The profession I admire most is that of doctors. I have deep respect for the way they dedicate their lives to caring for those who are sick, often putting the needs of others before their own. Their work goes far beyond diagnosing illnesses and prescribing treatments – they bring comfort, hope, and healing to people in their most vulnerable moments.
What I truly admire is their unwavering commitment to do their best for every patient, even under immense pressure or in difficult circumstances. It takes years of study, discipline, and sacrifice to become a doctor, yet they continue to learn and adapt as medicine evolves.
To me, doctors are the true heroes of our generation. Without their skill, compassion, and dedication, countless lives would be lost and many illnesses left untreated. They embody the courage, resilience, and selflessness that make the world a better and healthier place.
The most important thing I carry with me all the time is my personal life diary. It’s more than just a notebook—it’s my constant companion, my silent confidant, and my safe place to pour out my thoughts, feelings, and reflections. Every day, I write about the events that happen to me, the people I meet, the challenges I face, and the little joys I experience.
It’s not just a record of my days—it’s a mirror of my inner world. Writing in it allows me to process emotions, make sense of my experiences, and capture moments that might otherwise be forgotten. Years from now, I know I’ll look back and see not just the story of my life, but the growth, resilience, and lessons that shaped me along the way.
For me, my diary is more valuable than any gadget or possession because it holds something irreplaceable—my memories, my voice, and my truth.
If my blog could make a change in the world-big or small, I’d want it to inspire people to see life through a lens of gratitude, compassion, and understanding. I hope it could remind readers that no matter their struggles, there is always something to be thankful for and always a reason to be kind.
Through my words, I want to bridge gaps between people from different walks of life, showing that even though our circumstances may be different, we share the same basic human desires for love, respect, and connection. If my blog could encourage even one person to be more empathetic, to reach out to someone in need, or to appreciate the small blessings in their day, then I’d consider that a success.
The change I want is simple: to leave people feeling lighter, more hopeful, and more human after reading.
In an alternate universe, my life took a different path—not better or worse, just different. Maybe I never left home to work abroad. Maybe I stayed in my hometown, surrounded by family every day, living a simpler life where moments moved a bit slower and dreams were smaller but closer.
In that world, I might have opened a small café or a cozy bookshop, something quiet and warm, where conversations mattered more than profits. I’d wake up each morning to familiar faces, share meals with loved ones every night, and find joy in the little rituals of a peaceful, grounded life.
But even in that alternate life, I believe I’d still carry the same heart—the same lessons, values, and the same desire to grow, love deeply, and live with purpose. No matter the version of me, I think kindness, reflection, and resilience would still be at the center.
It’s comforting to imagine that no matter how the universe shifts, the soul somehow remains the same.
The most money I’ve ever spent on a meal was around 200 US dollars, and it wasn’t just for me—it was for a group of 11 people, including my family and close friends. We had a lunch buffet at one of the most well-known restaurants in the Philippines, a place known not just for its food but for the experience it offers.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. That meal wasn’t just about the dishes on the table—it was about the rare opportunity to gather the people I love most. Since I work abroad, I only get to visit home once a year. So every moment shared with them becomes extra special, and that one meal became a celebration of time, love, and connection.
In the end, the value wasn’t in the price of the food, but in the laughter, the stories, and the joy of simply being together. To me, that made it priceless.
I came across a small article buried in the local news: the city had repaired over 500 potholes this month. Not a headline that grabs attention. No drama, no big names—just crews filling holes in the road.
At first glance, it seemed uninteresting. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt like a quiet metaphor for life.
In many ways, I’ve spent the past few years fixing “potholes” in my own life—emotional setbacks, financial mistakes, broken relationships, and the internal damage we all accumulate silently. These aren’t flashy milestones or celebrated moments, but they matter. Just like a smoother road makes the journey safer and easier, patching up our lives—one small repair at a time—helps us move forward without constantly stumbling.
Reading that mundane news reminded me that growth doesn’t always come from big breakthroughs. Sometimes, it’s about showing up, doing the work, and tending to the rough patches. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary. And it’s how we build a stronger foundation for whatever comes next.
I’ve always been curious about the idea of time travel—not in the science-fiction sense of flying cars or time machines, but in the deeply personal longing to return to a moment that meant everything. If it were possible, I would go back to a time when my mother was still alive and healthy. She passed away during the COVID-19 pandemic, and I never had the chance to see her one last time—not during her final moments, not even when she was laid to rest.
That absence haunts me. It’s a goodbye that never happened, a wound that never truly closed.
This longing is what inspired me to write one of my most personal songs: “Goodbye Without Goodbye.”
Goodbye Without Goodbye by Simpleman
I called your name but heard no sound The echoes lost in hollow ground You left so fast without goodbye I never saw your final light
How do I hold what wasn’t there A final glance a single prayer The pain cuts deep it lingers on A love so strong but now you’re gone
I see your face in dreams at night A fleeting warmth a fading light I reach for you but you’re not near A mother’s love still crystal clear
The shadows dance where you once stood I’d trade the world for one more look To tell you all I couldn’t say The words I lost that final day
How do I hold what wasn’t there A final glance a single prayer The pain cuts deep it lingers on A love so strong but now you’re gone
I’ll keep your voice inside my chest A melody that brings me rest Though I missed that last goodbye You’ll live in me no need to cry
I know you’re gone No… ohhh…
I’ll keep your voice inside my chest A melody that brings me rest Though I missed that last goodbye You’ll live in me no need to cry
How do I hold what wasn’t there A final glance a single prayer The pain cuts deep it lingers on A love so strong but now you’re gone
I’ll keep your voice inside my chest A melody that brings me rest Though I missed that last goodbye You’ll live in me no need to cry
Ohhh… No need to cry Ohhh… No need to cry
Through its lyrics, I tried to capture the silence, the helplessness, and the aching desire to hold onto something—or someone—that’s already gone. Every word in that song is a piece of my heart, and a tribute to a love that still echoes in my life.
So yes, I’m curious about time. About whether we can somehow touch the past—not to change it, but to relive a moment, say what was left unsaid, and hold someone close, even just once more. Maybe that’s why music exists—for people like me who can’t go back, but still need a way to remember.
One random act of kindness that has stayed with me was during a particularly crowded train ride. The train was packed to the brim, and everyone seemed too caught up in their own world to notice the elderly woman who had just boarded. She looked tired and slightly overwhelmed, clutching a small bag as she struggled to keep her balance.
Without hesitation, I stood up and offered her my seat. What struck me most wasn’t just the act itself, but how no one else around seemed willing to move or even acknowledge her presence. As she sat down, she looked up at me with a gentle smile and softly said, “Thank you.”
That simple expression of gratitude felt like a reward greater than anything money could buy. In that moment, I felt like her knight in shining armor—not because I did something extraordinary, but because I saw her when others didn’t. It reminded me that sometimes, the smallest gestures can make the biggest difference in someone’s day.
If I were to describe myself to someone who can’t see me, I would say that I’m a simple, grounded person who values authenticity and honesty. I may not stand out in a crowd, but what makes me unique is the way I see and appreciate life—from the little blessings to the lessons in hardships. I carry a calm and kind presence, guided by empathy and a quiet strength shaped by personal struggles and growth. I believe in being true to who I am, and in treating others with respect, compassion, and understanding. More than anything, I strive to live with purpose and heart, seeing the world not just for what it is, but for what it can be.
MASTER SIMPLEMAN 