Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
Reading through my journals, one might notice my constant wrestling with the role social media has taken in my life—how it has slowly replaced the richest habits of my earlier years. Social media is like a bread that never satisfies: it fills but never nourishes. The true and sustaining bread the Lord offers is often set aside, replaced by the empty calories of scrolling and noise. The bread prepared by the world is tempting and addictive in ways that are hard to resist. I struggle with it, and although I lose the battle at times, I also see myself slowly progressing toward freedom.
For the past few days, I’ve been intentionally replacing my social media habits with the activities that once brought me genuine joy. I’ve returned to reading, and I have sought creative works—not only in literature but also in cinema and various streaming platforms—that speak to the complexities and nuances of human life. These stories, with their slower pace and deeper emotional palette, remind me of the true rhythm of existence. Life is not a rapid sequence of events; it is a journey accompanied by thought, conscience, emotion, memory, discernment, and the quiet weighing of choices. That is where my joy lies: living through others’ stories, seeing the world with their eyes, understanding their struggles and triumphs.
I recently began reading Iris Murdoch, inspired by having finished six seasons of the Australian series A Place to Call Home. Murdoch’s writing reflects the kinds of characters I would love to write about if I possessed her gift—deeply human, morally entangled, intellectually alive.
The series itself mirrors a period I have always admired from afar. The Australia of the 1950s, though fascinating, would not have welcomed someone like me—an outsider, a foreigner—into its tightly knit social circles. Yet I am drawn to observing how communities functioned during that time, how their struggles, though seemingly small by today’s standards, were matters of life and death for them. Many characters carried unprocessed trauma—from Nazi brutality, from Japanese atrocities—only to return home and face suspicion, rejection, gossip, and small-town politics. They escaped one war only to enter another: the war of social hierarchy, where people would plot, spy, bully, and scheme to protect their fragile status.
I know this world well. Growing up in a small barrio, I saw these same dynamics unfold in different forms. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to these stories. They remind me of where I came from and how much the world has changed—and yet hasn’t.
Gratitude and Health:
First and foremost, I thank the Lord for the encouraging results of my recent lab tests. Except for the usual elevated blood sugar, everything else looked good. Yesterday I finally saw the cardiologist, who increased my lisinopril from 10 mg to 20 mg because my blood pressure remains slightly above the ideal range for my age. My Cologuard test came back negative, which is a relief. The only slightly unusual finding was a subnormal PSA percentage, though this could be affected by diabetes. For now, I will give myself time to adjust to the higher lisinopril dose and monitor any side effects.
My two persistent enemies remain diabetes and hypertension—but they are manageable enemies, provided I stay faithful to the work.
There may also be an extension of my Obamacare subsidies for two more years, which would carry me safely to Medicare at 65. That news alone feels like a hand gently guiding me, and I am grateful to the Lord for such provisions in this transition from youth to old age. I trust that He will not leave me without help as I continue this journey.
Still, I must do my part. I was inconsistent in the past with medical follow-ups, hoping diet and lifestyle alone would solve everything. Yet even those imperfect efforts helped. I think of my parents and siblings, many of whom did not maintain their health due to lifestyle limits or lack of resources. Two of my siblings are gone; one lives with disability; two others manage chronic conditions. My point is simple: health maintenance is twofold. You need medical care and lifestyle discipline. They support each other like two pillars holding up a fragile bridge.
The Shifting Landscape of Aging:
Psychological changes come with aging too. At first, I imagined retirement as a time to finally pursue all the adventures I had missed during my working years—more travel, more social networks, more freedom, more “good times.” But reality teaches otherwise. I could travel, yes—but travel is kinder to those with companions, and I do not have one. I could explore lesser-known natural spots, but my sugar and blood pressure require that I have emergency options nearby. I could expand my social circle, but the desire is no longer there. I now find more fulfillment in solitude, in reading, writing, gardening, contemplation—things that require fewer people and more inner space. And “good times,” as the world defines them, have lost their shine. They cost too much in energy, money, and peace. I’ve met enough of the wrong people in my youth to know that the search for excitement is often more exhausting than rewarding.
So what remains? A modified version of my old dreams. There are many gentle joys still available to my aging body and spirit. Meditation, which I practice daily, has become one of my most treasured hours. Walking in the park and then tending the garden give me a tiredness that leads to genuine rest. And now that I am shifting time away from social media and back toward reading, writing, and storytelling, I am rediscovering a quieter, steadier form of happiness.
