Fragments of the Quiet Mind

In a fraction of a millisecond When all the light has disappeared Gazing at a barren page of an endless fantasy sickened by the filth of autonomous reasoning wondering, if thoughts can be leashed. Hoping hearts can be locked, And life be painted black. Apathy seems to be reasonable, Faith torn, Trust and its thorns, I failed to see How blind can one be? That I am falling from this plight, Pulling people down to oblivion. Cornucopia of meaningless actualization Sinking down to damnation. Pencil sketches of emotions once had With every line drawn manifests pain, Every curve reveals a dying soul, Every smudge discloses the filthy self. Harmonic rhythm strummed, Each note expresses repressed prayers Each pluck conveys a melodious quandary Chord transitions leading to a song of tragedy. Poetic inscriptions on parched wood, Every word, filled with subliminal truths, Every rhyme filled with drowning promises, Caring for things to divert this reality As I speak the language of my dreams, A d...

“They told me to follow my passion... I met myself.” Desire. It is the myth that drives us, the silent commander whispering in our ears, promising that with its pursuit, we will find ourselves, or at least, something greater than our current selves. In truth, it is a pilgrimage—the search not for glory, nor for destination, but for the inevitable unraveling of what we believe we desire. I have wandered these paths myself. The road is slick with promises, paved with assumptions, and lined with false guides who declare, “Follow your passion, and you will find fulfillment.” Yet, each step I took, every inch closer to what I thought would fulfill me, led me to a chasm where nothing could breathe. The pursuit of passion is a paradox, for what I once thought would liberate me only bound me tighter to the expectations I created. Desire, as I have learned, is a shapeshifter. It wears the masks of ambition, love, and ambition once more, seducing us with its promises of meaning, fulfillment, ...

The day the music didn’t work—the air hung still, thick with a silence so loud it rattled the bones. No notes found their way out, no melodies breathed life into the cracked speakers, and the usual hum of rhythm that once stitched moments together unraveled like loose thread. It wasn’t just a technical failure—it was a fracture in time, a quiet collapse of the invisible soundtrack that keeps the world from slipping into chaos. Without music, the spaces between seconds stretched too far. The clock ticked with a hollow echo, mocking the absence of sound. People moved differently, awkward and unmoored, as if the rhythm that once marched inside their veins had died. Conversations stumbled, words lost their rhythm, and the usual lullabies of routine became jarring. Music is supposed to be the invisible hand that steadies the restless, the secret language that translates joy and grief without a single syllable. Without it, the heart feels exposed—naked, raw, and unsure. The silence pr...

There was something cinematic about my collapse. You know the kind. The aching stare into space. The playlist suddenly making sense. Ashtrays filling up like metaphors. That slow descent where even your breath feels like dialogue from a French indie film. You can romanticize that. You can write about that. But healing? Healing is brushing your teeth. Again. It's drinking water when it doesn't taste like anything. It’s putting your phone down because there’s nothing to say and nothing to scroll for. It’s the slow erosion of the version of you that needed chaos to feel alive. No one writes songs about oatmeal. No one makes a montage out of "I got out of bed today." You sit in silence. You count breaths. You rearrange the furniture hoping something inside moves with it. And yet—this is where life actually begins again. Not at the peak of the heartbreak, but somewhere on the third Tuesday after it, when you realize you haven't cried in a week and you’re not sure h...