Again, Over Coffee, Under Night

Again, Over Coffee, Under Night

"The Etiquette of Burning Quietly"

Inspire me still—let my heart burn again with your fire;
Even embers recall how they once rose higher in fire.

Though disappointment threads through the spaces of your words,
I hush my grief, for even ashes conspire with fire.

What am I but nothing, until your grace gave me form?
From dust I was carved, shaped by your desire for fire.

Your messages falter—are they distance, or gentleness withheld?
A cold moon glimmers, reflecting a shyer fire.

Once your presence alone made the world feel newly born—
Now absence grows tall, casting its entire fire.

If your voice brought music, now the silence brings a discipline;
A monk in a ruined hall must still admire fire.

Even your hesitation becomes a scripture I study at night—
For saints, too, were scorched by a teacher’s prior fire.

Yet I wonder at times if my devotion burdens your breath;
If I speak too much to a soul whose choir is fire.

Still, from you I learned to aspire, even when all else fell dark;
You lit the wick beneath a sky without a single spire of fire.

Let hell come—your memory alone tempers the heat;
Your kindness once forged in me a sapphire of fire.

The world turns rough; its cruelty grows sharper each dawn—
But your fleeting warmth taught me how to respire in fire.

Your presence was no gift, but a quiet revolution of being;
Your absence, too, is a teacher with an entire fire.

If longing is weakness, then let me be weak and alive;
For even weak hands can cradle a fragile pyre of fire.

I write these lines half-resigned, half-burning, split between fates—
This is Ashraf’s path: to walk the edge of the lyre in fire.

And if someday you read this and feel a moment’s warmth,
Let it be known: your smallest mercy overtook my empire of fire.

"Bitter Steam Silent Fire"

The sun sets as I prepare my brew,

recalling your beauty, the quiet charm from you.

Despite your sarcastic, almost careless replies,

I remember each word, though it almost bruised me through.

Dismissive comments linger, edges sharp and thin,

I wonder—did I err? Am I worth being dismissable to you?

The coffee grows bitter in my cup,

milk and sugar unable to soften the thoughts I rue.

I trace your shadow in the rising steam,

a ghost of laughter that once felt true.

Even silence seems to speak of your absence,

the weight of things unsaid, of a glance I never knew.

The aroma reminds me of mornings I never shared,

of warmth I imagined and the cold reality I brew.

I fold my longing into each sip,

letting it settle, quiet, as if I knew.

Perhaps the heart always misreads kindness,

or reads too much into gestures few construe.

Your memory drifts through the window light,

long afternoon shadows bending with my rue.

Time passes slowly in the café,

each minute folding into the next, unnoticed.

I watch the streets glow under a fading sun,

cars humming, distant voices threading the evening.

The sky deepens to violet,

as if painted with the brush of a lonely god.

I write, I sketch, I make poems unseen,

small offerings of a soul no one knew.

Even the simplest cup now tastes of reflection,

every sip a meditation on absence.

I think of your laughter,

not loud, not brash, but the kind that lingers quietly,

turning corners of memory into rooms of longing.

I wonder if you ever think of me,

or if all my careful attention dissolves

into the world as nothing at all.

The first stars appear, hesitant and pale,

and I imagine you standing among them,

a distant light I cannot touch.

The coffee grows cold, yet I do not mind,

its bitterness matching the quiet ache in my chest.

Each shadow across the table whispers your name,

though no one else could hear it,

no one else could know the weight of it.

Perhaps the world is always too bright for longing,

too full of motion to hold a silent pulse of fire.

I rise to stretch,

but the room seems smaller without you,

the chairs and tables bending inward,

pressing me toward memories I cannot release.

The evening deepens,

neon flickers faintly through the glass,

and I think of the ways you made small moments

feel like revelations I could never speak aloud.

I fold my hands over the empty cup,

letting the silence seep between my fingers,

and for the first time,

I accept that some warmth exists only in memory.

I will leave this place tonight,

the table smooth, the coffee gone,

but the quiet fire remains—

a pulse no one will touch,

a farewell never spoken,

a love I carry only in the hours

when longing is permitted to breathe.

"Ultraviolet Rose"

Pardon if I made you a poem,

Especially if your beauty resonates.

Especially when your charm is tempered

By the wit I have encountered,

A love of Mecha and the sword,

As if you try to confront the world alone.

A rose, red as that of blood,

With thorns, stingy as the world surrounds.

My thoughts play dark, industrial—

Machines whirring in endless loops,

As your movements end like ultraviolet,

Sharp, precise, almost mechanical.

Your background once chemical, pharmaceutical,

Designed in labs of logic and precision;

Now I see you in the cabin, aeronautical,

A pilot in the skies of my imagination.

I do not know why your beauty makes me ponder

These impossible alignments of thought;

Instead of seeing the yellow over blue,

M mind draws pitch black and red,

Dystopian sketches and neon shadows,

Like sci-fi pages from forgotten notes.

Yet in these colors, I trace your presence,

A pulse in dark machinery,

A melody hidden in mechanical hums,

A quiet fire behind ultraviolet eyes.

I write, I sketch, I fold you into verse,

A rose that cannot bloom except in thought,

A blade I wield against nothing,

A love that exists in margins and silence.

Every stanza, a breath in a sealed cabin,

Every line, a heartbeat against the world,

Every imagined movement, a secret signal

No one else can read, no one else can see.

And so I leave this poem behind,

A dark industrial melody,

A rose in ultraviolet,

A ghost in chemic skies,

A jisei for the beauty I carry alone.

"Every Brew"

Mango yellow in the afternoon sky,

Bantayan blue where the seabirds cry,

Heaven knows I need a moment to breathe,

Caramel ice in my coffee and me.

Why not scarlet red or the grey of the sand,

Why do your colors keep tracing my hand?

Every sweet memory trembles and stirs,

Soft as your laughter, as distant as yours.

Your love is coffee, sweet with the ache,

Mellow and bitter in every heartbreak,

I sip and I wonder if I should have known—

Some kinds of beauty don’t let you go.

Your love is coffee, fading but true,

Warm in the sweetness, cold in the blue,

Even when silence is all that I prove,

I still taste you in every brew.

Streetlight shadows on quiet cafés,

Ocean keeps time in a slow soft sway,

Sugar dissolves but your name remains,

Spinning in circles inside my veins.

Laughter from elsewhere drifts through the air,

Strangers in love like we once were, there—

I stir the ice like I used to your smile,

Trying to cool what still stays awhile.

Your love is coffee, sweet with the ache,

Mellow and bitter in every heartbreak,

I sip and I wonder if I should have known—

Some kinds of beauty don’t let you go.

Your love is coffee, fading but true,

Warm in the sweetness, cold in the blue,

Even when silence is all that I prove,

I still taste you in every brew.

Sometimes I ask if it was a mistake,

Meeting the sun just to watch it break,

If I was foolish to learn your light,

Just to remember it every night.

Joy and sorrow in one slow dance,

One small yes in a long romance,

Now all I own is this quiet view,

And a glass full of what I once knew.

Your love is coffee, sweet with the ache,

Mellow and bitter in every heartbreak,

I sip and I wonder if I should have known—

Some kinds of beauty don’t let you go.

Your love is coffee, fading but true,

Warm in the sweetness, cold in the blue,

Even when silence is all that I prove,

I still taste you in every brew.

Embers in the Quiet Hours

Embers in the Quiet Hours

"Frost at Dusk, Words Unsaid"

To speak plainly now—

disappointment settles in

like evening frost.

Your messages fall lightly,

yet cut clean through the quiet.

The one who inspired

now sends words that tremble,

awkward and thin—

I steady my breath and watch

how meaning slips away.

I question myself:

was the flame imagined, or

merely misplaced?

Intentions once luminous

dim into distant embers.

Your replies arrive

as if meant to scatter me,

to unmake warmth—

I bow to the truth of it,

cold but without bitterness.