This, I suspect, is the natural trajectory of a human life. Even when regrets arise—regrets about not traveling more, not seizing certain chances when I was younger—I remind myself of two things:
Many of my siblings missed their youthful pleasures not by choice but by circumstance.
Many elderly patients I cared for once lived vibrant, adventurous lives, only to be later confined by frailty.
We all carry different configurations of joy and suffering. Measuring my life against someone else’s curated image is a path to misery.
Social Media and the Search for Meaning:
Social media feels increasingly hollow these days—filled with failures, tragedies, and endless obituary posts. How can one find satisfaction in such a medium? The only exceptions are pages by scientists, philosophers, and the occasional clever comedy skit that offers guilty pleasure. But even these cannot replace contemplation, reading, or writing. I’ve begun reducing my screen time and I feel freer for it.
Yesterday’s Journey:
After days of anxious waiting for test results, I can finally rest in quiet. With my lisinopril dosage increased, I might avoid strenuous activities until my body adjusts.
Yesterday, after seeing the cardiologist, I returned home to take my morning Metformin. My blood sugar rises in the early morning no matter what I do, so I ate something light—apple, mandarin, and I could have added a protein shake. Around 10:30 AM I walked in the park, encouraged by my lab results, which affirmed that my diet and lifestyle changes are working. I intend to maintain them for as long as I can.
On the way home I stopped at Publix and picked up a bag of mandarins, bread, fish—flounder so thin they almost seemed imaginary—and some tuna, which I enjoy air-fried.
Later, I began reading Murdoch’s The Bell, hoping to replace the joy that A Place to Call Home had given me. When I couldn’t find a new series that fit my taste, I turned to YouTube to “walk” through Manila. Having visited three years ago, it felt comforting to revisit it from the safety and quiet of my room. I remembered the overwhelming stimuli of being there in person—the heat, the noise, the pace—things I may no longer be able to endure. Yet watching someone boldly explore the farthest corners of the city gave me a nostalgic thrill.
Afterwards, I returned to Murdoch.
2025-11-26 08:39:27
blog
Romans 12:3–8 — Humble Service in the Body of Christ
Yesterday turned out to be a wonderful day, even though I’m wrestling with the fears stirred up by my current medical appointments. There are lab tests to complete, a pending Cologuard result, and a visit to the cardiologist. It would be so easy to stay still, pretend everything is fine, and avoid the discomfort of knowing. But as a healthcare worker in the past —and as someone aging with diabetes—I know better. If my neck, shoulders, knees, and muscles ache in ways I never felt when I was younger, what more might be happening inside my body? Now that I am retired and have the time, it only makes sense to follow through with the appointments that allow the experts to “look under my hood.”
There is always anxiety when facing potential bad news. Ignorance feels like comfort, but reality eventually arrives—and its impact is far worse when we’ve refused to look. My sister, who lived most of her life morbidly obese, chose isolation over medical care, preferring the darkness of her room and the illusion that nothing was wrong. By the time she faced the truth, it was devastating and irreversible. My brother did the same, ignoring signs of kidney failure for years, dismissing everything to fate. He ended up suffering greatly in his final years, navigating dialysis in a country where treatment requires constant medical visits and financial strain.
Had they both simply gone to their doctors early on, they might still be alive today—perhaps limited in some ways, but present and enjoying the life God gave them.
I refuse to follow that path of denial. Yes, I still get anxious, but all I need is spending a few minutes with specialists covered by my insurance. Why not take advantage of that blessing? And why spend hours worrying about results that will be the same whether I panic or not? If something negative appears, then I deal with it—medication, lifestyle adjustment, or treatment. That is the cost of aging, and I am fortunate to be in the United States where follow-ups and preventive care are accessible. Medicare is coming in about a year and a half. For now, my insurance covers the rest. Even Jim, who plans to stay with me long-term, is a companion provided by God when I need one most.
The warnings from my departed siblings, the resources available to me, and the newfound discipline and attention to my health—these are all gifts authored by the Lord. Instead of anxiety, I should respond with gratitude though human nature is stubborn and fearful. I think of the early saints, apostles, and martyrs facing imprisonment, persecution, stoning, and crucifixion. They didn’t worry about diabetes or cholesterol; their faith carried them through dangers far greater than mine. Meanwhile here I am, worried about my lab tests like God has no role in my life. It humbles me.
