Fragments of the Quiet Mind

  Isn’t it fascinating that, in Plato’s Symposium, there’s this old myth about how humans were once these incredible, whole beings—with two faces, four arms, and four legs—only to be split in half by Zeus? The story goes that we were separated not out of cruelty, but to give us a sense of purpose—to spend our lives searching for that other part of ourselves. It’s strange how this ancient story tugs at something deep within us, doesn’t it? Like it speaks to this buried ache we all have, this need to find that missing piece, as if by doing so we’d be whole again. It’s really both romantic and tragic at the same time. We spend so much of our lives chasing after connections, hoping for those fleeting moments where we think we’ve found that lost unity. And yet, it’s not just about finding another person—it’s about finding that elusive sense of completeness we think we’ve lost. Every relationship, no matter how short or imperfect, gives us a glimpse of that fullness we’re after. Just fo...

There’s a moment — sharp and sudden — when you realize the voice telling your story isn’t the hero, nor the villain. It’s the unreliable narrator, fumbling through the scenes, editing, omitting, dressing truths in pretty lies. Memory is a sly trickster, ego its loyal accomplice, weaving fiction where facts fail. You want coherence, meaning, a through-line, so your mind edits and colors outside the lines. That lost conversation? It never ended that way. That insult? Probably imagined. The pain? Reframed, softened, or amplified, depending on the day. We are artists of self-deception, and our brush strokes are bold and brazen, crafting mythologies out of mundane moments. Sometimes the lie is tender — a kindness toward the self, a survival tactic when the truth is too sharp to hold. Other times, it’s a mask so convincing even you believe it. The story we tell ourselves is less autobiography and more a shifting dreamscape — fluid, unstable, a kaleidoscope of who we were, are, and desperat...