So I let it fade,

this small ache that once reached out

toward your light.

Inspiration stands alone now,

no longer asking to be held.

"Sorry if I was inspired"

Sorry if I was inspired—

if the small tremor of your presence

turned my thoughts into sketch and song,

if a single moment with you

rang longer than I expected.

When your presence resonates,

the world grows strangely clearer—

shadows stretch,

colors gather themselves,

and even silence seems to hum.

I never meant for this spark

to trouble anyone,

least of all you;

yet it rose naturally,

as breath rises

from a cup of tea at dusk.

Forgive the way I followed

that brief warmth,

mistaking it for invitation,

or for a path meant to continue.

A foolishness, perhaps—

but even fools bow to beauty.

Now I let the evening settle.

Your face drifts like smoke

through the last unhurried thought;

I watch it fade

without reaching out.

What inspiration remains

I will keep quietly,

folded inside the sleeve

of an ordinary day—

a fire reduced to embers

that no longer seek to rise.

If love was ever there,

it stands at a respectful distance now,

offering no burden,

asking for nothing

but the right to have once burned.

And in this stillness,

I bow once more

to the briefness of all things—

to the way even longing

must learn how to leave gently,

like autumn light

slipping down a final wall.

"A visit that lives only in thought"

Sometimes I feel

that all I wish for

is for you to visit once—

to step into the coffeeshop

where my latte cools in my hands,

and softly ask

for a flat white of your own.

To be honest,

this may seem impossible even to me.

I know you aren’t into such ideas—

you’d laugh it off,

dismiss it lightly,

or answer with that small trace

of sarcasm you use

when something touches too close

to the heart you hide.

Yet in my mind,

marred by loneliness

and softened by years of quiet longing,

I still wonder—

what if you visited that place?

What if you stepped through those old doors,

the ones polished by decades of passing hands,

as in decades-past old,

so old they glow

with the memory of time itself?

It would become a place of wonder,

a place remade simply

because you breathed its air.

Maybe this sounds strange,

but being an old soul

makes me carry thoughts like these—

thoughts that drift like incense smoke,

fragile and persistent,

unable to be scattered.

They turn into poems,

into sketches on worn notebooks,

into quiet dedications folded

between research notes,

hidden in essays,

masked by footnotes,

disguised as arguments

but written with a pulse

the world cannot see.

Your beauty, your charm,

your quiet gravity—

they resonate every time I enter this place.

Even as the years shift,

the wooden beams creak the same way,

the afternoon light falls

through the same dusty glass,

and somehow it feels

as though you had just been there—

a breath before me,

a ghost of warmth ahead.

So I sit,

letting the steam rise like prayer

from the surface of my cup,

and write another quiet verse

for someone who will never know

how deeply their shadow

moves across my inner landscape.

In the end,

I place these thoughts gently down—

as one sets aside

a fading blossom or a silk sleeve

kept only for the memory of touch.

Accepting its sweetness,

its ache,

its irretrievability.

Yet even in acceptance,

even in this final stillness,

I cannot help but wish

you might walk in once—

just once—

so the loneliness beside me

could finally learn

how to breathe.

"Embers in the Quiet Hours"

To be honest,

I feel disappointed—

especially when messages arrive,

awkward and clumsy,

from the one who once inspired me.

Did they dismiss the spark I carried?

Or did they simply forget

the weight of presence?

Sorry if I was inspired—

if the tremor of your presence

turned my thoughts into sketches and songs,

if a fleeting glance

or a whisper of your voice

rippled through the stillness

and made me something more than myself.

Coffee cools in my hands,

steam gone, rim touching my lips like memory.

The bass from the rave down the street

presses against the walls,

shakes the air in slow pulses,

a borrowed heartbeat

I cannot touch,

yet follow with my own quiet rhythm.

Inspire me, I want to say,

let my heart burn with your fire again,

for even embers remember the shape of flame.

Your presence once brought music—

a note that lingered after laughter,

more lasting than any gift,

more alive than friendliness

that drifts away like smoke.

I sip slowly, pretending warmth

fills more than the empty cup.

Inside, a hollow curls quietly,

folded into the foam,

hidden behind a smile

that no one sees,

that perhaps you never noticed.

When did your voice become a silent song?

When did your light leave its lessons in echoes?

I trace your memory over every beat of the music,

every tremor of neon and shadow,

and I imagine your hand brushing mine

as a secret, a note folded into an ordinary day.

Even your hesitation,

even the awkwardness of your words,

teaches me—

I have learned to aspire,

to continue writing, thinking, dreaming,

even when warmth fades,

even when love retreats

into shadow.

Against the cold machinery of the world,

you once lit the wick beneath a sky

that offered no other fire.

And though you are absent now,

the ember remains,

quiet, steady, untouchable—

a small rebellion against nothingness.

The night thickens,

lights flicker across darkened windows,

the rave becomes a distant memory,

and I let the quiet hold me—

the only space where longing

can breathe,

where love can exist

without being noticed,

without betraying itself.

The cup is empty,

the bass fades,

and I rise slowly,

folding the weight of longing behind my chest.

No confession, no plea,

only a quiet love

that no one will touch,

a farewell never named,

a pulse in the still hours

that I leave behind in every breath.

I bow, finally,

to the fleeting perfection of it all:

the brief flare of your inspiration,

the impossible warmth of presence,

the small fire I carry now alone—

a testament to the world

and to the heart that once burned.

Why ‘Gat’ Still Commands Respect: Reclaiming the Honorific for the Heroes of the Philippines

Why ‘Gat’ Still Commands Respect: 

Reclaiming the Honorific for the Heroes of the Philippines 

In recent weeks, a curious debate has resurfaced in cultural circles. A self-styled Hispanophile has taken issue with Filipinos who use the venerable honorific “Gat” for national heroes—dismissing it as a supposed modern invention allegedly pushed by “hispanophobic ultranationalists.” But historians, linguists, and cultural advocates quickly point out: the claim collapses the moment it meets the facts.

Long before the arrival of Spain, Prehispanic nobility in the Philippines followed a complex structure of authority and etiquette. Among the maginoo class, men of high rank bore names preceded by Gat—a shortened form of pamagat or pamegat—originally meaning “lord” or “master,” and later “title.” Women of the same social stature carried the companion title Dayang, signifying “lady.” These were not affectations, but markers of lineage, leadership, and respected standing within their communities.

Thus, despite the accusation circulating online, “Gat” is far from a recent invention. It is a genuinely pre-colonial honorific, rooted in the sociopolitical order of Tagalog polities long before European contact. Its modern application to figures such as Andrés Bonifacio, José Rizal, and Marcelo H. del Pilar is neither revisionism nor reactionary posturing—it is a conscious act of cultural remembrance.

Even though it is pre-Hispanic, to use Gat as an honorific for a national hero is fully deserving. Why? Just because these heroes lived in a Spanish era, does that make them unworthy of the title Gat, forcing them instead to be called Don for “historical accuracy”? What’s next—sarcastically insisting that such honorifics are irrelevant in a “democratic society” and relegating them to just "Mr." or even "Manong" or "Mang" for the sake of being "one with the people"? Clearly, the title transcends era; it is about merit, leadership, and the respect they command.

Why do Filipinos continue to use it?

First, it serves as recognition of excellence, an acknowledgment of extraordinary individuals who shaped the nation’s destiny. Second, it offers a cultural connection, linking present generations to the archipelago’s indigenous traditions—traditions often overshadowed by centuries of colonial dominance. And finally, it conveys respect and honor, a dignified tribute to those whose sacrifices helped forge the Philippines as it stands today.

Observers note that the conversation too often devolves into a false dichotomy: Indigenous vs. Hispanic, pre-colonial vs. colonial, authenticity vs. influence. But, as cultural thinkers have argued since the late 20th century, Filipinity is not a battleground between identities—it is a synthesis. Like the concept of Latinidad in the Americas or La Raza as a spiritual-cultural identity, the Filipino experience blends worlds, epochs, and lineages.

