𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓴𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓟𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓼

In a world full of people who are quick to judge me for what they hear or see — without ever truly knowing me — I feel lucky to have my man, Patrick. He’s the one who took the time to understand me, who listens when I’m not in my zone, and who reminds me that my voice matters even when I struggle to believe it myself. Being vulnerable isn’t easy. I’m scared of judgment, of being called too expressive, too emotional, immature, or reactive. I’ve been told those things more times than I can count, and honestly, I don’t think I can take another negative review of my character. It weighs on me, and sometimes it feels like the world only sees the surface, never the soul underneath. Yesterday, I broke down crying. I realized I don’t feel my spark anymore. I don’t feel my soul inside me. The things that used to bring me joy: my hobbies, my little rituals, even the simple moments,  feel distant. Since December 2025, I’ve been living in autopilot mode, just going through the motions without ...

I  was born too late to witness the popularity of the band, The Beatles. I used to listen to my Mommy talking about them and how great they were until fame got into their heads and then they disbanded. Now, I'm not going to talk about the band's history and demise — I'm here to talk about their songs. How it calms my nerves and pause all the thoughts going in and out of my head. There’s something magical about the way their music flows; simple yet profound, playful yet deeply emotional. Songs like Let It Be and Hey Jude feel like gentle reminders to breathe, to let go, and to trust that everything will be alright. Their harmonies carry me into a space where worries fade, and I’m left with a quiet sense of peace. Listening to The Beatles isn’t just about nostalgia; it’s about connection. Even though I wasn’t there during their rise, their music bridges generations. It’s as if every note carries a piece of history, yet still speaks directly to the present moment. For me, Th...

I met the younger me for coffee at ten. She was late, nervous, and shy — I was early, waiting, almost excited to see her. My hair was loose, waves doing their own thing.  She had hers pulled tight in a bun, wishing it were straight, like the other girls. I ordered matcha. She stuck with plain coffee.  She smiled, awkward and small.  I reached across the table, held her hands, and told her, " We’re okay." She doesn’t need to carry the story of how much she gave up just to keep going. I told her instead about the adventures, the way she lived so many lives. She doesn’t need to know the heartbreaks that carved out space for joy.  And of how he found herself along the process.  I walked her back to our old house in Iligan,  the one that still smells like childhood and innocence.  We won’t meet again for another ten years. But every day, she’ll think of the woman who stayed resilient,  who let herself cry, and honored her scars.  -E. (Posted on In...

Ten years ago, she was fifteen, a girl still pure in her belief that love was a promise, that devotion meant safety. Instead, betrayal became her teacher, repeated until it felt like routine. She gave away her innocence, thinking it was an offering of trust. She believed in soul connection until he drained the life from her. She was told she wasn’t enough, gaslit until her laughter dissolved into anxiety. She carried life once, only to cradle grief. Accused of sins she never committed, her soul was tainted, branded with names that were never hers. She offered shelter when he had none; his survival was stitched together from her sacrifice. Yet the man she trusted disgraced her, parading his betrayal as if it were a prize. He plucked her wings, tore her heart and spirit, and erased her from his story. She sat alone with sadness, anger, hatred, and grief. She faced her demons and, in time, learned grace. She forgave herself for not fighting back when the world turned its back on her. With...

Sometimes the best memories are the ones we don’t plan. (Don't judge us, just yet! We're being financially irresponsible with spontaneity.) We went to Iligan and, without much thought, decided to stay the night. It was me, Pat, my best friend, and her boyfriend, just the four of us chasing a pause. The city greeted us with its quiet charm. We didn’t need grand plans; a simple staycation was what we needed to fuel us for the next work week. We laughed, shared stories, and let the night carry us. That one night reminded me that rest doesn’t have to be complicated. A quick escape, good company, and a change of scenery can fuel you for the week ahead. On the bus ride home, Pat and I  listened to music, laughed, and shared our thoughts. It was such an intimate moment between us two—a reminder of how important it is to reconnect with your partner.  When Mariah Carey’s Hero played, Pat explained the meaning of the song and let me read through the lyrics. As I took them in, my chest...

After finishing Crime and Punishment, I’m still sitting with the chaos inside Raskolnikov’s mind. The way he plans the murder is disturbing, not because it’s brilliantly calculated like in typical crime stories, but because it’s fragmented and unstable. He drifts toward the idea almost unconsciously, pulled by pride, desperation, and a theory he clings to just to feel in control.  Before the murder even happens, his mind is already unraveling: full of anxiety, doubt, and a sickening fear of his own intentions. It’s clear he isn’t driven by logic, but by a frantic internal storm he can barely understand himself. During the murder, everything spirals into panic. He acts mechanically, as if watching from outside his own body. And the moment Lizaveta appears, an innocent soul caught in the wrong place, the illusion collapses. All his theories about extraordinary individuals, about serving some greater good by eliminating the pawnbroker, disintegrate instantly. Nothing about the crime i...