Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
The Last of the Baluga
O Caca, O Caca
Cabalat capaya
Sabian mu nang tutu
Nung ena ca bisa
Ceta pu cecami
Dacal lang baluga
Mangayap la ceca
Biasa lang mamana.
(O Brother, O Brother,
whose skin is the color of papaya,
tell me at once
if you no longer wish to fight.
Because where I come from,
I can gather many Baluga—
far better than you
with bows and arrows.)
------
I am Pandaca, named after the second smallest fish in the world. I wear the name with equal shame and pride. It tells the truth about me before my body does: I am small, mountain-born, and easily overlooked.
I was born in Mariveles and wandered south as a boy until I settled on the slopes of Pinatubo. You know what happened there. When the mountain erupted, I moved again—to Arayat—because I am Baluga, and the mountains have always been my home.
You prefer to imagine me as a silhouette: naked except for a g-string, bow lifted, arrow drawn, frozen forever against the sky. Or playing a nose flute in a tree beneath a full moon. I exist for you as an image, not as a man. An anito—useful for stories, harmless because I am distant.
You are not wrong. I was once exactly that. And your blood remembers me even if your mind denies it.
I was here before you. I crossed land bridges when the sea still slept. I planted the first seeds in this volcanic soil. I did not fight when others arrived—first from Sumatra, then from the Malay Peninsula. I stepped aside and climbed higher. The mountains were sacred to us. They belonged to Sinukuan, our goddess. Civilization never tempted me. The forest was enough.
I bartered meat for salt, rice for cloth. That was our agreement with the lowlands. But when the forest was stripped bare and the animals vanished, I lost everything—food, shelter, dignity, even my right to remain. You did not stop until we were nearly gone.
Now I sit in one of the last trees on this mountain. Below me, the land is shaved flat, wide enough to see the city miles away. You call this progress. You erase centuries in minutes and sleep soundly at night.
From your balconies—in Switzerland, America, Baguio, Tagaytay—you drink and look out at mountains you no longer touch. Meanwhile, families like mine descend from the slopes, knocking on doors, begging for food, discovering that even those with houses are starving.
If you still imagine me on a cliff, let me remain there forever in your dreams. You will never see forests again. These mountains will become subdivisions. And when my generation ends, I will vanish with it.
Yes, I am alive. But survival is not life. I remember when our children laughed, when leaves whispered overhead, when the land welcomed us wherever we went. Trees were roofs. Birds laid eggs freely. Sinukuan watched.
Now our flutes are silent. Our bows are useless. I hold this tree as if it were a dying relative. We are both waiting.
Her spirit is young. She is searching for her mother, cut down days ago. Her grandparents—trees older than memory—fell without a sound, too shocked to cry. I try to soothe her, but the chainsaws are already singing.
I will not leave her. Without her, I do not exist.
I close my eyes and hum the old songs—memories carried in blood since the beginning of time. I see our people walking the mountains without fear. I see abundance so natural it felt eternal. This land, once blessed, is dying.
There is so much I want to say before I die with this tree.
It does not take brilliance to heal what you destroyed. This mountain needs trees—and to be left alone. Nothing more.
But you have chosen another way.
The men arrive with bulldozers. They shout the same words as before: “Get down from the trees, you monkeys.” This time, I am not afraid.
I will let my body scatter across this emptied land.
This is the last thing I can give.
And I know—no one will care.
-------
Historical and Cultural Notes
Baluga / Aeta
“Baluga” is a Kapampangan term often used to refer to the Aeta—one of the oldest indigenous groups in the Philippines. They are Negrito peoples, characterized by dark skin, curly hair, and short stature. Historically semi-nomadic hunter-gatherers, they lived sustainably in forests long before Austronesian settlers arrived.
Land Bridges and Early Settlement
The story references prehistoric land bridges that once connected the Philippine archipelago to mainland Asia during the Ice Ages. Archaeological and genetic evidence supports the presence of Negrito populations in the Philippines tens of thousands of years ago, predating later waves of Austronesian migration.
Mount Pinatubo
The 1991 eruption of Mount Pinatubo was one of the largest volcanic eruptions of the 20th century. It devastated Aeta communities, many of whom were permanently displaced. Resettlement programs often failed to account for indigenous lifeways, leading to poverty, cultural erosion, and dependence.