In that sense, whether one says Gat, Don, Sir, Mang, Ka, Pre, Dre, or even a casual Psst, the real point lies beyond semantics. The Filipino spirit carries its own continuity, reclaiming the past for the present and projecting the present toward the future.

And so, as this debate cycles across forums and social pages, cultural observers in the 1980s—and today—see the same conclusion taking shape. The attempt to discredit the use of “Gat” falters because the title endures, not as rhetoric, but as memory.

Filipinos continue to use “Gat” with pride—not out of hostility toward any heritage, but out of a deep desire to honor their heroes in a manner rooted in their own story. In the end, the title stands exactly where it always belonged: beside the names of those who helped build a nation.

As the Nation Awakens: No Compromise with the Forces of Plunder Nor its corrupted"Lesser Evil"

As the Nation Awakens: No Compromise with the Forces of Plunder

Nor  its  corrupted"Lesser Evil" 

On this solemn Bonifacio Day, the Filipino people once more demonstrate their steadfast commitment to the Kartilya ng Katipunan's teachings and to the revolutionary spirit embodied by Gat Andres Bonifacio and the nation’s heroic forebears. Through the vast mobilization of the Trillion Pesos March, the masses reaffirm their determination to confront corruption, oppression, and exploitation with unwavering resolve. 

Recent pronouncements from certain groups—calling for President Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr. to “step up” in order to apprehend the so-called “big fish” of plunder—have revealed an alarming political naiveté. Such appeals, couched in timid reformism, overlook an essential truth widely recognized among the vigilant sectors of society: Marcos Jr. himself stands as the most formidable symbol of systemic corruption. 

To the Filipinos, it is increasingly clear that if corruption were an ocean, Marcos Jr. would be its apex predator. His signature upon last year’s budget, steeped in waste and concealed allocations, set the conditions for the trillion-peso debacle now engulfing the Republic. Under his watch, corruption has not merely survived but flourished, feeding upon the nation’s resources like a parasitic growth. 

The 2025 budget—bloated with “allocable” and “unprogrammed” funds—mirrors the same reactionary decadence displayed in Sara Duterte’s notorious “confidential fund.” Far from representing competing visions, the Marcos and Duterte dynasties appear as twin factions of the same decaying political order. Their rivalry, however heated, does not shield the public from the structural rot that both clans perpetuate. 

To frame the national crisis as a choice between these two families is to insult the intelligence and agency of the Filipino masses. Such a narrative reduces the people to bystanders in a private dispute among elites, demanding obedience rather than participation. The notion of selecting the “lesser evil” serves only to legitimize dynastic domination and to neutralize public outrage. 

The growing sentiment among the people is incontrovertible: what the moment demands is not a Marcos who “steps up,” but a Marcos—and a Duterte—who step down. Only through the removal of corrupt officials and the pursuit of full accountability can the nation reclaim its institutions from the grip of reaction. 

A Transition Council? Why? 

In this context arises the proposal for a People’s Transition Council—a body anchored not in dynastic interests nor in elite accommodation, but in the democratic will of workers, peasants, youth, intellectuals, and all patriotic sectors striving for national emancipation. Such a council would serve as the stabilizing force in a period of profound national renewal: dismantling entrenched corruption, uprooting the structures of plunder, and guiding the state toward a just, humane, and sovereign future no longer dictated by the private whims of political clans. 

This proposal finds its strength precisely because it rejects the deceptive logic peddled by certain commentators who urge the masses to view the current regime as the “lesser evil” in contrast to the Duterte faction. Such arguments, often promoted by timid reformists and opportunistic elements, represent nothing but the recycling of the same reactionary playbook that has long shackled the Filipino nation. 

To portray Marcos as a bulwark against Duterte, or Duterte as a counterforce to Marcos, is to ignore a fundamental truth now evident to the conscious sectors of society: both dynasties are products of the same rotten social order, and both have thrived upon the same machinery of corruption, deception, and injustice. 

They are not antagonists in a struggle for public welfare.

They are competitors in the plunder of the public treasury.

They are not defenders of the people.

They are defenders of their own dynastic survival. 

In truth, the Marcos and Duterte factions are but two sides of a single reactionary coin, each having enriched themselves through systemic exploitation, each having expanded the very networks of patronage and corruption that now suffocate the Republic. Every peso stolen, every institution weakened, every right trampled bears the fingerprints of both dynasties—sometimes acting in partnership, sometimes in rivalry, but always with the same result: the suffering of the Filipino people. 

Thus the call for a People’s Transition Council arises not from abstract theorizing but from historical necessity. The nation can no longer rely on the factional disputes of corrupt elites, nor on the hollow promises of politicians who have already betrayed the public trust. The people cannot liberate themselves by choosing between two varieties of the same decay. 

A Transition Council stands instead as the instrument by which the masses may: 

• Prosecute corruption not selectively but systematically, bringing both Marcos and Duterte to full account.

• Dismantle the dynastic networks that have converted public office into private wealth.

• Reassert democratic sovereignty against foreign manipulation, oligarchic dominance, and political patronage.

• Establish a government rooted in social justice, guided by the collective interest rather than elite survival. 

By rejecting the illusion of the “lesser evil,” the people affirm a deeper principle: evil, even in its more polished form, remains an obstacle to national liberation. The Filipino masses refuse to be conscripted into the internal feuds of reactionary clans; they refuse to become spectators in a dynastic theater whose only purpose is to preserve the power of the few at the expense of the many. 

The People’s Transition Council emerges, therefore, as the necessary bridge between the collapse of corrupt rule and the establishment of a truly democratic, just, and sovereign society. It reflects the historical consciousness of a nation that has suffered enough, and that now insists: no more compromises with corruption, no more submission to dynastic rule, and no more illusions that the people’s freedom can be delivered by those who have built their power upon the people’s misery. 

In this awakening lies the path to genuine renewal—and in the resolve of the people lies the certainty that justice will prevail. 

As the Filipino masses commemorate Bonifacio Day, they stand in continuity with the Katipunan’s legacy of courage and unrelenting struggle. Their aspirations echo across time:

A Philippines free from corruption.

A Philippines free from poverty.

A Philippines free from violence and exploitation.

A Philippines where governance serves the people, not a dynastic ambition. 

Trying to uphold the established order, the reactionary forces tremble not at the actions of any single figure, but at the awakening of an entire nation. The people advance, united and conscious of their historic mission. 

The struggle continues, and the future belongs to those who fight for justice. 

Again, the People Demand Justice: Against Systematic Corruption in the Highest Echelons of Power

Again, the People Demand Justice:

Against Systematic Corruption

in the Highest Echelons of Power

EDSA shrine, Luneta park, and Mendiola has once again become the theater of popular resistance. Recent mass mobilizations, now known as the “Trillion Peso March” and “Baha sa Luneta,” have revealed a growing determination among the Filipino people: they will no longer tolerate leaders whose loyalty is to personal enrichment rather than the nation. 

The twin regimes of Marcos Jr. and Duterte have been shaken by mounting allegations of corruption and political scandal. Yet instead of confronting the truth, both factions have sought to deflect responsibility, accusing one another while failing to acknowledge that their interests have long been intertwined. The result is a governance system that serves privilege over the public good, profit over welfare, and patronage over principle. 

Socioeconomic Sabotage at the People’s Expense 

The consequences of this unholy alliance are visible across the nation. Citizens have borne the brunt of substandard infrastructure, poorly executed flood control projects, and recurring disasters exacerbated by political negligence. Construction firms accused of bribing officials for lucrative contracts have delivered shoddy or unbuilt works, leaving communities exposed to preventable calamities. 

Observers note that this is not merely a failure of administration, but a deliberate sabotage of the people’s socioeconomic well-being. The diversion of public funds, mismanagement of the national budget, and prioritization of political cronies have created a system in which the basic rights and security of ordinary Filipinos are systematically subordinated to private interests. 

