the mind stops racing after long periods of overthinking. I often fall into a spiral of subtle cynicism, not from fatigue, but from an awareness of my own overactive consciousness.

Despite these occasional philosophical wanderings, I have discovered practical strategies that make learning manageable. Accounting, like many fields, offers a wealth of resources. I supplement my lessons with YouTube tutorials and admit that I occasionally accept help from friends during quizzes. I am not a saint, but I have learned that collaboration and shared knowledge can make the learning process richer and less isolating.

At first, I approached college with individualism and aloofness, convinced that solitude was preferable. This changed when I connected with fellow students online. Studying alongside them made challenges more bearable and college life unexpectedly enjoyable. Each person contributes something unique, and I find satisfaction in being useful and needed. There is a quiet joy in mutual reliance that I had underestimated before.

Overall, college has proven to be both easier and more rewarding than senior high. The requirements feel practical and closely tied to my chosen field. The number of subjects per semester is manageable, and I have been fortunate to encounter considerate and compassionate professors. College, for me, has become not only an intellectual pursuit but also a social and personal journey, one that teaches resilience, collaboration, and gratitude.

This is my college life so far: a mix of discipline and leisure, solitude and connection, practical learning and existential reflection. It is both simpler and more complex than I anticipated, and I continue to navigate it with curiosity and cautious optimism.

Why Men Are Nice for No Reason? December 15, 2025
Recently, I’ve had some awkward but wholesome encounters with men, and I want to share those silly and embarrassing moments.

Last Wednesday, I was hopping onto a jeepney on my way to school. I was looking around and realized there wasn’t enough space to sit. A guy on my left gave up his seat, and the person next to him asked everyone to make space for me. I was so embarrassed about accidentally drawing unnecessary attention that I unconsciously covered my face with my hair, and I swear I looked like Sadako the whole ride. And I forgot to say thank you to them.

Then, during lunch, I went to the cafeteria to get a drink and had a hard time opening the bottle. I didn’t realize how obvious my struggle was until a guy came up and held out his hand. My brain was slow to catch up, but I handed him my drink anyway. He opened it nonchalantly, gave it back to me, and walked away (no words were exchanged between us) And again, I forgot to say thank you. I really wish the universe would warn me whenever men are about to be nice to me for no reason, so I can mentally prepare myself.

A couple of days ago, I was walking at noon, melting under the relentless sun, when suddenly a shadow of an umbrella fell across my feet. When I raised my head, I met eyes with a stranger, and he asked me where I was heading. I pointed to where, and he accompanied me there while we were under an umbrella. Tho he emphasized he's walking towards the same direction anyway. I was painfully shy during the walk, drenched in sweat and probably not smelling my best.

My favorite thing about these encounters tho is knowing I’ll probably never cross paths with them again. They feel like a brief chapter in my life that I can look back on and think, damn, I really am a girl. I really am a woman, lol. And oh my God, I forgot to say thank you to the umbrella guy too!

I hate how my brain lags whenever I interact (in person) with strangers, especially men. I end up feeling like a robot that doesn’t know how to respond because there’s no existing data in my head to guide me.

However, it’s not the same online. A few months ago, one of my favorite things to do was talk to strangers and discover interesting people at night. It was so random, sometimes a kid rambling about Roblox for hours, other times a man in his 40s crying about not treating his wife better, maybe thinking venting to a stranger would help, or a girl I instantly clicked with.

The most beautiful part of these encounters was knowing that after dawn, we’d probably never talk again. It’s like a one-night stand, but a wholesome one. However, I don’t always get to connect with normal people, ‘cause I’ve noticed that mostly who’s online at night are horny men who wanted phone sex.

And my favorite animal is me when I try to play along with their fantasies and abrupty end the call when they say they are about to cum. I would giggle before going to bed and even more when I woke up to an angry message in my inbox. I did the same thing for about 20 times? And I thought I could get away with being an asshole.

Until someone who was 1,200 miles away decided to book a flight and sent me a photo of him in my neighborhood the next day with the text, “ hey, I’m here.” Lol, after that, I’ve learned my lesson to not push men's button for fun and never act out their fantasies if I’m not brave enough to actually follow through. But seriously, buying an expensive plane ticket to meet a girl on the internet who enchanted you for one night and faked a few moans, is just wild.