Mount Arayat
Mount Arayat, in Pampanga, is a solitary volcanic mountain long associated with Kapampangan mythology. It is traditionally considered a sacred place and a refuge—both physically and spiritually—for indigenous peoples pushed out of lowland areas.
Sinukuan
Sinukuan (also spelled Sínukuan or Aring Sinukuan) is a pre-colonial Kapampangan deity associated with Mount Arayat. Often portrayed as a guardian spirit or mountain god, Sinukuan represents balance, fertility, and the sacredness of the land—values central to indigenous cosmology.
Anito
“Anito” refers to ancestral spirits or nature deities in pre-colonial Philippine belief systems. In the story, the narrator becomes an “anito” in the modern imagination—reduced to myth, stripped of living presence.
Deforestation and Displacement
Large-scale logging, mining, and land conversion—especially during the 20th century—led to massive forest loss in Central and Northern Luzon. Indigenous peoples were among the first displaced, often criminalized for practicing subsistence lifestyles in lands reclassified as “private” or “development zones.”
The Monkey Slur
The insult shouted by bulldozer drivers echoes real historical dehumanization of indigenous peoples in the Philippines. Such language justified land seizure and violence by framing natives as less than human.
2026-02-01 22:11:41
shortstories
Jesus Sends Out the Seventy-Two
10 After this the Lord appointed seventy-two[a] others and sent them two by two ahead of him to every town and place where he was about to go. 2 He told them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field. 3 Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves. 4 Do not take a purse or bag or sandals; and do not greet anyone on the road.
5 “When you enter a house, first say, ‘Peace to this house.’ 6 If someone who promotes peace is there, your peace will rest on them; if not, it will return to you. 7 Stay there, eating and drinking whatever they give you, for the worker deserves his wages. Do not move around from house to house.
8 “When you enter a town and are welcomed, eat what is offered to you. 9 Heal the sick who are there and tell them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ 10 But when you enter a town and are not welcomed, go into its streets and say, 11 ‘Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you. Yet be sure of this: The kingdom of God has come near. 'This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
--------
This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
I am deeply grateful for the peace and assurance God has given me. It has given me confidence in life—enough to learn how to navigate familiar settings, repeated stages, and the inevitable hurdles along the way. And yet, my greatest joy is found not in movement or recognition, but in aloneness and solitude. There is a quiet, everyday joy in sitting in contemplation and carrying on a conversation with the Lord. No earthly attraction can compare to the peace of simply sitting still and listening.
Today feels like a continuation of yesterday. I have resumed a long-postponed journey—returning to an old dream of spending time writing, a gift I still believe was given to me for a reason. I write with no expectations, seeking only the joy of self-expression and the quiet possibility that this practice keeps me connected to the Lord through the Holy Spirit. I do share my writing online, but again, without expectation. I write about nothingness and emptiness—nothing meant to impress the world or change society—but simply to show how I find peace and rest each day.
It has become clear to me—at least in my heart—that one of the most effective ways to counter the sadness of this world, and to escape what humanity seems to be deteriorating into, is to dwell in the pasture of the Lord. The indecency, the inhumanity, the foul language spoken openly by those in power, the hatred they inspire, and the normalization of what was once clearly wrong—all of it grieves my heart deeply. In the Lord’s house, there is only peace. Conversations are quiet, sincere, and meaningful. That is where I choose to dwell, leaving behind whatever the devil has sown in this world. It is the devil’s opportunism—and humanity’s openness to it—that has caused so much unrest in my heart. I am thankful that God has shown me a way out.
Continuing what I began yesterday, I managed to meditate and write early in the day. Knowing that an Arctic blast is expected in the coming days, I went out for a long walk at the park. I covered five miles. I chatted briefly with a homeless man I recognize—a permanent fixture of the park—and then returned home to rest and resume my meditation. Later, I brought my small plants indoors and turned on the space heater to warm both the room and the plants.
I paused my meditation briefly to give my body and mind a break, reminding myself that prolonged sitting and intense focus are not healthy. I brewed another cup of coffee, walked around the living room carrying a box of plants I had moved indoors the day before, and placed them under the grow light. Then I returned to my chair. To “rest” my mind, I checked the Internet—and that is where the trouble began.