The Call for Accountability is Clear 

Thousands of citizens have taken to the streets, demanding that those implicated in corruption be prosecuted, without fear or favor. The call is direct: both Marcos and Duterte must face the consequences of their actions. According to Bagong Alyansang Makabayan (BAYAN), President Marcos Jr bears principal responsibility, having proposed, signed, and implemented budgets riddled with corruption and cronyism. “His actions demonstrate a clear betrayal of the public trust, enriching allies and endangering the welfare of the nation,” the group states. 

And contrary to mainline thinking that by removing Marcos jr. meant putting Vice President Duterte to the presidency? Unlikely and cannot be especially for a corrupt appendage who wanted a bloodbath, for BAYAN emphasizes, shemust also be held accountable. Duterte is accused of abusing her authority as vice president, mismanaging confidential and intelligence funds sourced from the public treasury, and exploiting her position to serve personal and political objectives. 

Again, people realise the reality that Marcos and Duterte are both aides of the same coin meant to be discarded. For honestly speaking, why support both corrupt on the basis of lesser against greater evils? The people demand justice that's beyond choosing who's SOB for that long suffering and exploited country such as the Philippines. 

Systematic Cover-Ups and the Betrayal of Justice 

Even more troubling is the systematic cover-up surrounding these investigations. Rolling inquiries into corruption are reportedly designed not to uncover truth or deliver justice, but to shield Marcos and his principal accomplices from prosecution. As BAYAN notes, “The mechanisms of accountability have been deliberately subverted. Investigations serve as smokescreens to perpetuate impunity, ensuring that the architects of corruption evade justice while the people suffer.” 

Such cover-ups and orchestrated blame games only aggravate the tensions faced by the people. For both these ruling factions, pointing fingers or performing saber rattlings is far less about achieving justice and far more about subverting it to serve their own interests. Investigations are delayed, facts are obfuscated, and accountability is continually deferred. 

Figures like Zaldy Co, who have benefited from both the Marcos and Duterte administrations, have become emblematic of this system of opportunism. Once regarded as a competent technocrat by some, he now stands exposed in the eyes of the public as a man whose loyalty lies not with the nation but with personal gain. The people see him exploiting both regimes, manipulating circumstances to enrich himself, and ignoring the welfare of those he was meant to serve. 

The people as the guardians of justice 

In this struggle, the people themselves have become the guardians of justice. Citizens, workers, students, and activists alike have demonstrated vigilance and courage, refusing to be silenced or distracted by political theatrics. Their mobilizations signal a broader awakening: a demand for transparency, integrity, and governance that truly serves the public interest. 

History will remember this moment. The Filipino people have spoken. Marcos and Duterte, their allies, and their enablers have been exposed for their betrayal of public trust. The nation watches, and the call is clear: corruption must be punished, accountability enforced, and leadership restored to those who serve the people rather than exploit them. 

The message from the streets is unequivocal. No office, no title, no lineage can place an individual above the law. The betrayal of public funds, the abuse of authority, and the exploitation of citizens’ trust will not go unchallenged. As the nation rises, it signals that the era of impunity may be at an end. The people demand justice, and justice, sooner or later, will be served. 

When the Nation Lives in the People: Patriotism, Struggle, and Liberation

When the Nation Lives in the People:

Patriotism, Struggle, and Liberation

Nationalism is often imagined as the product of lofty ideals, heroic figures, and the pens of poets or pamphleteers. Yet such a vision is incomplete, even misleading. True national consciousness does not arise in isolation from the lives of the many who labor, suffer, and struggle under the weight of oppression. It is forged in the shared experience of hunger and fear, cold and injustice—by the people whose daily toil and sacrifice shape the course of history. As Andres Bonifacio once asked: “Is there any love that is nobler, purer, and more sublime than the love of the native country? What love is? Certainly none.” When nationalism becomes mass-based, it is no longer a sentimental abstraction but a living force, rooted in the very blood and sweat of those who have the most at stake. Only then can it reflect the authentic spirit of a nation, rather than the romanticized vision of an elite few. 

When nationalism becomes mass-based, it returns to its roots—the lived experience of the people who shape history and determine its destiny. It is shallow and misleading to downplay the role of the working people in favor of a romanticized elite in the formation of nations. The national awakening is not merely a poem, a song, or the sentiment expressed in a pamphlet; it lives in the shared suffering of the masses—the hunger, the cold, the fear imposed by tyrants, both local and foreign—which becomes the fuel that ignites the struggle for emancipation and dissent. 

As Andres Bonifacio so poignantly expressed in Katapusang Hibik ng Pilipinas: 

“Other mothers cannot compare with you:

your children’s comforts are poverty and sorrows;

when they, in appealing to you, prostrate themselves,

your proffered balm is exceedingly painful.” 

Here, Bonifacio evokes the bitter reality of a nation whose people endure hardship while yearning for relief. The love of the native country, he reminds us, is not abstract—it is lived through the suffering and courage of those who bear the weight of injustice. Just like what Bonifacio himself asked, it is this grounded, visceral love—rooted in struggle, sacrifice, and collective endurance—that fuels the rise of a truly national consciousness. 

Nationalism, when embraced by the masses rather than confined to elite imaginings, becomes a living, breathing force. It is forged in the shared pains of the people and animated by their will to resist, to claim, and ultimately to shape the destiny of their nation. Only then can patriotism transcend sentimentality and become the enduring foundation of a nation’s liberation and identity. 

On this day commemorating Andres Bonifacio, one might reflect that while he may not have been a plebeian in the strictest sense, his love of country rooted him deeply in the lives of the common people, making him one in spirit. By the standards of his time—or even ours—he was relatively well-educated and held positions that afforded him social standing. Yet it was his lived experience among the oppressed, his use of the local tongue, and his profound empathy for those dispossessed that aligned him with the masses. In this sense, he was plebeian, if not proletarian, in the truest measure of the term. 

Critics may dismiss such a reading as a travesty, insisting that heroes like Bonifacio or Rizal must be understood through the lens of the idyllic—the former driven by righteous hatred, the latter by lofty idealism. But reality demands more than neat archetypes. True heroism is not nourished by mere pride or personal glory; it is forged in the willingness to leap into the abyss, to risk oneself for a cause greater than oneself. It is this fearless devotion, rooted in solidarity with the people, that compels generations to honor them as heroes—not for their station, but for their sacrifice. 

And in speaking of nationalism and the masses, it is precisely this reality—the lived experience of the people, their suffering, struggle, and courage—that explains why many patriots, historically and today, have found resonance in the ideas of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin, despite critiques labeling these thinkers as “antinational.” Such critiques often mistake the critique of oppressive states and ruling elites for a denial of the nation itself. Yet, as history demonstrates, true nationalism is inseparable from the empowerment of the people who give it life. 

Marx himself emphasized the material basis of collective struggle: “The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles” (Karl Marx, The Communist Manifesto, 1848). National consciousness, when grounded in the working people, cannot be separated from the material conditions and social struggles that define them. A nation is not merely an abstract concept, a flag, or a set of rituals; it is the sum of its people’s labor, endurance, and collective effort. By understanding history through the lens of class struggle, Marx revealed that the liberation of the nation is bound to the liberation of those who produce and sustain it. 

Lenin further clarified the connection between national liberation and the proletariat: “The proletariat of each country, despite all the divisions of nationality, must unite for the overthrow of the bourgeoisie” (Vladimir Lenin, The Right of Nations to Self-Determination, 1914). Here, the “nation” is not an abstract project devised by elites, nor is it defined by sentimental patriotic rhetoric. It is the collective life of the people, whose empowerment—through struggle, solidarity, and self-determination—transforms the very meaning of nationhood. Lenin emphasized that the emancipation of the oppressed classes within a nation strengthens national integrity rather than undermining it, because it roots the nation in justice and shared purpose. 

