Hahahaha!

Lately, I've found myself turning to astrology more than I'd like to admit. It started as something fun and lighthearted—reading my horoscope for a little daily insight, checking my birth chart to see if the stars aligned with how I was feeling. But slowly, it became more than that. Now, I find myself looking to astrology for validation, seeking answers to questions I don't even fully understand.

The problem is, the more I rely on it, the more cynical I become. It's almost like I'm waiting for the universe to give me a sign that everything will work out, but it never quite happens the way I expect. Every time something doesn’t align with the "predictions," it throws me off. I start overthinking everything—why isn't my chart matching my reality? What does this mean for my future? Is something wrong with me or my choices?

In some ways, it feels like I'm losing trust in myself. Instead of taking charge of my life, I'm handing over the responsibility to something abstract, like the alignment of the stars. And honestly, it can be exhausting. I spend too much time analyzing and trying to piece together meaning from the cosmos, when maybe I just need to live my life, make decisions, and be okay with the uncertainty.

Astrology has its place—it can be a comforting lens to view the world through. But I’m realizing that relying on it for constant validation only traps me in a cycle of doubt and overthinking. I need to remind myself that while the stars can offer guidance, they don’t have all the answers. At the end of the day, it's up to me to trust my own instincts and make peace with the fact that life won’t always fit neatly into an astrological chart.

Maybe, instead of looking up at the stars for clarity, I need to start looking within.

There’s something irresistible about seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, isn’t there? The way everything glows with possibility, how hope somehow softens reality’s harsh edges. I’ve always been that person—the one who walks straight into the fire, not quite realizing until it’s too late that I’m bound to get burned.

When I meet someone new, be it a friend or a lover, I’m quick to embrace the beauty in them. I’m captivated by their quirks, their charm, their flaws that I somehow convince myself I can fix. It’s as though I’m spellbound by the idea that, despite what everyone else sees, this connection is different. "No," I think, "they don’t understand." And while the people around me see warning signs flashing like bright neon lights, I remain oblivious, wrapped in the fantasy I’ve built around this person or situation.

Perhaps it’s my unwavering belief in the good in people, or maybe it’s the romantic in me that refuses to let go of the narrative that love, friendship, or loyalty can conquer all. Others whisper in my ear, gentle but firm, “Can’t you see? This is going to hurt you.” But their words are like smoke in the wind—there one moment, gone the next—unable to penetrate the dream I’m living in.

Time and time again, I find myself drawn to those whose hearts are closed off, whose intentions aren’t pure, or whose presence in my life is anything but good for me. Yet, I stay. I convince myself that if I just hold on a little longer, the tide will turn, the light will shine through the cracks, and things will change. I remain, steadfast in my denial, until—inevitably—the story crumbles, and the weight of reality hits me like a wave.

And then, there’s the aftermath. The unraveling of everything I thought I knew, the sudden clarity that leaves me breathless, wondering how I didn’t see it all along. It’s a bittersweet symphony, really—this constant cycle of falling for the wrong people, making excuses, ignoring the inevitable, only to be left standing in the ruins of what could have been.

But I suppose that’s the price of seeing the world in a way that others don’t. I chase after the dream, the ideal, the promise of something beautiful, even if it’s fleeting. And though it often leaves me with scars, there’s something tragically romantic about the fact that I’m willing to risk the fall. Because deep down, I believe that one day, amidst all the red flags I so easily ignore, I’ll find something real, something worth holding on to.

Until then, I’ll continue to stumble blindly through the mess, still hopeful, still searching, and still seeing the world with those rose-colored glasses—until they finally shatter.

Good night!

August 1, 2021

Wheat cranberry loaf, and cheese for breakfast. :) Plus coffee. What a morning!

what's on your mind?

Not everyone is meant to be in your future. Some people are just passing through to teach you lessons in life.