Of course, if Peter and Paul lived in 2025, they would probably use modern medicine. Ignoring our health would be foolish. The body is the Temple of God, and we must care for it. The difference lies in how much we allow health concerns to dominate our minds. I have slipped into overthinking, overplanning, and over worrying—rather than simply living out the gifts God has given me.
The past few days have been productive: morning workouts, afternoon rest, walks, and gardening. Today is my day to physically rest, but my mind can still work. I’ll stay indoors, maybe clean the house a bit, visit the store or the library, perhaps create a new reel or finish a health article. My fiction site has been untouched for months. I may tend to my plants because they calm my mind. I’m experimenting with lighting
9dim light, bright light, artificial light) for my philodendrons. These small things give me joy.
Still, rest is needed. Three straight days of activity—walking, gardening, lifting, digging—have taken a toll. The pain in my neck, back, and shoulder last night reminded me to slow down. Aging is real, and limitations appear whether we welcome them or not.
I also noticed that sharp turns and dimly lit places trigger mild vertigo. This could be the blood pressure medication, the aftermath of my recent illness, or simply age-related changes—but the pattern is becoming clear. Walking straight is easy; turning quickly is harder. It mirrors what I sensed three years ago in Manila, when knee pain limited my ability to take public transportation. Now vertigo joins the list. I finally understand why people of a certain age no longer roam like they used to.
Yesterday was especially heavy: an hour-long walk, followed by more gardening, lifting stones, transplanting trees, clearing leaves, and working outdoors for hours. My mask and gloves were not enough to prevent the familiar flare of post-nasal drip and fatigue today. Rest was necessary, but boredom pushed me to test myself—I drove, revisited old hangouts, and discovered I no longer belong in those places. Thankfully, I had the self-control to stop before dizziness and low blood sugar took over.
This is diabetes: a seesaw of highs and lows, bursts of energy followed by sudden fatigue. Stopping medications is not an option, so the best I can do is manage the side effects. I took a short nap, ate an apple, made myself soup, and used Flonase for my congestion. Slowly, I started to feel better.
Driving may actually help me regain a sense of normalcy. Yesterday’s afternoon drive kept me awake and energized. But last night, after only four hours of sleep, everything felt off. I suspect a link between intense activity, nasal congestion from outdoor exposure, and next-day weakness. Add the dizziness from sharp turns and it all makes sense. I even remembered feeling something similar during my last doctor visit after yard work and taking my medication earlier than usual. I’m slowly connecting the dots.
Now it is almost 8 PM, and I’m feeling better. I rested for an hour but slipped into browsing the Internet. The recurring theme across the feeds was America’s dependence on a handful of companies to sustain its economy—many of them promising breakthroughs in AI without showing real profit. It reminds me of Bitcoin: a gamble, a bubble waiting to burst. AI can assist with tasks, but it cannot replace the depth of human thought. Months ago, I prompted it to create a PHP blog. It produced a skeleton, but the actual work—domain registration, hosting, building the database—still required human hands. If the project became tangled, would the AI know how to untangle it? I doubt it.
Night has arrived, and in the quiet of my room, the anxieties of aging return. I never worried this much in the hospital after my illness. But now, with lab works tomorrow and memories of my coworker announcing her cancer’s return, I feel vulnerable. The grief for my sister still sits close to the surface. I’m tired of thinking about my health, yet I can’t help it.
I often imagine the faith of the first Christians—those who died believing Christ Himself would receive them. I wish I had that same intensity of trust. But today’s world has pushed humanity toward self-reliance, away from God. Atheism has become fashionable. People act like there is no moral order, no judgment, no soul. Technology amplifies our impulses. Politics is filled with denial, dishonesty, and chaos. Young people drown in their phones, living virtually while neglecting the collapsing realities around them. Even I am not exempt—I spent two hours scrolling through lives I have no business observing. News of deaths, suicides, conflicts, vanity, and exhibitionism filled my screen. It all left me feeling lonely and disillusioned.
Earlier, I tried to revisit my old hangouts, hoping to feel traces of my former life. But that life is over. And that may be a blessing. Today, I still wake up, walk, garden, drive, read, write, and meditate. These things are enough. They are my new normal. Adventures and escapades belong to the past. And given the state of the world now, maybe retirement is my God’s protection.
Now I turn my delight back to the simple joys of my childhood—quiet, home, prayer, light routines, and honest conversations with the Holy Spirit. These are the things that anchor me. These are the things that endure.