I told my friends about it to have something to laugh about. While the girls were giggling, my guy frends were disappointed and lectured me about how (physiologically??) painful it usually feels for them to be left hanging (to be given blue balls?? i'm not sure) Saying that I should stop being sexually provocative if I can't handle the aftermath, telling me to have more self-respect, yada yada. So, I promised them to not do it again. They sounded like an older brother reprimanding their bratty little sister.

And I’ll admit, I do questionable things sometimes just for the plot twist. My actions didn’t need to be overanalyzed. Sometimes I’m just a dick for no reason at all or for (again) plot twist. I realized that maybe I should be more like the gentlemen strangers I’ve met recently, and instead be kind for no reason at all too.

Anyway, last night, I was walking home down a dimly lit street when this scary-looking guy wearing all black on a motorcycle offered me a ride. I was stuck between thinking, one, he might be dangerous and try to kidnap me, and two, I didn’t want to judge a book by its cover, so I accepted his offer, lol. The ride was insane, but in a fun way. He was speeding like something out of Fast and Furious, lol. The next thing I knew, I was in front of my house, and I shouted, Thanks!!!

I feel like my single life is way more interesting than the idea I have of me being in a healthy relationship.

Learning is the New Cool Now December 12, 2025
I’ve noticed the growing popularity of personal curriculums, digital gardening, self-led learning, and the idea of research as a kind of ceremony. These approaches feel like ways to honor the act of thinking in a society that often treats attention as disposable. I want to talk about this because I personally love learning but hate how the school systematize it. I would often skip classes just to read about the topics I was truly interested in. Lately, though, that spark for learning has faded, probably because my brain is already fried, unsurprisingly.

I recently came across the concept of a personal curriculum, although it has likely existed for many years. People are creating personal lesson plans on whatever topics they are passionate about, such as philosophy with web design or poetry with neuroscience, driven purely by curiosity. I find this inspiring, and it motivated me to develop my own curriculum. The positive aspect is that there is an abundance of media and resources available. However, the intake of knowledge must be slowed down to allow us to truly grasp concepts, rather than rapidly switching from one piece of content to the next. I have observed that continuous consumption only leads to forgetting and, ultimately, mental fatigue.

I am also intrigued by digital gardens. These spaces on the internet serve as places where thoughts can develop and flourish. Unlike blogs, digital gardens embrace incompleteness. Entries in a garden are continuously edited, connected, and updated. Discovering other people’s digital gardens online felt like entering someone’s mind and observing their ideas evolve. It reassured me that slow thinking still has a place.

Research ceremonies on the other hand means approaching each study session with the intention of truly understanding a topic you are passionate about, rather than rushing through information. It turns self-led learning into a ritualized experience, where your environment, mindset, and pacing matter as much as the material itself. This approach restores a sense of gravity to learning that we lost somewhere between endless tabs and algorithmic feeds.

In getting away from the mental atrophy caused by overstimulation, returning to learning feels like the most wholesome solution. I want to be fascinated again, so I am planning to follow some of these trends and build something meaningful out of them.

I Thought I Killed My Dad December 10, 2025
For the past five years I felt responsible of my father's death to a point I started admitting to people that I killed him. I kept his urn in my room, mainly in my desk, visible so it would remind me of how horrible I was. I know my parents loved me. They never neglected my basic needs and I was spoiled with material things. To be fair, I was a very obedient high achiever child, a typical prodigy other parents would often compare their own kids to.

My parents were evil in ways that felt justifiable, so I couldn’t bring myself to hate them. My mother was a pathological liar but protective. My father is a possessive tyrant but a great provider. They were manipulative by nature, and would always win in psychological warfare, and may i add, madly in love with each other. I wanted to believe they were not inherently cruel, they are just shaped by fear, by the brutal childhoods they themselves had survived.

Everything in our house felt like currency. As long as I echoed only the words my family wanted to hear and performed my assigned role perfectly, the house ran smoothly. They would smile and praise me, but only when I met their high expectations exactly. The moment I show weakness, the mask of love and care would crumble. This kind of family is said to have a name. Pseudomutuality. A relationship that seems loving and understanding on the surface, but is actually destructive and deeply depersonalizing underneath.

