Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I first encountered Sophrosyne in college, a word for temperance and self-control—an ancient virtue I dismissed, caught up in the seductive certainty of absolutes. As a self-proclaimed Plato follower, I resisted the messy middle, the grey space between thesis and antithesis, where Hegel’s synthesis dares to tread. To me, contradiction was weakness, and subtlety a coward’s retreat. Fiction shaped this rigidity. Characters in novels have fixed roles, clear arcs. Real people don’t. People are convoluted, layered contradictions resisting neat categorization. Yet I clung to simplified binaries, finding comfort in the familiar black and white, shunning the chaos of complexity. When a friend reintroduced Sophrosyne , I recoiled—how could I embrace moderation when my identity thrived on extremes? But beneath stubbornness, an insight surfaced: my so-called objectivity was subjective armor, a defense against the vulnerability of change. I realized that true growth demands embracing tension...

Strolling through our enchanted path, The righteous Heaven paid a visit, Descending from its huddled spot Misty Clouds! you won’t believe it. It’s just water floating in the air, I thought “Or Is it?” was my afterthought, The park was filled with laughing and giggling, From Kids playing, running and hiding. But to opportunists this fog means fortune Stalking walkers with evil intentions, To leap and attack when no one’s in sight, As a predator hunting its prey at night. A hazy fog caressing my cheeks, Admiring the beauty of this immaculate mist, Inspired by this vapor, I’ll last for a week, And think of the two souls who almost kissed!  Unobstructed vision is an impossibility, As perceptions create my reality, This fog, a being so profound Answers to what is it, is still unfound. …and hoping that it will never be found.

Six cups deep, caffeine thrumming like a restless pulse beneath my skin, I’m drowning in the endless scroll—the modern séance for distracted souls. And there it is: Plato’s whisper, half-buried in the noise, trying to stitch the fragments of an ancient truth back into the light. “Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature...” I freeze. Not a casual pause, but a sudden stop where thought crashes, and the heart clenches—uninvited. Soulmates. The word swells and buckles under the weight of all the longing it carries. Does such a thing live outside the dreamscape we paint it in? I’m not sure. Honestly, I’m not sure about much, but the void between uncertainty and hope pulls me in like a magnet. The idea of one perfect match—like a key fitting a lock, jagged edges aligned in quiet certainty—sounds almost too simple. As if we’re halves, unfinished sculptures searching fo...

There are moments when we realize that the things we’ve done in the past were better left undone, words left unsaid, thoughts better kept in our brains, and emotions that should’ve stayed in that dark and hollow part of our souls. It would’ve been more favorable if it were as such,  rather than leave us in disarray and turmoil.    In your damnation, you think of the hurt,  and think of the depression,  and finally,  just think. The curse of the thinker is that everything appears to be ambiguous,  making everything as a conundrum to be solved.  He gets so engrossed with his ideas that sometimes,  he cannot identify what is real from what is not.  Making sense about almost everything, but few people understands him. The curse of the dreamer is that, there will come a time when they have to wake up from their slumber,  a juncture where hope is abandoned and be ensnared by the idea that dreams never really happen. Inevitably, the light ...

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