Stalin, in his own formulation, reinforced the idea that the national question is inseparable from class struggle: “A nation is a historically constituted, stable community of people, formed on the basis of a common language, territory, economic life, and psychological makeup manifested in a common culture” (Joseph Stalin, Marxism and the National Question, 1913). For Stalin, the nation is not an elite ideal or a decorative myth; it is the lived and collective reality of people shaped by shared labor, culture, and struggle. It is in the work, traditions, and social cohesion of ordinary people that the nation truly exists. 

Thus, when Marxist ideas are embraced in the context of patriotism, it is not the nation that is withered away, as critics often fear, but the state as an instrument of oppression and domination. In its place, the working masses—the true creators of history—become the living embodiment of the nation. Through their collective struggle, solidarity, and self-assertion, they transform abstract nationalism into a tangible force, capable of shaping destiny, resisting tyranny, and securing liberation. Nationalism, when rooted in the people rather than in a mythologized elite, finds its most authentic expression not in ceremonial rhetoric, but in the agency, resilience, and will of those who make history happen. 

In this light, mass-based nationalism and Marxist thought converge: both place the people at the center of history, recognizing that the survival, dignity, and agency of the nation are inseparable from the struggles and triumphs of its ordinary citizens. True patriotism, then, is not the passive reverence of symbols but active engagement with the realities of oppression, and the unwavering commitment to empower those whose labor, courage, and sacrifice are the very foundation of the nation itself. 

Before this note concludes, it must be said plainly: reclaiming nationalism from those who exploit its sentiment reveals, unmistakably, the presence of class struggle. Nationalism, when monopolized by elites, becomes a tool of mystification—an ornament used to disguise exploitation, to ask for sacrifice without justice, and to demand loyalty without reciprocity. But when nationalism is taken back by the people, when it is grounded in the lived struggles of workers, peasants, and the marginalized, its true nature emerges: a collective demand not merely for independence in name, but liberation in substance. 

History shows that national liberation cannot be confined to the idea of a territory freed from colonial rule. A nation may raise its flag yet remain shackled by internal structures of injustice, inequality, and exploitation. A truly liberated nation requires not only the casting off of external domination, but the dismantling of oppressive systems within. Social liberation is not an optional addendum to national freedom—it is its necessary completion. 

Yet such a transformation demands enormous courage, effort, and consciousness. The people must come to understand that national freedom without social emancipation is an illusion; that independence without justice is but a change of masters; that patriotism without equality is but a slogan wielded to maintain the status quo. The struggle must therefore be both national and social, both for sovereignty and for dignity, both against foreign tyranny and against the domestic forces that aggravate injustice. 

Bonifacio, in his clarity and conviction, understood this deeply. He wrote: “Reason teaches us that we cannot expect anything but more suffering, more treachery, more insults, and more slavery. Reason teaches us not to waste time hoping for the promised prosperity that will never come and never materialise… Reason teaches us to be united in will, united in thought, and united in purpose that we might have strength to combat the prevailing evil in our Nation.” 

In these words lies a timeless lesson: freedom is not granted by the goodwill of the powerful, nor achieved by waiting for prosperity to trickle down from the promises of those who benefit from inequality. Freedom must be asserted through unity, awakened by reason, and sustained by collective struggle. 

And so, the task of this present time mirrors the task of Bonifacio’s: to awaken a nationalism rooted not in spectacle but in solidarity; not in elite mythmaking but in the aspirations of the masses; not in nostalgia for a sanitized past but in courage to confront the structures that deform the present. To take back nationalism is to return it to its rightful owners—the people—and to insist that the nation cannot be fully free until its people are. 

Against the Spectacle: Reclaiming the Nation's Call for Truth, Justice, Accountability, and Transparency from the Manufactured Machinery of Power guised as Unity

Against the Spectacle: Reclaiming the Nation's Call 

for Truth, Justice, Accountability, and Transparency

from the Manufactured Machinery of Power guised as Unity

In the wake of the recent protests against corruption, a familiar script has resurfaced—one that seeks to downplay public outrage simply because the crowds were not as massive as some expected. Critics mock the demonstrations, treating them as insignificant compared to the “non-partisan activity” of the Iglesia ni Cristo (INC) weeks earlier, which drew larger numbers only to later reveal its own political undertones aligned with another faction of the ruling elite. This comparison—deliberate or not—misses the point entirely. It exposes how power continues to weaponize crowd size, selective morality, and institutional loyalty to delegitimize genuine dissent, while elevating spectacles that serve entrenched political interests. The protests, though smaller, speak to a deeper frustration: a growing refusal among ordinary citizens to accept corruption as normal, and a resistance to narratives that try to make public anger appear trivial simply because it does not enjoy the backing of a well-oiled political machine. 

When someone sneers, “Pa Let Leni Lead pa kayo; di nga kayo maka-10k kahit kasama na lahat ng taga-bundok at party-list na Pink,”* and follows it with the claim that “The Catholic Church cannot lead like INC because the Church is already corrupt,” it reveals more about the political culture than about any religious institution. 

If the accusation is corruption, then the obvious question is: Why, then, did a sect known for bloc voting openly support Marcos and Duterte in 2022—candidates whose own camps were marred by corruption, disinformation, and controversy? The answer lies in the nature of political alliances in the Philippines: they are rarely about morality, accountability, or truth. They are often transactional, premised on short-term gains, negotiated access, and a simplistic narrative packaged as “unity.” 

The idea of “unity” in 2022 was fundamentally shallow by design—it was not unity for justice, reform, or honest governance. It was unity built on avoiding hard questions, reducing complex issues into single-sentence slogans, and appealing to a tired public longing for stability after years of pandemic, crisis, and institutional exhaustion. Many voters—particularly those with limited political engagement—gravitate to the simplest explanation offered to them, especially when amplified by machinery, cash, and charismatic storytelling. 

This is why even communities or institutions accused of corruption can still claim the moral high ground in public discourse: the electorate is conditioned to accept surface-level narratives, not structural critiques. The emphasis is on emotional resonance rather than governance. 

Moreover, sectors like the INC do not operate on the same principle as the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church is internally diverse, decentralized in many respects, and contains progressive, conservative, apolitical, and even indifferent factions. It cannot command a unified political vote. In contrast, bloc-voting groups negotiate directly with powerholders—leading to tactical endorsements that are less about morality and more about political survival and institutional advantage. 

So when observers point out the contradiction—“If you call the Church corrupt, why did you support candidates equally or even more controversial?”—the silence is telling. Because the endorsement was not based on ethics. It was based on: 

• the power of machinery and patronage

• the desire for access to the next administration

• the seductive simplicity of “unity” versus the difficult truths of reform

• and the public’s fatigue toward long, complex explanations, favoring instead quick slogans 

In short, the masses were not mobilized by a deep ideological commitment, but by a narrative engineered to be easy, comforting, and politically advantageous for those who crafted it—even if it was hollow. 

Thus, the real issue is not whether the Catholic Church is corrupt or whether INC can “lead better.” The real issue is that political discourse has been reduced to spectacle, where contradiction, selective morality, and convenient amnesia shape electoral choices. Under such conditions, even institutions accused of corruption can influence national politics—so long as they align with the prevailing machinery of power. 

Lenin once warned that “Politics is the most concentrated expression of economics.” In a landscape where alliances are transactional, endorsements are not moral judgments but economic calculations—bargains struck to preserve influence, visibility, and institutional leverage. 

Marx likewise observed that “The ideas of the ruling class are in every epoch the ruling ideas.” Today, those ruling ideas manifest as the weaponization of crowd size, the normalization of corruption when it benefits the powerful, and the derision of dissent when it challenges the narratives of those in control. 

And it is here that the words Andres Bonifacio did resonate: “Reason teaches us that we must be united in will, united in thought, and that we might have strength to search out the reigning evil in our Nation. This is the time for the light of truth to surface; this is the time for us to show that we have our own sentiments, have honour, have shame, and have solidarity.” 

