Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There was a time I thought saying “maybe” meant you didn’t know what you were doing. Like certainty was the mark of competence. You’re either in or out. Yes or no. Pick a side. Now I see “maybe” as resistance. A quiet refusal to be rushed into clarity. A pause in a world that demands immediacy. People ask: "Are you sure this is the right path?" Maybe. "Do you know what you want?" Maybe. "Is this who you want to be?" Maybe. I’m not indecisive—I’m just unwilling to pretend complexity fits neatly into binaries. Most things aren’t clean. Most choices aren’t final. Most truths shift when you look at them twice. I used to think “maybe” was the space between two stronger words. Now I think it’s a full sentence. A boundary. A breath. The courage to say: I’m still becoming. I haven’t arrived. I don’t want to promise anything just to feel safe. We’re taught to pick a lane, plant a flag, define the relationship, be sure. But maybe “maybe” is the most hones...

I used to think the universe was out to get me. Not in a dramatic, lightning-strikes-twice kind of way, but in the quiet, petty way it forgets to answer your prayers and lets your socks vanish in the dryer. You know, the small stuff that feels personal even though it obviously isn’t. Eventually, I stopped waiting for signs. Stopped thinking the traffic light was red because I needed to slow down metaphorically. Maybe it was just red. Maybe the universe wasn’t teaching me anything—it just was. Motionless in its vastness, humming its own tune, not even aware I existed. And weirdly, that helped. There’s a strange relief in realizing no one’s scripting your life behind the curtain. That fate isn’t micromanaging your heartbreaks or curating your triumphs like some cosmic film editor. Things just… happen. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you don’t. And it’s not personal. It never was. But that doesn’t mean it’s meaningless. You can still assign meaning. Stitch it into the fabric of or...