For me, going online has become increasingly upsetting. Social media quickly pulls me into comparison: one person appears to be thriving, another miserable, another desperately seeking attention. News sites offer no refuge either—just endless political maneuvering and recycled outrage from every side. Whatever brief escape I hoped for evaporated instantly. There is something about this technology that now agitates rather than comforts me. I am grateful that the Holy Spirit has helped me recognize the darker spirit it embodies—at least for me. It may inspire or relax others, but I know now that I am not one of them.
So I return to meditation-through-writing, the only comfort that consistently steadies me. Mindfulness has been a great help. It teaches me to recognize which habits and tasks quietly deliver harm to my body and spirit. The Internet, in nearly all its modern forms, is one of those forces that destabilizes me.
It was not always this way. I remember the early days of computing—when turning on my tower PC filled me with excitement and anticipation. There were operating systems to build, problems to solve, things to learn that few others were attempting. I loved diving into the inner workings of computers. Every small breakthrough felt like a celebration. Those days were deeply fulfilling. Those days are gone.
Part of this loss is my own doing. I abandoned complexity for convenience. I traded depth for ease. I lowered myself into the shallow waters of mass consumption and social validation, even though I was never meant to thrive there. I am not, and have never been, a social creature in that sense—so why did I keep checking social media? I know now that I was tempted by the illusion of recognition and acceptance. That is all it ever was.
Through meditation, communion with the Holy Spirit, and mindfulness, I am trying to reconnect with my old self and my earlier pursuits. I am resetting my focus—away from the social, back toward the intellectual and the literary. This is where I find peace. This is how I avoid the restless unease that follows indulgence in social media. I must return to my old happiness: the computer as a tool for learning and creation, and writing as my primary form of expression—without anticipation, without performance.
To do that, I need to return to programming projects and code learning. I need to refocus my literary portfolio on creativity instead of chasing reels and short videos. I know few people read literary work today, especially in a country suffering from a shortage of readers. But I am in this for the long haul. This is about self-expression, not validation. I will continue to post anonymously, perhaps read by only a handful of long-time strangers who once crossed paths with my nom de plume.
Practice matters. Writing is a skill that must be exercised, just like any other. I take comfort in knowing that while my ideas are my own, AI has become a helpful partner in editing and refining my work—saving me from the need to seek or pay for an editor.
This is something I especially want to say to Filipinos who are constantly assaulted by social media feeds pushing the worst kinds of content into their mental space. I am exhausted by the endless parade of beauty pageants, crude skits, suggestive humor, and careless use of language. I often wonder whether these feeds persist because of something I once watched too long—or because algorithms assume I share the same interests as my friends. Even when I click “not interested,” the content returns.
I can only imagine what young people endure while scrolling endlessly—how habits form, how attention is drained, how precious mental energy is spent on things they would never choose on their own. Mindfulness becomes an act of resistance—not rebellion, but self-preservation. We must return to ourselves, rather than allowing technology to dictate who we are. A child should first discover their interests, gifts, and desires before being shaped by algorithms. There is nothing wrong with becoming a content creator if that is where one’s gift lies. What is harmful is abandoning one’s true calling—whether in literature, science, engineering, medicine, or agriculture—simply to chase popularity.
Many people are unaffected by this struggle. I know friends who barely use the Internet at all because life keeps them busy with real responsibilities. When I worked full-time, I rarely touched my phone except for work-related messages. Later, when I returned to school for a second degree in IT, I was consumed by learning. I spent nights solving problems, weekends recovering from mental exhaustion, and countless hours wrestling with projects that refused to cooperate. I barely knew social media existed—and if I did, I dismissed it as childish distraction.
There are countless people like that even now. There are more important things in life than this technology. Once, the dream was to build apps, to create systems, to solve real problems. My own dream was Linux-based—raw, difficult, demanding. Even installing it felt like an achievement. I felt like a king of computing.
Ten years later, here I am—struggling against habits formed by social media, perhaps the most mindless, least challenging, and most addictive technology ever created. And yet, I am hopeful. Awareness is the first step. Mindfulness is the path back. And writing—quiet, patient, and honest—remains my refuge.