Bonifacio’s call was not for blind obedience to authority, but for the courage to resist any system—colonial or local—that treats the people as mere accessories to power. 

Placed alongside today’s context, these words echo sharply: A people cannot be expected to accept corruption, hypocrisy, or transactional politics simply because those in power say it is normal. Nor can dissent be dismissed simply because it lacks the machinery of groups aligned with the ruling factions. 

To paraphrase the spirit of Lenin, Marx, and Bonifacio: "The struggle is always between those who benefit from maintaining illusions and those who insist on exposing them."

And in this struggle, even small protests matter—not because of their size, but because they refuse to let the narrative be dictated solely by the machinery of the powerful. 

Against the machinery of power, unity grounded in ethical clarity—not slogans—becomes its own form of resistance. Even small protests matter, not because of the numbers they gather, but because they refuse to surrender truth to spectacle, or conscience to convenience. 

***

*“Go ahead and let Leni lead; you still won’t reach 10,000 even if all the people from the mountains and all the Pink party-lists join.”

The ₱500 "Noche Buena" budget: Official Claims or Another Mockery of Filipino Families?

The ₱500 "Noche Buena"  budget:

Official Claims or Another Mockery of Filipino Families? 

The Department of Trade and Industry (DTI) recently reaffirmed that a budget of ₱500 is sufficient to provide a Noche Buena feast for a family of four, citing current market prices and a standard family composition of mother, father, and two children. 

According to DTI’s Noche Buena price guide, the proposed budget covers essential festive items: Christmas ham (₱170), spaghetti (₱78.50), macaroni salad (₱152.45), fruit salad (₱98.25), and ten pieces of Pinoy pandesal (₱27.75). A simplified version omitting some items can reduce the cost to ₱374.50, leaving families additional funds to purchase luncheon meat, corned beef, or other staples. Secretary Cristina Roque explained that these prices reflect the “usual” items on a Filipino Christmas table and are in line with President Marcos Jr.’s directive to ensure affordable prices. 

Yet, the claim has provoked widespread criticism. Social media users, legislators, and watchdog groups have called the ₱500 budget “absurd” and “out of touch with reality.” Ibon Foundation Executive Director Sonny Africa denounced the figure as obviously false, labeling it a part of government propaganda: “The DTI knows this is not true. To claim that ₱500 can sustain a family’s festive meal is a cover-up of the worsening economic situation,” Africa said. 

Indeed, the arithmetic alone tells a clear and unforgiving story: the total cost of even the most basic Noche Buena already exceeds ₱500, and any additional items—barbecue, extra meat, or even the simplest holiday treats—push the expense much higher. To claim otherwise is not merely misguided; it comes dangerously close to mocking the everyday struggles of Filipino households, which continue to grapple with rising prices for food, rent, utilities, and other essentials. This, in truth, is nothing less than a cynical exercise in austerity theater. It is not an expression of genuine concern for Filipino families, but an attempt to manufacture an illusion of affordability—an illusion meant to suggest that government policy can stretch a family’s purchasing power even as inflation tightens around them. By insisting that ₱500 can sustain a festive meal, officials project the image of a state capable of delivering comfort through frugality, while the reality outside their statements tells a different story: ordinary households facing the unrelenting climb of food costs. 

Critics—from social media users to economists and watchdog organizations—are not exaggerating when they describe the claim as “obviously false” and propagandistic. The Ibon Foundation, among others, has repeatedly emphasized that such pronouncements do not reflect conditions on the ground. Their objections underline a broader truth: that policies framed as relief too often become tools for political messaging, papering over hardships rather than addressing them. 

Christmas is a season meant for joy, abundance, and shared meals. To frame a ₱500 feast as sufficient is austerity dressed up as festive cheer, an official gesture that fails to acknowledge the lived realities of ordinary Filipinos. Rather than offering meaningful support, it risks presenting the government as disconnected and indifferent to real needs. And while Secretary Roque insists that manufacturers have cooperated to maintain affordable prices, emphasizing that families can buy ham and prepare spaghetti and macaroni salad within this budget. Still, critics argue that this guidance is detached from actual market dynamics and serves more as a public relations exercise than a practical solution. 

The ₱500 Noche Buena budget, while intended to showcase government efficiency, ultimately raises questions about priorities. Genuine measures—price stability, food subsidies, and direct support for struggling households—would do far more to ensure a joyful Christmas for all Filipinos than relying on a symbolic, implausible budget figure. Until then, the ₱500 Noche Buena remains what it is: an empty promise and another insult to families trying to make ends meet.  

Neither Marcos nor Duterte: Grassroots Politics vs. Managed Dissent

Neither Marcos nor Duterte: Renewing Calls

for Grassroots Politics vs. Managed Dissent

The Philippine political stage today is dominated by spectacle and illusion.

In a recent broadcast excerpt, former senator Antonio Trillanes laid bare what he described as the agenda of the so-called mainstream opposition: an attempt to forge an alliance with President Ferdinand Marcos Jr.—a maneuver that, to many observers, appears deeply embarrassing for a faction that purports to oppose his administration.

Labeling this opposition as “dominant” may sound paradoxical at first, yet within the Philippine political landscape, it is accurate. This faction represents the acceptable face of dissent, a performative opposition whose primary function is less about transformative change and more about containment. By framing the political battlefield on terms convenient to itself, it channels genuine discontent into safe, manageable outlets, ensuring that truly transformative forces from below never gain meaningful traction.

Trillanes himself, in an interview, reduced the Philippine political scene to a quartet of forces: the pro-Marcos camp, the pro-Duterte camp, the Kakampinks—a coalition of Liberals and social democrats—and the so-called “unaligned” masses. From the perspective of political theory, this is a textbook example of what Antonio Gramsci termed a passive revolution: a strategy whereby dominant groups absorb dissent, control the narrative, and exclude radical alternatives from legitimate discourse (Gramsci, 1971). Similarly, Chantal Mouffe’s work on “hegemonic pluralism” underscores how liberal democracies often manufacture consent through a controlled opposition that prevents the emergence of antagonistic politics capable of disrupting entrenched hierarchies (Mouffe, 2005).

Yet this manufactured framework conceals more than it reveals. Opposition is not monolithic. Many reject both Marcos and Duterte outright. It is unsurprising, some argue, that such citizens are willing to go beyond the narrow parameters of legality if that is what is required to realize true nationalism and systemic reform. Trillanes, it seems, has forgotten that he was once a coup‑plotter inspired by the ideas of a “Filipino Ideology” and a “National Recovery Program”—visions in which the ills of society, including systemic corruption, were to be surgically excised. Ironically, his current rhetoric minimizes the very principles he once embraced.

Perhaps, however, his strategy is calculated: a “revolution from the center,” an attempt to rescue the political center by performing the appearance of radical opposition while preserving the underlying system. In this light, Trillanes’s maneuver resembles a neo‑Marcosian tactic: aligning the so-called “liberals” and “pinks” with a figure he opposed as recently as 2022, while framing it as principled resistance. By doing so, the dominant opposition claims moral high ground, yet in practice leaves the deeper structures of corruption untouched.

This is consistent with wider patterns identified in comparative political science. As James C. Scott has observed in Domination and the Arts of Resistance, state power often relies on controlling the visible and symbolic forms of dissent, while quietly neutralizing the capacity of the subordinate to mobilize transformative change (Scott, 1990). Similarly, the work of Boaventura de Sousa Santos reminds us that dominant legal-political frameworks often marginalize “subaltern counterpublics,” rendering their knowledge and praxis invisible, even when their movements embody systemic critique (Santos, 2002).

