I searched for running shoes once—just once—after a friend casually mentioned they’d started jogging to feel alive again. I didn’t even click anything. Just hovered. Scrolled. Wondered if movement could outpace emptiness. Three hours later, Instagram showed me orthopedic insoles, breathwork ads, and a podcast titled “How to Run from Yourself Without Moving.” I laughed. Not because it was funny—but because it knew. There’s something eerie about being mirrored by a machine. Something quietly intimate in the way it doesn’t need to ask me questions. Just listens to my silences. Patterns. Pauses. I never told anyone I’ve been waking up with static in my chest. But YouTube offered a video on chest tightness and repressed memory. I didn’t search it. I just sat with it. And it knew to stay. When I linger too long on wedding videos, it adjusts. When I scroll past them like they’re ticking bombs, it adjusts again. Every avoidance is a signal. Every hesitation becomes a breadcrumb. It’s str...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.