2026-02-01 13:36:15
popong
The Last of the Baluga
The Last of the Baluga
O Caca, O Caca
Cabalat capaya
Sabian mu nang tutu
Nung ena ca bisa
Ceta pu cecami
Dacal lang baluga
Mangayap la ceca
Biasa lang mamana.
(O Brother, O Brother,
whose skin is the color of papaya,
tell me at once
if you no longer wish to fight.
Because where I come from,
I can gather many Baluga—
far better than you
with bows and arrows.)
------
I am Pandaca, named after the second smallest fish in the world. I wear the name with equal shame and pride. It tells the truth about me before my body does: I am small, mountain-born, and easily overlooked.
I was born in Mariveles and wandered south as a boy until I settled on the slopes of Pinatubo. You know what happened there. When the mountain erupted, I moved again—to Arayat—because I am Baluga, and the mountains have always been my home.
You prefer to imagine me as a silhouette: naked except for a g-string, bow lifted, arrow drawn, frozen forever against the sky. Or playing a nose flute in a tree beneath a full moon. I exist for you as an image, not as a man. An anito—useful for stories, harmless because I am distant.
You are not wrong. I was once exactly that. And your blood remembers me even if your mind denies it.
I was here before you. I crossed land bridges when the sea still slept. I planted the first seeds in this volcanic soil. I did not fight when others arrived—first from Sumatra, then from the Malay Peninsula. I stepped aside and climbed higher. The mountains were sacred to us. They belonged to Sinukuan, our goddess. Civilization never tempted me. The forest was enough.
I bartered meat for salt, rice for cloth. That was our agreement with the lowlands. But when the forest was stripped bare and the animals vanished, I lost everything—food, shelter, dignity, even my right to remain. You did not stop until we were nearly gone.
Now I sit in one of the last trees on this mountain. Below me, the land is shaved flat, wide enough to see the city miles away. You call this progress. You erase centuries in minutes and sleep soundly at night.
From your balconies—in Switzerland, America, Baguio, Tagaytay—you drink and look out at mountains you no longer touch. Meanwhile, families like mine descend from the slopes, knocking on doors, begging for food, discovering that even those with houses are starving.
If you still imagine me on a cliff, let me remain there forever in your dreams. You will never see forests again. These mountains will become subdivisions. And when my generation ends, I will vanish with it.
Yes, I am alive. But survival is not life. I remember when our children laughed, when leaves whispered overhead, when the land welcomed us wherever we went. Trees were roofs. Birds laid eggs freely. Sinukuan watched.
Now our flutes are silent. Our bows are useless. I hold this tree as if it were a dying relative. We are both waiting.
Her spirit is young. She is searching for her mother, cut down days ago. Her grandparents—trees older than memory—fell without a sound, too shocked to cry. I try to soothe her, but the chainsaws are already singing.
I will not leave her. Without her, I do not exist.
I close my eyes and hum the old songs—memories carried in blood since the beginning of time. I see our people walking the mountains without fear. I see abundance so natural it felt eternal. This land, once blessed, is dying.
There is so much I want to say before I die with this tree.
It does not take brilliance to heal what you destroyed. This mountain needs trees—and to be left alone. Nothing more.
But you have chosen another way.
The men arrive with bulldozers. They shout the same words as before: “Get down from the trees, you monkeys.” This time, I am not afraid.
I will let my body scatter across this emptied land.
This is the last thing I can give.
And I know—no one will care.
-------
Historical and Cultural Notes
Baluga / Aeta
“Baluga” is a Kapampangan term often used to refer to the Aeta—one of the oldest indigenous groups in the Philippines. They are Negrito peoples, characterized by dark skin, curly hair, and short stature. Historically semi-nomadic hunter-gatherers, they lived sustainably in forests long before Austronesian settlers arrived.
Land Bridges and Early Settlement
The story references prehistoric land bridges that once connected the Philippine archipelago to mainland Asia during the Ice Ages. Archaeological and genetic evidence supports the presence of Negrito populations in the Philippines tens of thousands of years ago, predating later waves of Austronesian migration.
Mount Pinatubo
The 1991 eruption of Mount Pinatubo was one of the largest volcanic eruptions of the 20th century. It devastated Aeta communities, many of whom were permanently displaced. Resettlement programs often failed to account for indigenous lifeways, leading to poverty, cultural erosion, and dependence.