Not surprisingly, when Marcos is positioned as the lesser evil relative to Duterte, the administration’s past misdeeds are quietly relegated to footnotes—convenient omissions in a narrative that prioritizes political optics over accountability. The result is a theatre of controlled dissent: citizens are presented with the illusion of choice while the entrenched elite maintain their grip on power. The radical aspirations of students, workers, and organized communities are marginalized, dismissed, or pathologized as “extreme”—even as these very forces confront the systemic failures left unresolved by both Marcos and Duterte.

The irony is sharp: Trillanes, a coup plotter during the Arroyo era, once sought to surgically remove corruption, to confront systemic injustice decisively. Today, by performing a safe, centralized opposition, he may be inadvertently perpetuating the very problems he once vowed to eradicate. The gap between past principle and present strategy is stark, and it is being noticed—by citizens who refuse to be contained within the narrow parameters of elite-managed politics.

At present, countless citizens are actively engaged: students, farmers, workers, women, Indigenous Peoples, LGBTQIA+ communities, faith-based groups, and professional associations. The mainstream opposition, Trillanes included, seeks to shrink politics to a comfortably abstract game, one that ignores the concrete conditions shaping people’s lives. As Gaston Bachelard observed, “the world in which one thinks is not necessarily the world in which one lives” (Bachelard, 1984). This disconnect explains why these factions dismiss massive, sustained mobilizations—from the September 21st actions to the approaching “Baha sa Luneta 2.0” on November 30th—movements fueled by floods, government scandals, and a growing awareness of Marcos Jr.’s central role in the nation’s crises.

Established powers—from Malacañang to the Kakampinks, including the police and military—view these grassroots forces with suspicion. They are accustomed to dealing with compliant masses: bodies to be swayed, ridiculed, disciplined, or suppressed. These organizers are different. They are aligned, principled, and refuse to become collateral damage in a decayed political system. The only concession to Trillanes’s framework is his critique of the Duterte faction; a resurgence on their part, he warns, would bring devastation.

Observers note a troubling pattern: a tendency to see politics as a choice between lesser evils, arguing that removing Marcos alone is insufficient because Duterte’s faction remains a looming threat. Yet corruption thrives across both camps, often shared by the same personalities who benefited under both administrations. Selective finger-pointing obscures the systemic rot at the heart of governance.

The grassroots are resolute. By refusing to name them, dominant forces hope to erase them from the narrative. But they will make themselves visible—vivid, undeniable, and unignored. Their presence will be felt in Luneta on November 30th, as students, workers, organizers, and citizens converge to demand justice, accountability, and systemic change. They demand neither Marcos nor Duterte. In doing so, they embody a politics that the mainstream opposition cannot contain: a vision of nationalism, reform, and systemic justice that refuses to be hemmed in by legalistic limitations or performative politics.

As Helmut Schmidt dryly observed, “Those who don’t talk won’t be heard” (Schmidt, 1987). In the streets, in the barrios, in factories and campuses, the people intend to make themselves heard. They will not settle for the hollow scripts of the established “opposition.” In this city of power and performance, they remind the nation that true politics emerges from below, not from the carefully curated illusions of privileged dissent—a truth echoed by Paulo Freire in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, who argued that liberation arises from the conscientization of the oppressed, not the benevolence of the powerful (Freire, 1970).

In the Philippines today, the question is not simply who governs, but whether governance will ever be accountable to the people themselves. And in the streets of Luneta, the answer may finally be making itself unmistakably clear.

***

References

Bachelard, G. (1984). The New Scientific Spirit. Beacon Press.
Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Continuum.
Gramsci, A. (1971). Selections from the Prison Notebooks. International Publishers.
Mouffe, C. (2005). On the Political. Routledge.
Santos, B. de S. (2002). Toward a New Legal Common Sense: Law, Globalization, and Emancipation. Butterworths.
Schmidt, H. (1987). Memoirs: Politics and Power in Germany. Pantheon.
Scott, J. C. (1990). Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. Yale University Press.

“The Coffee, the Night, and the Unspoken”

“The Coffee, the Night, and the Unspoken”

 “To Love Quietly, While the City Screams”

The noontime coffee still cold
Sitting on the wooden table,
Ice making the latte colder.
Kaughter drifts from the market below,
Shouts of vendors, clatter of carts,
Voices bouncing off brick walls
Like children chasing echoes.

I sip slowly, pretending the warmth
Fills more than my cup.
But inside, a quiet gnaw,
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
Hidden behind a smile that no one sees.

Somewhere in the crowd
Someone’s fingers brush,
Hands lift a glass,
Toast to a neighbor’s bargain—
I imagine your hand instead,
Fingers grazing mine
In a private ritual no one witnesses,
A secret carved in the margin of this ordinary day.

The breeze carries the smell of coffee grounds,
Grilled meat, and sunlight—
The smells that once could summon you
from memory,
And I clutch the cup tighter,
Afraid if I let go
Even a drop of longing might spill
across the tiles,
Visible to the world.

Afternoon drifts into evening,
The market fades, lights flicker on,
Music pulses from a nearby rave.
The bass shakes the pavement,
And a drunk tries to dance,
Stumbling, arms flailing,
But still laughing—
And I watch him,
Letting the chaos pull at the edges of my mind
While your absence settles deeper in my chest.

The night smells of sweat and fried food,
Plastic cups clinking,
Voices overlapping like broken harmonies.
I pretend the bitter taste of my coffee
Is all there is,
Yet behind my ribs
The echo of your voice
Threads the gaps between the thump of bass,
Pulling at me like a hidden chord,
A melody no one else hears.

Stars prick the black sky,
Lights swinging from rigged scaffolds,
I fold the heat of the day
And the pulse of the night over my shoulders,
Pretend it is enough,
Pretend I am full,
Pretend the memory of you
Is just a shadow in the crowd.

But when I close my eyes,
Your face drifts past the drunken laughter,
Past the thrumming speakers, past the swaying bodies—
And I let the silence hold me
Because silence is the only place
Where longing can breathe
Without being noticed,
Without betraying itself.

The cup is empty now,
The rave fades toward midnight,
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table,
Letting the hours spill forward
While I carry the weight behind my chest,
A quiet love no one will touch,
A farewell that never names itself,
The secret pulse of the world
That I leave behind in every breath.

 

“Questions Left on a Coffee Rim”

When was there room to see your presence—

Not wrapped in offerings or easy gestures,

But standing on its own,

Weight enough to anchor a trembling day?

Your voice once softened the sharpest hours,

A low flame moving through the air—

I search for it now

In the hush between breaths.

Coffee cools against my palms,

Steam already surrendered.

The rave’s distant bass

Presses against the walls and ribs alike,

A borrowed heartbeat

That will not settle.

A drunk man sways beneath neon,

Arms opening to no one—

His laughter fracturing,

Yet he keeps time with a rhythm

Only he can hear.

I study him like scripture,

As if he might teach me

How to hold desire without breaking.

You brought music once—

Not the kind that ends with applause,

But the kind that stains the silence after,

Leaving the room forever changed.

No courtesy could compare.

I sip what’s left,

As if warmth might return,

As if memory could be reheated.

Inside, an ache curls inward,

Small, disciplined, obedient—

A guest who knows it will never be introduced.

Night gathers its shawl.

Windows glitter,

The bass deepens into something tidal.

I follow your outline through the dark—

Not a body, not a face,

Just a familiar shift in the air,

A note held too long,

Unresolved.

The dancer refuses gravity,

Spinning grief into comedy,

And for a moment I wish

I could be as unashamed—

To stagger toward joy

Without fearing who might watch.

I close my eyes.

The music dissolves into drone,

Into prayer,

Into an incantation that knows my name.

You return there, briefly—

Not as memory,

But as possibility.

I open them again

And find you scattered—

A car’s passing gleam,

A silhouette blurred by strobe,

A stranger’s half-forgotten laugh.

Each vanishes before I can touch it.

The cup is empty.

The night thins.

The dancer disappears into shadow.

I rise without ceremony,

Folding the moment closed.

No confession.