2025-11-21 01:53:10
popong
The Transition
Reading through my journals, one might notice my constant wrestling with the role social media has taken in my life—how it has slowly replaced the richest habits of my earlier years. Social media is like a bread that never satisfies: it fills but never nourishes. The true and sustaining bread the Lord offers is often set aside, replaced by the empty calories of scrolling and noise. The bread prepared by the world is tempting and addictive in ways that are hard to resist. I struggle with it, and although I lose the battle at times, I also see myself slowly progressing toward freedom.
For the past few days, I’ve been intentionally replacing my social media habits with the activities that once brought me genuine joy. I’ve returned to reading, and I have sought creative works—not only in literature but also in cinema and various streaming platforms—that speak to the complexities and nuances of human life. These stories, with their slower pace and deeper emotional palette, remind me of the true rhythm of existence. Life is not a rapid sequence of events; it is a journey accompanied by thought, conscience, emotion, memory, discernment, and the quiet weighing of choices. That is where my joy lies: living through others’ stories, seeing the world with their eyes, understanding their struggles and triumphs.
I recently began reading Iris Murdoch, inspired by having finished six seasons of the Australian series A Place to Call Home. Murdoch’s writing reflects the kinds of characters I would love to write about if I possessed her gift—deeply human, morally entangled, intellectually alive.
The series itself mirrors a period I have always admired from afar. The Australia of the 1950s, though fascinating, would not have welcomed someone like me—an outsider, a foreigner—into its tightly knit social circles. Yet I am drawn to observing how communities functioned during that time, how their struggles, though seemingly small by today’s standards, were matters of life and death for them. Many characters carried unprocessed trauma—from Nazi brutality, from Japanese atrocities—only to return home and face suspicion, rejection, gossip, and small-town politics. They escaped one war only to enter another: the war of social hierarchy, where people would plot, spy, bully, and scheme to protect their fragile status.
I know this world well. Growing up in a small barrio, I saw these same dynamics unfold in different forms. Perhaps that is why I am drawn to these stories. They remind me of where I came from and how much the world has changed—and yet hasn’t.
Gratitude and Health:
First and foremost, I thank the Lord for the encouraging results of my recent lab tests. Except for the usual elevated blood sugar, everything else looked good. Yesterday I finally saw the cardiologist, who increased my lisinopril from 10 mg to 20 mg because my blood pressure remains slightly above the ideal range for my age. My Cologuard test came back negative, which is a relief. The only slightly unusual finding was a subnormal PSA percentage, though this could be affected by diabetes. For now, I will give myself time to adjust to the higher lisinopril dose and monitor any side effects.
My two persistent enemies remain diabetes and hypertension—but they are manageable enemies, provided I stay faithful to the work.
There may also be an extension of my Obamacare subsidies for two more years, which would carry me safely to Medicare at 65. That news alone feels like a hand gently guiding me, and I am grateful to the Lord for such provisions in this transition from youth to old age. I trust that He will not leave me without help as I continue this journey.
Still, I must do my part. I was inconsistent in the past with medical follow-ups, hoping diet and lifestyle alone would solve everything. Yet even those imperfect efforts helped. I think of my parents and siblings, many of whom did not maintain their health due to lifestyle limits or lack of resources. Two of my siblings are gone; one lives with disability; two others manage chronic conditions. My point is simple: health maintenance is twofold. You need medical care and lifestyle discipline. They support each other like two pillars holding up a fragile bridge.
The Shifting Landscape of Aging:
Psychological changes come with aging too. At first, I imagined retirement as a time to finally pursue all the adventures I had missed during my working years—more travel, more social networks, more freedom, more “good times.” But reality teaches otherwise. I could travel, yes—but travel is kinder to those with companions, and I do not have one. I could explore lesser-known natural spots, but my sugar and blood pressure require that I have emergency options nearby. I could expand my social circle, but the desire is no longer there. I now find more fulfillment in solitude, in reading, writing, gardening, contemplation—things that require fewer people and more inner space. And “good times,” as the world defines them, have lost their shine. They cost too much in energy, money, and peace. I’ve met enough of the wrong people in my youth to know that the search for excitement is often more exhausting than rewarding.
So what remains? A modified version of my old dreams. There are many gentle joys still available to my aging body and spirit. Meditation, which I practice daily, has become one of my most treasured hours. Walking in the park and then tending the garden give me a tiredness that leads to genuine rest. And now that I am shifting time away from social media and back toward reading, writing, and storytelling, I am rediscovering a quieter, steadier form of happiness.