Mount Arayat
Mount Arayat, in Pampanga, is a solitary volcanic mountain long associated with Kapampangan mythology. It is traditionally considered a sacred place and a refuge—both physically and spiritually—for indigenous peoples pushed out of lowland areas.
Sinukuan
Sinukuan (also spelled Sínukuan or Aring Sinukuan) is a pre-colonial Kapampangan deity associated with Mount Arayat. Often portrayed as a guardian spirit or mountain god, Sinukuan represents balance, fertility, and the sacredness of the land—values central to indigenous cosmology.
Anito
“Anito” refers to ancestral spirits or nature deities in pre-colonial Philippine belief systems. In the story, the narrator becomes an “anito” in the modern imagination—reduced to myth, stripped of living presence.
Deforestation and Displacement
Large-scale logging, mining, and land conversion—especially during the 20th century—led to massive forest loss in Central and Northern Luzon. Indigenous peoples were among the first displaced, often criminalized for practicing subsistence lifestyles in lands reclassified as “private” or “development zones.”
The Monkey Slur
The insult shouted by bulldozer drivers echoes real historical dehumanization of indigenous peoples in the Philippines. Such language justified land seizure and violence by framing natives as less than human.
2026-02-01 22:11:41
shortstories
Reflection 2-1-2026
Jesus Sends Out the Seventy-Two
10 After this the Lord appointed seventy-two[a] others and sent them two by two ahead of him to every town and place where he was about to go. 2 He told them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field. 3 Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves. 4 Do not take a purse or bag or sandals; and do not greet anyone on the road.
5 “When you enter a house, first say, ‘Peace to this house.’ 6 If someone who promotes peace is there, your peace will rest on them; if not, it will return to you. 7 Stay there, eating and drinking whatever they give you, for the worker deserves his wages. Do not move around from house to house.
8 “When you enter a town and are welcomed, eat what is offered to you. 9 Heal the sick who are there and tell them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ 10 But when you enter a town and are not welcomed, go into its streets and say, 11 ‘Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you. Yet be sure of this: The kingdom of God has come near. 'This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
--------
This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
I am deeply grateful for the peace and assurance God has given me. It has given me confidence in life—enough to learn how to navigate familiar settings, repeated stages, and the inevitable hurdles along the way. And yet, my greatest joy is found not in movement or recognition, but in aloneness and solitude. There is a quiet, everyday joy in sitting in contemplation and carrying on a conversation with the Lord. No earthly attraction can compare to the peace of simply sitting still and listening.
Today feels like a continuation of yesterday. I have resumed a long-postponed journey—returning to an old dream of spending time writing, a gift I still believe was given to me for a reason. I write with no expectations, seeking only the joy of self-expression and the quiet possibility that this practice keeps me connected to the Lord through the Holy Spirit. I do share my writing online, but again, without expectation. I write about nothingness and emptiness—nothing meant to impress the world or change society—but simply to show how I find peace and rest each day.
It has become clear to me—at least in my heart—that one of the most effective ways to counter the sadness of this world, and to escape what humanity seems to be deteriorating into, is to dwell in the pasture of the Lord. The indecency, the inhumanity, the foul language spoken openly by those in power, the hatred they inspire, and the normalization of what was once clearly wrong—all of it grieves my heart deeply. In the Lord’s house, there is only peace. Conversations are quiet, sincere, and meaningful. That is where I choose to dwell, leaving behind whatever the devil has sown in this world. It is the devil’s opportunism—and humanity’s openness to it—that has caused so much unrest in my heart. I am thankful that God has shown me a way out.
Continuing what I began yesterday, I managed to meditate and write early in the day. Knowing that an Arctic blast is expected in the coming days, I went out for a long walk at the park. I covered five miles. I chatted briefly with a homeless man I recognize—a permanent fixture of the park—and then returned home to rest and resume my meditation. Later, I brought my small plants indoors and turned on the space heater to warm both the room and the plants.
I paused my meditation briefly to give my body and mind a break, reminding myself that prolonged sitting and intense focus are not healthy. I brewed another cup of coffee, walked around the living room carrying a box of plants I had moved indoors the day before, and placed them under the grow light. Then I returned to my chair. To “rest” my mind, I checked the Internet—and that is where the trouble began.
