Fragments of the Quiet Mind

  I once drafted a three-paragraph reply to a message that only said “cool.” Then I deleted it and sent a thumbs-up. Not because the longer version was wrong—but because it felt too much . Too honest, too layered, too likely to be misunderstood in a world that measures meaning by brevity and speed. That blinking “typing…” bubble is its own kind of limbo. A space where we practice vulnerability without risk. A modern confessional booth with no priest on the other side—just the fear of being “seen” the wrong way. It’s easier to live in the anticipation of a message than to deal with its consequences. We’ve mastered the art of holding back. You draft a message to clarify your tone, to explain your silence, to ask a question that matters—and then you close the app. Not because you changed your mind, but because you started imagining the worst possible reply. Or no reply at all. So you send a meme instead. Something safe. Something that doesn’t require anyone to actually respond —ju...

Twirling, churning, spinning….. Gephyrophobia…  Never in my wildest dreams did I consider this a fear, nor did I think that this is even possible. (Coz who the heck is afraid of bridges, right?).  In what appears like a cruel joke being played by Fate on me, NEVER did it occur to me that of all the possible phobias (besides arachnophobia. Who in their fudgin’ right state of mind isn’t afraid of spiders --- ) In a satiric twist of fate, the universe seemed to play this one on me. Okay, Universe, you won this round! I am not afraid of heights, in fact I love heights. I love hiking mountains. I love standing at the edge of cliffs, buildings or in any high place and bask on that ephemeral feeling where anxiety transforms to bliss. I love the  thrill of having that breeze touch your face and your shirt pressing against the wind.  I dwell on that ineffable feeling of being on top as you gaze at the world below you. HOWEVER, looking at the scene below while on a b...

Thursdays…  I usually call it the mediocre day. It's perhaps the most uninteresting day of the week... (and maybe that’s why throwback Thursday was invented to make this day somewhat memorable). It’s pathetic I guess to incorporate luck with the days in a week, but being trapped in a vicious cycle of repetitions, you dwell on things like this for the sole reason of wanting to be motivated in moving further (even without a goal in sight). Doing something that you dislike and sucking big time with it is pretty disappointing. I mean, I once believed that I am special. I thought I was good, but lately, I can’t even do simple things as how they should be done. I know some people would say, “it’s okay”, “you did great” but deep inside me, I know it’s not. It’s really more of a personal dissatisfaction because I know I could have done better and I know I can do better (or maybe I used to do things far better than how I am doing it right now). A lot of questions once again fill my mind. A...

I can feel it again—the manic energy creeping in.  My mind races, irrational thoughts spinning like a wheel with no brake, teeth grinding without reason, muscles twitching on their own, and these smiles... smiles that have no reason to exist. Maybe it’s just the anxiety for tomorrow’s competition. I wish I could relax, but there’s a restlessness building inside me, impossible to ignore.  I’m so nervous... it’s a mess... whew. Sitting still feels like a trap—like paranoia gnawing at me if I even try—so I convinced my wife to join me for a run, a bike date, anything to burn this energy. She pedaled while I ran alongside her, and it turned out to be... an interesting afternoon, to say the least. We climbed this unforgiving hill—Mickey Mouse mountain, we call it. Her breath was sharp and shallow, legs burning as she cursed the incline. But at the peak, something shifted. We stopped, caught in a moment of silence, because the view—that view—demanded it. The light bathed everythin...

I never really liked commuting although I enjoy travelling. It’s weird, but what I mean by this is that, I don’t like the feeling of being inside of something. Enclosed, bounded and not doing anything – the feeling of being static while the world around you is moving. It’s not the speed, it’s the feeling of being able to go somewhere or achieve something without you exerting any effort but still getting that which you want to get.  It’s how I feel when I'm commuting, I just sit there then the next thing you know, you are already at your destination. What’s more than this perverted idea is perhaps because of this certain irrational fear that’s building up inside me whenever I’m inside a car, jeep, taxi or a van.  The stillness of the air inside the vehicle creates the very ground for my paranoid thoughts to germinate and breed. I find enclosed spaces fettering, but no, it’s not claustrophobia (because I don’t have issues with elevators), it’s just that riding makes me feel ir...

The world is loud.  Deafening, actually.  It’s as if every corner of existence conspires to shatter the eardrums, pushing us to the brink of sensory overload. The noise isn’t just external—it worms its way into the cracks of your thoughts, twisting what should be moments of creativity into something dull, something restless. The kind of noise that fills the spaces where silence should live, leaving you tangled in distractions that don’t really matter. Some people deal with it by posing for the camera, posting selfies, or lying down, scrolling through meaningless quotes on Facebook and Twitter—lines they probably don’t even fully grasp. And then, there are those who let the noise in until it swallows them whole, becoming the very thing that keeps the rest of us awake at night. But honestly, that clamor pales in comparison to the one inside my head. I’ve always been a reflective thinker, maybe even too reflective, lost in ideas that don’t quite make sense even to me. (Okay, I’ll...

Am I crazy? Probably. Mad for hunting happiness like a ghost in a hall of mirrors. Lunatic, fixated on the moon—this divine itch I can’t scratch. Crazy enough to enter the labyrinth knowing every turn tightens the noose, knowing the path back is steeper, darker, more broken. Yet this place — my fractured kingdom — is brutal, raw, and utterly beautiful. So damn beautiful it makes logic seem like exile. I built this asylum and it hums with a strange stillness, a playground of beasts, shadows, and myth, and somehow I belong, like a relic resurfaced from another lifetime. I want this rabbit hole to be the real escape. That the Mad Hatter and White Rabbit aren’t just fantasies, that waking up isn’t the cruelest plot twist. Sometimes I think sleep is the real world— where conversations unravel freely from physics to philosophy, where masks drop, where I’m stripped of pretense. This place alone feels like home. The labyrinth is a puzzle—harsh, complex, relentless— I stumble, fall, rise, ...