Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
POPONG
~
It was 10:30 PM on the night of May 29 when Popong finally decided to retire for the day. The room was dim, the only light coming from the small desk lamp that flickered every now and then like a tired eyelid. He scribbled one last note in his journal—a quiet thank you to the Holy Spirit—for what he described as a fruitful and restful day.
Earlier, Popong had meditated and even wrote down the thoughts that came to him during that stillness. He remembered the clarity he felt during his walk in the park, nearly four miles under the gentle morning sun. Later, he found himself back home, resisting the pull of scattered distractions by reposting an old book review—an act that helped him reclaim some sense of order from the chaos of a too-open day.
“I mustn’t fall into the trap of disorganized living,” he told himself. That trap often came in the form of social media—particularly Facebook. So, he drew a line. No more constant posting. Instead, he’d focus on video editing and blogging, letting his quiet YouTube channel speak without the noise of likes and shares. His health blog too—he wanted to write more personal pieces about lifestyle and wellness. Even good nutrition as a path to balance.
“Use your gifts,” he whispered while leaning back on his chair. “But don’t trigger the paranoia.” That was Popong’s mantra now. Use what God gave, but gently.
He had recently retired from his profession and still wrestled with the transition. There was a part of him eager to contribute again—perhaps by starting educational projects, maybe another site, maybe something that fused his wisdom and experience with practical purpose. But fatigue got in the way today. His body kept pulling him back to bed. He wondered if it was his erratic eating, or perhaps the long, internal argument he constantly had with idle time.
His thoughts shifted again—to laptops. Always laptops. He had been eyeing a refurbished MacBook Air but paused when he saw how dated they were. “They look sleek,” he muttered, “but they die quietly after seven years.” He knew that story too well. So instead, he shifted toward a lightweight HP with a decent CPU, old but serviceable, running on Windows 10. “For video projects,” he reminded himself, half-convinced.
He still ached from a fall the day before. His right foot had caught a tree root. The next thing he knew, he was flat on the ground. The embarrassment didn’t sting as much as the realization: he couldn’t correct himself mid-fall. He lacked the reflex, the balance, the awareness.
And that worried him.
“I should dance more,” he thought. Maybe indoors. Maybe in the gym. Walking outdoors, while noble, had turned dangerous. He is getting less focused, more complacent, easily distracted through his routine.
He remembered something else: a long-ago mistake at work—treating the wrong patient because of complacency. The memory embarrassed him even now. But it also served as a quiet alarm. Repetition dulls the edge, he thought. Even in routine, one must stay alert. Just because you’ve done something a hundred times doesn’t mean you won’t falter on the hundred and first.
He closed his notebook and turned off the lamp. The room fell into silence. Just outside, the wind moved the branches slowly, like a lullaby. Popong settled into bed, hoping that tomorrow would bring another day to rise, write, and walk—maybe dance—and give thanks again.
2025-06-02 11:56:30
popong
The Night
It was 10:30 PM on the night of May 29 when Popong finally decided to retire for the day. The room was dim, the only light coming from the small desk lamp that flickered every now and then like a tired eyelid. He scribbled one last note in his journal—a quiet thank you to the Holy Spirit—for what he described as a fruitful and restful day.
Earlier, Popong had meditated and even wrote down the thoughts that came to him during that stillness. He remembered the clarity he felt during his walk in the park, nearly four miles under the gentle morning sun. Later, he found himself back home, resisting the pull of scattered distractions by reposting an old book review—an act that helped him reclaim some sense of order from the chaos of a too-open day.
“I mustn’t fall into the trap of disorganized living,” he told himself. That trap often came in the form of social media—particularly Facebook. So, he drew a line. No more constant posting. Instead, he’d focus on video editing and blogging, letting his quiet YouTube channel speak without the noise of likes and shares. His health blog too—he wanted to write more personal pieces about lifestyle and wellness. Even good nutrition as a path to balance.
“Use your gifts,” he whispered while leaning back on his chair. “But don’t trigger the paranoia.” That was Popong’s mantra now. Use what God gave, but gently.
He had recently retired from his profession and still wrestled with the transition. There was a part of him eager to contribute again—perhaps by starting educational projects, maybe another site, maybe something that fused his wisdom and experience with practical purpose. But fatigue got in the way today. His body kept pulling him back to bed. He wondered if it was his erratic eating, or perhaps the long, internal argument he constantly had with idle time.
His thoughts shifted again—to laptops. Always laptops. He had been eyeing a refurbished MacBook Air but paused when he saw how dated they were. “They look sleek,” he muttered, “but they die quietly after seven years.” He knew that story too well. So instead, he shifted toward a lightweight HP with a decent CPU, old but serviceable, running on Windows 10. “For video projects,” he reminded himself, half-convinced.
He still ached from a fall the day before. His right foot had caught a tree root. The next thing he knew, he was flat on the ground. The embarrassment didn’t sting as much as the realization: he couldn’t correct himself mid-fall. He lacked the reflex, the balance, the awareness.
And that worried him.
“I should dance more,” he thought. Maybe indoors. Maybe in the gym. Walking outdoors, while noble, had turned dangerous. He is getting less focused, more complacent, easily distracted through his routine.
He remembered something else: a long-ago mistake at work—treating the wrong patient because of complacency. The memory embarrassed him even now. But it also served as a quiet alarm. Repetition dulls the edge, he thought. Even in routine, one must stay alert. Just because you’ve done something a hundred times doesn’t mean you won’t falter on the hundred and first.
He closed his notebook and turned off the lamp. The room fell into silence. Just outside, the wind moved the branches slowly, like a lullaby. Popong settled into bed, hoping that tomorrow would bring another day to rise, write, and walk—maybe dance—and give thanks again.
2025-06-02 11:56:30
popong