Eventually, the time came when I stopped living up to their ideal identity of me. He became very furious and physically violent. So, with all my tears and desperation, I prayed to ask for something, to put an end to my misery or just end my existence entirely, to kill me or my dad. Events unraveled quickly and he died. the end.

To say the least, his death was anticlimactic. Although, my life took a drastic change right after. I felt more relieved than sad when he died. I felt like a doll who had finally earned the right to be sentient, freed at last from the crank and puppet strings that had bound me. I don’t want to dwell on how the sequence of events unfolded during that time. but every now and then I have to remind myself and convince myself that it was not my fault and it was all just a coincidence. And also, i finally had the courage to put away his urn.

Erotic Obsession with Death November 29, 2025
I’ve always been fascinated with death almost as much as life. The difference is that life happens while I’m alive, so I can poke at it and taste it, whereas death is the one experience I can only flirt with from a distance. I am not depressed, but deranged maybe? There used to be phases in my life that the idea of being dead is arousing, it turns me on. And I kept on thinking what kind of mind fuck is this.

Naturally, I traced it back to childhood, because that is where humanity often blames their issues. I remember being around eight, having my first existential crisis. I tried to confide in my religious parents, and they responded with bible scripture which did not help. The more I tried to make sense of things, the more I ended up with even more questions, until existence itself felt suffocating. So I wrapped my little hands around my throat, slowly tightening my grip until no air can get through. I choked my self to death, except I did not die. Rather, I found comfort in it, the questions and voices in my head quickly faded. Sometimes, when my brain got persistently loud, I would bang my head against a wall to drown the thoughts out. It worked. So I assumed this was normal. Surely other people experience this too and this is a way to deal it.

Then I turned twelve. My seatmate saw me hurting myself during break and ratted me out to my parents. My mom got furious and told me to never do it again as if it would automatically stop me. Naturally, I just got better at doing it privately.

Fast‑forward to high school. Life became eventful but repetative that needed better plot twists, so the idea of death started feeling fresh and exciting. So I tried cutting myself, I had mixed feelings, horrified by the sight of blood but aroused by its metallic taste. And I can’t distinguish the two feelings, because whether I’m scared or enthralled, my heart is beating fast as fuck either way.

After that, my death fantasies got out of control. Eventually, my passiveness turned into actions. One time I overdosed on antidepressant supplements (definitely not depressed) my heart was speed pumping while my lungs were dying for some air. Then I collapsed. Out of all my failed attempts, that was the most comedic because I woke up later with a horrible diarrhea. And every time the adrenaline faded, I would get that bizarre post‑nut clarity and think, “Oh yeah. I definitely need therapy.”

Apparently, People Worry When You Disappear December 10, 2025
Today I learned two things: I might actually be anti‑social, and my friends apparently think I am someone worth worrying about.

I was at the library doing my best impression of a normal student, studying for exams. Most of the faces around me were people I knew. When I packed my things and prepared for my usual departure, a friend beside me asked where I was going. I said “home,” and she replied, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to them?”

I stared at her, confused. Say goodbye? To who? She pointed at the group of acquaintances nearby, and suddenly I found myself awkwardly waving at them, though they waved back enthusiastically.

One time, I was about to sneak out to buy food when a friend asked why I wasn’t inviting her. Again, why should I? Another time, when a different set of peers suggested we walk home together and I declined, they asked, “What is wrong with you? Why do you always separate yourself?” I hadn’t realized my behavior looked like I was overly distancing myself. I thought I was just... living. I had simply grown used to doing things alone. This might be what a few years of solitude does, you end up functioning like a solitary animal that occasionally hisses at sunlight.

I know I should feel grateful to have many friends who ask if I’ve eaten or slept well or how my day went, yet my brain immediately becomes suspicious. Why would anyone care? There’s no reward for befriending me. I’m not even emotionally useful.

They explained it clearly today that if I want to go home or disappear, I should atleast bid goodbye so they won’t worry. They mentioned that I apparently have a bad habit of evaporating from the crowd. It never even crossed my mind that my disappearance could concern anyone. I always assumed that if I vanished, the only ones who would notice would be my plants, and only because they realized they weren’t being watered.