For me, going online has become increasingly upsetting. Social media quickly pulls me into comparison: one person appears to be thriving, another miserable, another desperately seeking attention. News sites offer no refuge either—just endless political maneuvering and recycled outrage from every side. Whatever brief escape I hoped for evaporated instantly. There is something about this technology that now agitates rather than comforts me. I am grateful that the Holy Spirit has helped me recognize the darker spirit it embodies—at least for me. It may inspire or relax others, but I know now that I am not one of them.
So I return to meditation-through-writing, the only comfort that consistently steadies me. Mindfulness has been a great help. It teaches me to recognize which habits and tasks quietly deliver harm to my body and spirit. The Internet, in nearly all its modern forms, is one of those forces that destabilizes me.
It was not always this way. I remember the early days of computing—when turning on my tower PC filled me with excitement and anticipation. There were operating systems to build, problems to solve, things to learn that few others were attempting. I loved diving into the inner workings of computers. Every small breakthrough felt like a celebration. Those days were deeply fulfilling. Those days are gone.
Part of this loss is my own doing. I abandoned complexity for convenience. I traded depth for ease. I lowered myself into the shallow waters of mass consumption and social validation, even though I was never meant to thrive there. I am not, and have never been, a social creature in that sense—so why did I keep checking social media? I know now that I was tempted by the illusion of recognition and acceptance. That is all it ever was.
Through meditation, communion with the Holy Spirit, and mindfulness, I am trying to reconnect with my old self and my earlier pursuits. I am resetting my focus—away from the social, back toward the intellectual and the literary. This is where I find peace. This is how I avoid the restless unease that follows indulgence in social media. I must return to my old happiness: the computer as a tool for learning and creation, and writing as my primary form of expression—without anticipation, without performance.
To do that, I need to return to programming projects and code learning. I need to refocus my literary portfolio on creativity instead of chasing reels and short videos. I know few people read literary work today, especially in a country suffering from a shortage of readers. But I am in this for the long haul. This is about self-expression, not validation. I will continue to post anonymously, perhaps read by only a handful of long-time strangers who once crossed paths with my nom de plume.
Practice matters. Writing is a skill that must be exercised, just like any other. I take comfort in knowing that while my ideas are my own, AI has become a helpful partner in editing and refining my work—saving me from the need to seek or pay for an editor.
This is something I especially want to say to Filipinos who are constantly assaulted by social media feeds pushing the worst kinds of content into their mental space. I am exhausted by the endless parade of beauty pageants, crude skits, suggestive humor, and careless use of language. I often wonder whether these feeds persist because of something I once watched too long—or because algorithms assume I share the same interests as my friends. Even when I click “not interested,” the content returns.
I can only imagine what young people endure while scrolling endlessly—how habits form, how attention is drained, how precious mental energy is spent on things they would never choose on their own. Mindfulness becomes an act of resistance—not rebellion, but self-preservation. We must return to ourselves, rather than allowing technology to dictate who we are. A child should first discover their interests, gifts, and desires before being shaped by algorithms. There is nothing wrong with becoming a content creator if that is where one’s gift lies. What is harmful is abandoning one’s true calling—whether in literature, science, engineering, medicine, or agriculture—simply to chase popularity.
Many people are unaffected by this struggle. I know friends who barely use the Internet at all because life keeps them busy with real responsibilities. When I worked full-time, I rarely touched my phone except for work-related messages. Later, when I returned to school for a second degree in IT, I was consumed by learning. I spent nights solving problems, weekends recovering from mental exhaustion, and countless hours wrestling with projects that refused to cooperate. I barely knew social media existed—and if I did, I dismissed it as childish distraction.
There are countless people like that even now. There are more important things in life than this technology. Once, the dream was to build apps, to create systems, to solve real problems. My own dream was Linux-based—raw, difficult, demanding. Even installing it felt like an achievement. I felt like a king of computing.
Ten years later, here I am—struggling against habits formed by social media, perhaps the most mindless, least challenging, and most addictive technology ever created. And yet, I am hopeful. Awareness is the first step. Mindfulness is the path back. And writing—quiet, patient, and honest—remains my refuge.
2026-02-01 13:36:15
popong