I'm a night owl. I find that the quiet and calmness of the night allow me to focus and be more productive. There's something magical about the stillness of the night, where the world feels like it's paused, giving me the space to think, reflect, and create without distractions. I love how the night offers a sense of solitude and peace, which is perfect for unwinding or diving into creative projects.

I just had to take it easy. So much for rushing. Good night!

I mourn my youth

I mourn my youth with a sorrow that feels almost unbearable. Not because it’s gone but because I realize I never truly lived it.

I ache for all the moments I let slip by, the countless chances I ignored, thinking there’d always be more time. I regret the nights I should have spent out, surrounded by laughter and people who would have helped me feel alive. Instead, I stayed in the shadows, clinging to comfort and safety, only to find out too late that those things would cost me the memories I could never make.

I think of all the times I chose sleep over adventure, the days I kept my life small and predictable instead of going somewhere new. I missed the thrill of being spontaneous, of packing a bag and leaving without knowing where I’d end up. I missed places that could have shown me how vast and beautiful the world really is, places I’ll only ever know through the stories of others who dared to go.

And the people—I mourn them most of all. I wonder about the friendships that never had a chance to grow, the faces I never got to know because I was too scared to take a step toward them. There were probably kindred souls, people who would have understood me better than I understood myself, waiting somewhere in the world. But I kept to my familiar circle, never daring to reach out, and now they’re strangers I’ll never meet.

I look back, and it’s almost unbearable to realize how much I lost. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self to be brave, to take the risks, to live as if these days would eventually run out. But all I have now is this ache, this haunting feeling of a life half-lived. And the hardest part is knowing that these missed moments will forever be just that—echoes of a life I could have had but never did.

The Marcos family’s return to power is one of the most tragic ironies in Philippine history. After decades of suffering under Ferdinand Marcos Sr.’s dictatorship—marked by rampant corruption, human rights abuses, and the plundering of the nation’s wealth—his son, Ferdinand "Bongbong" Marcos Jr., now leads the country. This is not just a case of political resurgence; it is a glaring symptom of how easily truth can be rewritten and how collective memory can be manipulated.

For years, the Marcoses have engaged in an aggressive campaign of historical revisionism, distorting the brutal realities of Martial Law into a golden era of economic prosperity. They have leveraged social media, disinformation networks, and the public’s disillusionment with post-EDSA governments to paint themselves as victims rather than villains. But the facts remain: the Marcos dictatorship saw over 70,000 arrests, 34,000 cases of torture, and thousands of extrajudicial killings. The economy, far from being at its strongest, was driven into massive debt due to unchecked spending and corruption, leaving future generations to shoulder the consequences.

Bongbong Marcos himself has never acknowledged the horrors of his father’s rule. Instead of seeking accountability, he has evaded questions, refused to apologize, and even suggested that the past should be left behind. This refusal to confront history is not just dangerous—it enables further abuse of power. His presidency symbolizes the normalization of impunity, where stolen wealth, privilege, and political dynasties thrive at the expense of ordinary Filipinos.

The Marcos family's wealth, estimated in billions of dollars, remains largely unreturned, despite multiple court rulings declaring that much of it was ill-gotten. Meanwhile, many Martial Law victims have yet to receive full justice. The very people who fought and suffered to restore democracy now witness its slow erosion under the leadership of a man who owes his political survival to deception.

The fact that the Marcoses are back in power exposes the deep flaws in our political system—where patronage, misinformation, and historical amnesia dictate electoral outcomes. But it is also a wake-up call. If history has taught us anything, it is that tyranny does not die easily. It disguises itself, adapts, and waits for the moment when people forget.

But we must not forget. We must continue to remember the lives lost, the voices silenced, and the wealth stolen. Because the moment we stop remembering is the moment we allow history to repeat itself. And if that happens, the tragedy of the Marcos regime will not just be a chapter in our past—it will be our future.

I deserved better than these clandestine meetings

My face is having a mini-earthquake! It's twitching so violently, it feels like my body is shaking.