Fragments of the Quiet Mind

  I remember sitting alone in a crowded room, the air thick with unspoken words. Around me, laughter bubbled and voices rose, but my own thoughts were a fragile thread, barely holding. Somewhere in that noise, a name was mentioned — hers — and suddenly the room seemed smaller, the light dimmer, as if a shadow had slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t just a story being told. It was a fracture, a fissure in the smooth surface of what we had all pretended was safe. The #MeToo movement began as a simple phrase — a way for survivors of sexual harassment and assault to say, Me too. It grew into a tidal wave, a collective outpouring of truth that exposed the hidden scale of abuse embedded in systems of power. It’s a movement that refused to let silence be the default, turning private pain into public reckoning. But beyond the headlines and hashtags, it is a profound shift in how we understand consent, autonomy, and the very nature of freedom. This movement is that fissure made visible...

There is a street that divides a city like a scar. On one side, the shadows fall soft, gentle against freshly painted walls. On the other, the sunlight hits cracked concrete, broken glass, forgotten corners. The fence is invisible, but the boundary is sharp, carved into the very bones of the place. Cities are not neutral vessels. They are repositories of history, of choices made quietly but decisively. The architecture we walk through is not just shelter—it is a map of power, a ledger of exclusion. In zoning laws and highways that cleave neighborhoods in half, in the silent distance between a bus stop and a playground, the city declares who belongs and who is barred. This segregation is a wound that runs deep beneath the surface. It fractures the soul of the city and the souls within it. Proximity becomes illusion—two children playing blocks apart, separated by the weight of forgotten promises. A geography of loneliness, where hope is fenced in, gated, kept at bay. The city’s archit...

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...

There is a dangerous comfort in the allure of light—an intoxicating promise that the path is clearer, the way easier, if only we stay within its warmth. But light can deceive.  The light we chase often conceals more than it reveals, casting shadows where the truth lies hidden, muted beneath the glow. We are taught to seek clarity, to avoid the darkness, as if the absence of light is inherently perilous. Yet, is it not in the shadows, in the absence of external illumination, that we come to see ourselves most clearly? To shatter the lamps is not to reject light, but to abandon the reliance on artificiality, on the comfort of being told what is good, what is right, and what is true.  The pursuit of truth often lies in the untamed, in the darkness that offers space for reflection and revelation. It is in this darkened space that we are not shielded by comforting assumptions but confronted with the rawness of existence.  There, in the absence of blinding lights, we have no c...

I ran this morning. Gray sky, nothing special. Weather that doesn’t force you to feel anything. Usually, I wander without purpose. Today, something stopped me. Time is a trap. We pretend it’s limited, but it isn’t. So we rush through it—steps, choices, life—until it all blurs. The small things disappear. The smell of earth, the quiet air. Gone. A song got stuck in my head. “I’ll stop the world and melt with you.” Unwanted. Persistent. How did it get in? Maybe fate. Maybe nothing. I don’t believe in destiny, but here I was—stuck in the sound, stuck in a loop. The world paused inside me. I didn’t move. The day went on. Hands trembled—not from connection, but from the weight of existing. Scars on skin—maps of past failures. Nothing clean, nothing clear. I touched a cheek. No softness. Smoke? Habit? Grip loosened—like sanity slipping. Wanting to let go, but afraid of the emptiness that follows. I kissed a cheek. A stupid move. A laugh broke the silence. A glitch. A mistake. Coffee a...