This, I suspect, is the natural trajectory of a human life. Even when regrets arise—regrets about not traveling more, not seizing certain chances when I was younger—I remind myself of two things:
Many of my siblings missed their youthful pleasures not by choice but by circumstance.
Many elderly patients I cared for once lived vibrant, adventurous lives, only to be later confined by frailty.
We all carry different configurations of joy and suffering. Measuring my life against someone else’s curated image is a path to misery.
Social Media and the Search for Meaning:
Social media feels increasingly hollow these days—filled with failures, tragedies, and endless obituary posts. How can one find satisfaction in such a medium? The only exceptions are pages by scientists, philosophers, and the occasional clever comedy skit that offers guilty pleasure. But even these cannot replace contemplation, reading, or writing. I’ve begun reducing my screen time and I feel freer for it.
Yesterday’s Journey:
After days of anxious waiting for test results, I can finally rest in quiet. With my lisinopril dosage increased, I might avoid strenuous activities until my body adjusts.
Yesterday, after seeing the cardiologist, I returned home to take my morning Metformin. My blood sugar rises in the early morning no matter what I do, so I ate something light—apple, mandarin, and I could have added a protein shake. Around 10:30 AM I walked in the park, encouraged by my lab results, which affirmed that my diet and lifestyle changes are working. I intend to maintain them for as long as I can.
On the way home I stopped at Publix and picked up a bag of mandarins, bread, fish—flounder so thin they almost seemed imaginary—and some tuna, which I enjoy air-fried.
Later, I began reading Murdoch’s The Bell, hoping to replace the joy that A Place to Call Home had given me. When I couldn’t find a new series that fit my taste, I turned to YouTube to “walk” through Manila. Having visited three years ago, it felt comforting to revisit it from the safety and quiet of my room. I remembered the overwhelming stimuli of being there in person—the heat, the noise, the pace—things I may no longer be able to endure. Yet watching someone boldly explore the farthest corners of the city gave me a nostalgic thrill.
Afterwards, I returned to Murdoch.
2025-11-26 08:39:27
blog
Reflection 11/20/2025
Romans 12:3–8 — Humble Service in the Body of Christ
Yesterday turned out to be a wonderful day, even though I’m wrestling with the fears stirred up by my current medical appointments. There are lab tests to complete, a pending Cologuard result, and a visit to the cardiologist. It would be so easy to stay still, pretend everything is fine, and avoid the discomfort of knowing. But as a healthcare worker in the past —and as someone aging with diabetes—I know better. If my neck, shoulders, knees, and muscles ache in ways I never felt when I was younger, what more might be happening inside my body? Now that I am retired and have the time, it only makes sense to follow through with the appointments that allow the experts to “look under my hood.”
There is always anxiety when facing potential bad news. Ignorance feels like comfort, but reality eventually arrives—and its impact is far worse when we’ve refused to look. My sister, who lived most of her life morbidly obese, chose isolation over medical care, preferring the darkness of her room and the illusion that nothing was wrong. By the time she faced the truth, it was devastating and irreversible. My brother did the same, ignoring signs of kidney failure for years, dismissing everything to fate. He ended up suffering greatly in his final years, navigating dialysis in a country where treatment requires constant medical visits and financial strain.
Had they both simply gone to their doctors early on, they might still be alive today—perhaps limited in some ways, but present and enjoying the life God gave them.
I refuse to follow that path of denial. Yes, I still get anxious, but all I need is spending a few minutes with specialists covered by my insurance. Why not take advantage of that blessing? And why spend hours worrying about results that will be the same whether I panic or not? If something negative appears, then I deal with it—medication, lifestyle adjustment, or treatment. That is the cost of aging, and I am fortunate to be in the United States where follow-ups and preventive care are accessible. Medicare is coming in about a year and a half. For now, my insurance covers the rest. Even Jim, who plans to stay with me long-term, is a companion provided by God when I need one most.
The warnings from my departed siblings, the resources available to me, and the newfound discipline and attention to my health—these are all gifts authored by the Lord. Instead of anxiety, I should respond with gratitude though human nature is stubborn and fearful. I think of the early saints, apostles, and martyrs facing imprisonment, persecution, stoning, and crucifixion. They didn’t worry about diabetes or cholesterol; their faith carried them through dangers far greater than mine. Meanwhile here I am, worried about my lab tests like God has no role in my life. It humbles me.
