Fragments of the Quiet Mind

  Certainty feels like a promise we make to ourselves—something solid, unmoving, to keep the chaos at bay. But how often does it really hold? We tell ourselves we know who we are, what we want, what the world is, but then something shifts—a chance encounter, a quiet realization, or even just the slow erosion of time—and everything we thought we knew suddenly feels small, brittle. It’s unsettling, this unraveling of the known. Certainty doesn’t break with a loud crash but with a quiet crumble, like sand slipping through our fingers. We tighten our grip, thinking we can hold on, but the more we cling, the more it falls away. And then we’re left standing there, palms empty, wondering if it was ever ours to keep. But maybe that’s where the truth lives—not in the things we’re sure of, but in the spaces left behind when those certainties fade. It’s strange to say, but I think there’s a kind of freedom in not knowing. Certainty pins us down, defines us too neatly, while uncertainty leaves...