Fragments of the Quiet Mind

The strange thing about silence is how loudly it speaks when you’re not listening for it. It hums in the background, unnoticed, until you’re left standing amidst the remnants of choices never made and words never uttered. A quietness that feels less like absence and more like presence, like an unspoken truth lingering in the air. We’re all haunted by decisions we never made, like ghosts that won’t leave the corners of your mind. It’s a strange thing, regret. Not the kind that claws at you with sharp edges, but the kind that seeps in slowly, like smoke, unnoticed until you’ve already inhaled it. You realize, maybe a little too late, that some things should’ve never been touched. Some words should’ve never been spoken. And some silences? Perhaps they were meant to stay locked in place, never to be disturbed by the rashness of our own desires. But the mind, restless as it is, cannot leave well enough alone. There’s this vault, see, tucked deep within—hidden under layers of fleeting distra...

At the peak of midnight where its solemnly silent, in the mysterious realm of the night, where darkness veils the world, my thoughts take shape, unraveling like a tapestry of ominous reflections. Shadows dance, weaving intricate patterns that mirror the complexities of my inner self. Sometimes, within this nocturnal sanctuary, I find solace. Happiness blossoms briefly, suspended in the delicate threads of thought. In those moments, simplicity reigns, and I feel liberated from the burdens of the day. Yet, more often than not, the descent into night brings despair. The breath of morning carries suffocating tendrils, weaving invisible shackles that entangle my spirit. Reasons for this anguish elude me, like distant whispers lost in the wind. Stagnation grips me tightly, and respite feels elusive. I am drawn into a swirling vortex, a void of inertia. Lost amidst fragmented thoughts and vacant gazes, I float aimlessly, trapped in an unfathomable realm. The shattered mirrors of my mind refle...

Once, the weight of words fell directly into another's hands.  Over a table.  Beneath a your cheap slow ceiling fan bought at shopee.  In the shadowed pause between heartbeats where one dared to be seen . But now? Now we bleed into screens. We scatter our grievances across fiber optic veins, each confession wrapped in curated mystery — a status here, a story there — hoping the algorithms might understand the things we are too afraid to say aloud. It is not dialogue. It is performance. Therapy for an audience we cannot touch. We call it connection. We call it healing. But sometimes it feels like shouting into a void that only reflects your own voice back at you. We craft vague laments and exquisite accusations in 280 characters or less, praying for the balm of a like, the lifeline of a comment. We trade the raw, trembling labor of conversation for the quick narcotic of validation, forgetting that what we seek cannot be delivered by a tap on a screen. The person we...