No plea.

Only the quiet,

Only the breath,

Only the love carried inward—

Unwritten, unnamed,

But tuned perfectly

To the key of goodbye.

“Dancing Alone in the Echo of You”

The noon sun slants across the table,
Coffee cooling in my hands,
The foam a pale memory of warmth.
Bass hums faintly down the street,
A pulse that moves like blood
Through the veins of the city.
Your absence hovers over it all,
More tangible than any gift,
More insistent than any friendly gesture.

When was the time to see your loving presence,
To feel the quiet weight of you
Press against the ribs of my day,
More than laughter, more than smiles,
More than a fleeting “hello”
That can be cast aside like a leaf in the wind?

The music grows,
Staccato lights slicing through shadows,
A drunk man tries to dance,
Arms flailing, feet stumbling,
Yet he moves with a strange courage
I cannot summon.
How easily joy can slip from the sober heart,
How lightly it can be worn by someone who does not know longing.

I sip, pretending the warmth fills more than my cup,
But inside, a quiet gnaw—
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
A secret I hide even from myself.

Your voice, if it came now,
Would thread through the bass like a silver thread
Through black silk—
An elegy, a song too fragile for the clamor of the world.
When did you bring music to my life,
True music,
That lingered longer than laughter
And stronger than the friendliness
That others give without thought?

The shadows lengthen,
The sun dips behind rooftops,
Strobe lights begin to pulse,
The rave grows into a living tide of sound.
I watch the drunk man again,
His body a clumsy river flowing in rhythm
With a tide only he feels.
I envy him the simplicity of his surrender,
While I clutch memory like a talisman,
Afraid to release even a note of longing
For fear it might vanish into the night.

And yet, I hear you in the pauses,
In the silence between beats,
A lament drifting over the pulse of bass,
Soft as a sigh in a Heian garden,
Delicate as cherry blossoms
Falling into a pond that reflects nothing but emptiness.
Your face drifts past the flashing lights,
Past the sweating bodies,
Past the echoing laughter,
And I let the silence hold me,
Because silence is the only place
Where love can breathe,
Without being stolen,
Or mistaken for mere friendship.

The coffee cup is empty now,
The bass fades to memory,
The drunk man stumbles into the darkness,
And the world exhales its pulse.
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table with careful hands,
Letting the hours spill forward
While carrying the weight behind my chest—
A love no one will touch,
A farewell never named,
The secret pulse of longing
That threads through every breath I take.

And though the night stretches toward its end,
The memory of you moves through it like smoke,
Tender and relentless,
A lament half-spell, half-song,
A melody of what was never ours,
Yet remains mine,
In every shadow, every echo, every sigh
Between the beats of a rave
And the cooling rim of a coffee cup.

When Family Members Also Show Rift — Resulting in Desperate Measures

When Family Members Also Show Rift — Resulting in Desperate Measures

In the life of a nation, as in the life of a ruling family, unity is never a luxury. It is a structural requirement for stable governance. A household divided—especially one that sits at the summit of state power—weakens institutions, invites opportunism, and endangers the collective well-being of the people. Today, the Philippines confronts a perilous spectacle: a ruling family ruptured from within. 

Speaking before a rally of Iglesia ni Cristo devotees assembled allegedly "against corruption in government" at the Quirino Grandstand Monday evening, the nation watched as Senator Imee Marcos publicly accused her own brother, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr., of a supposed long-standing struggle with drug dependence. She went further, implicating the First Lady by asserting that his alleged condition had worsened because “they were both the same.” Her plea—“end your suffering and the suffering of the nation, come home and seek treatment”—was delivered in full public view. 

On its surface, such a statement may pass as maternal concern. Yet the timing, the political environment, and the public stage chosen reveal far more: a calculated blow presented as compassion, an internal strike shrouded in the language of moral intervention. 

Malacañang’s Firm Response 

The Presidential Communications Office, through Undersecretary Claire Castro, condemned the senator’s statements as a “desperate move” and demanded clarity regarding her motives. 

She noted that the rally in question was about alleged corruption—not personal attacks against the President. Her question cut directly into the controversy: “What reason does Senator Imee have to malign her own brother?” 

Castro reiterated the verified facts: President Marcos voluntarily underwent a drug test before the 2022 elections, with results confirmed negative by St. Luke’s Medical Center. She cited the official statement: “President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. did test negative for cocaine in 2021.” 

Her reminder of the senator’s selective outrage was pointed: “Why is she now concerned about alleged drug use when former President Duterte openly admitted to marijuana and fentanyl? She never called him out.” 

Thus, the claim of moral urgency collapses under the weight of political context. 

The Political Context of 2025 

This breakdown within the ruling family did not emerge from chance or emotion. Its roots lie in the political maneuvers surrounding the 2025 elections. Senator Marcos withdrew from the coalition supported by her brother—the Alyansa para sa Bagong Pilipinas (Alliance for the New Philippines)—shortly after the government surrendered former President Rodrigo Duterte to the International Criminal Court. Long known as a staunch Duterte ally, she repositioned herself almost immediately, securing the endorsement of Vice President Sara Duterte, with whom President Marcos had already experienced a profound political rupture.

The pattern reflects calculation rather than conscience. It is a familiar choreography in Philippine politics: ambition clothed in the language of concern, rivalry disguised as duty. Her decision did more than create a split within the ruling family—it fractured the loyalist bloc itself. The once-unified constituency that had supported both Marcos and Duterte in 2016 found itself divided, with many choosing to align with the former president out of sentiment, grievance, or ideological convenience. Some even rationalized this pivot as an act of “true loyalism,” arguing that Senator Imee’s siding with the Dutertes carried greater legitimacy precisely because she bore the Marcos name.

Such a realignment reveals the deeper truth: this was not a moral stand but a political wager, executed in full awareness of its consequences for both family and nation..

The Son’s Response: A Defiant Stand for Family and State 

If the senator intended to weaken her brother, she underestimated the resolve of the President’s immediate family. House Majority Leader Sandro Marcos responded with clarity and firmness. 

He expressed sorrow over the senator’s descent into fabrication: “It pains me to see how low she has gone, resorting to a web of lies aimed at destabilizing this government to advance her political ambitions.” 

He called the allegations dangerously irresponsible, noting that they now targeted not just the President and First Lady, but himself and even younger family members. The betrayal was personal as well as political: “We always agreed that whatever happened between our parents, we would not drag ourselves into it. For her to betray her own family brings me great sadness.” 

He delivered the final judgment with unequivocal severity: “This is not the behavior of a true sister.” 

The Lesson for the Nation 

History has repeatedly shown that divided leadership results in weakened governance. When a family entrusted with power fractures, the consequences extend far beyond private grievances—weakening state structures, emboldening opportunists, and attracting foreign exploitation. 

Senator Imee Marcos’s accusations were not an act of familial concern. They were a deliberate escalation of political conflict, concealed beneath the language of public duty. Her alignment with the Duterte bloc intensifies the implications. 

Yet nevertheless, this rift does not erase a deeper reality: the members of this ruling family swore to uphold an order that has long been corroded. As the late Senator José Avelino once remarked, there are “Good Crooks” and “Bad Crooks” within the bureaucracy—if not within society as a whole. This maxim, cynical yet accurate, illuminates the present moment: internal strife does not exempt the ruling class from complicity in a system already bent under the weight of its own decay. 

Even so, desperate measures—once unleashed—never remain confined to the family. They spill outward, eroding governance and fraying the unity of the state itself. 

Thus, the President, his family, and those loyal to the stability of the state must had to stand firm—undeterred by internal efforts at destabilization. 

Let the public record stand: Loyalty, integrity, and unity remain the pillars of legitimate authority. Betrayal, even from within the same bloodline, imperils not only a family but the nation it governs. 

For a people to endure, their leaders must endure together. And when internal fractures threaten national coherence, the guardians of the order must act decisively against those who divide for private gain.