Of course, if Peter and Paul lived in 2025, they would probably use modern medicine. Ignoring our health would be foolish. The body is the Temple of God, and we must care for it. The difference lies in how much we allow health concerns to dominate our minds. I have slipped into overthinking, overplanning, and over worrying—rather than simply living out the gifts God has given me.
The past few days have been productive: morning workouts, afternoon rest, walks, and gardening. Today is my day to physically rest, but my mind can still work. I’ll stay indoors, maybe clean the house a bit, visit the store or the library, perhaps create a new reel or finish a health article. My fiction site has been untouched for months. I may tend to my plants because they calm my mind. I’m experimenting with lighting
9dim light, bright light, artificial light) for my philodendrons. These small things give me joy.
Still, rest is needed. Three straight days of activity—walking, gardening, lifting, digging—have taken a toll. The pain in my neck, back, and shoulder last night reminded me to slow down. Aging is real, and limitations appear whether we welcome them or not.
I also noticed that sharp turns and dimly lit places trigger mild vertigo. This could be the blood pressure medication, the aftermath of my recent illness, or simply age-related changes—but the pattern is becoming clear. Walking straight is easy; turning quickly is harder. It mirrors what I sensed three years ago in Manila, when knee pain limited my ability to take public transportation. Now vertigo joins the list. I finally understand why people of a certain age no longer roam like they used to.
Yesterday was especially heavy: an hour-long walk, followed by more gardening, lifting stones, transplanting trees, clearing leaves, and working outdoors for hours. My mask and gloves were not enough to prevent the familiar flare of post-nasal drip and fatigue today. Rest was necessary, but boredom pushed me to test myself—I drove, revisited old hangouts, and discovered I no longer belong in those places. Thankfully, I had the self-control to stop before dizziness and low blood sugar took over.
This is diabetes: a seesaw of highs and lows, bursts of energy followed by sudden fatigue. Stopping medications is not an option, so the best I can do is manage the side effects. I took a short nap, ate an apple, made myself soup, and used Flonase for my congestion. Slowly, I started to feel better.
Driving may actually help me regain a sense of normalcy. Yesterday’s afternoon drive kept me awake and energized. But last night, after only four hours of sleep, everything felt off. I suspect a link between intense activity, nasal congestion from outdoor exposure, and next-day weakness. Add the dizziness from sharp turns and it all makes sense. I even remembered feeling something similar during my last doctor visit after yard work and taking my medication earlier than usual. I’m slowly connecting the dots.
Now it is almost 8 PM, and I’m feeling better. I rested for an hour but slipped into browsing the Internet. The recurring theme across the feeds was America’s dependence on a handful of companies to sustain its economy—many of them promising breakthroughs in AI without showing real profit. It reminds me of Bitcoin: a gamble, a bubble waiting to burst. AI can assist with tasks, but it cannot replace the depth of human thought. Months ago, I prompted it to create a PHP blog. It produced a skeleton, but the actual work—domain registration, hosting, building the database—still required human hands. If the project became tangled, would the AI know how to untangle it? I doubt it.
Night has arrived, and in the quiet of my room, the anxieties of aging return. I never worried this much in the hospital after my illness. But now, with lab works tomorrow and memories of my coworker announcing her cancer’s return, I feel vulnerable. The grief for my sister still sits close to the surface. I’m tired of thinking about my health, yet I can’t help it.
I often imagine the faith of the first Christians—those who died believing Christ Himself would receive them. I wish I had that same intensity of trust. But today’s world has pushed humanity toward self-reliance, away from God. Atheism has become fashionable. People act like there is no moral order, no judgment, no soul. Technology amplifies our impulses. Politics is filled with denial, dishonesty, and chaos. Young people drown in their phones, living virtually while neglecting the collapsing realities around them. Even I am not exempt—I spent two hours scrolling through lives I have no business observing. News of deaths, suicides, conflicts, vanity, and exhibitionism filled my screen. It all left me feeling lonely and disillusioned.
Earlier, I tried to revisit my old hangouts, hoping to feel traces of my former life. But that life is over. And that may be a blessing. Today, I still wake up, walk, garden, drive, read, write, and meditate. These things are enough. They are my new normal. Adventures and escapades belong to the past. And given the state of the world now, maybe retirement is my God’s protection.
Now I turn my delight back to the simple joys of my childhood—quiet, home, prayer, light routines, and honest conversations with the Holy Spirit. These are the things that anchor me. These are the things that endure.
2025-11-21 01:53:10
popong