Fragments of the Quiet Mind

 I found an old notebook tucked away in a drawer, its pages filled with half-written letters and unfinished plans. Names I almost called, places I almost went, dreams I almost chased. The weight of those almosts hit me like a cold wave—ghosts of what could have been, pressing heavy on my chest. Almost is the ache of standing at a door, hand raised, and pulling away at the last moment. It’s the sound of footsteps fading before they ever reached you, the glance that didn’t meet your eyes long enough to matter. These almosts aren’t just missed chances—they’re fragments of a life that teased itself into existence but never quite formed. There’s a peculiar grief in mourning what was never fully real. The almosts live in liminal spaces—between hope and regret, desire and denial. They haunt the edges of memory like shadows that refuse to vanish, reminding us how close we’ve come to something meaningful, yet how far we remain. What do we do with these echoes? How do we carry the ache wi...

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...

When twilight descends, as slumber draws near, 'Tis not the venomous words of foes that linger, But in the hush of companions, a cherished sphere. For in the depths of night's quiet embrace, The echoes of enmity slowly fade away, Replaced by whispers of friendship and grace. The wounds inflicted by adversaries' spite, Though painful and cruel in their transient might, Hold no lasting weight, no enduring might. Instead, 'tis the stillness of loyal hearts, The solace found in unspoken devotion, That etches itself upon memory's arts. When shadows dance and the world grows dim, The tender silence of friends speaks volumes, A symphony of trust and kinship within. So, as sleep beckons, reflect on this truth, That amidst life's trials and its endless bends, It's in the silence of friends, a treasure aloof.

Some voices stay long after they’ve left the room. They cling—not like perfume, not like memory, but like smoke in the throat. Invisible. Unshakable. The kind that turns soft when you’re alone and vicious when you're trying to sleep. I heard someone say my name yesterday. Not really, not meant for me. Just a stranger in a crowd calling out to someone else who happened to have the same syllables stitched into their skin. And yet—my whole body paused. Like a bone remembering where it once broke. It’s terrifying how voices live inside us. Not the words—they blur over time. But the tone . The way a person says “stay” like they mean “leave.” The way someone says “I’m fine” through gritted teeth you once kissed. These aren’t things you forget. They become background static, humming beneath the everyday noise. I carry so many voices inside me it’s hard to tell which are still real. There’s a certain violence in soft words. I think about that often. How someone once said “take care” ...

In the hushed solitude of night, under a sky punctuated by celestial wonders, I find myself contemplating the enigma of the moon’s dark side and the iceberg’s tip—the eternal symbols of the hidden and the revealed,  urging us to bridge the chasm between the visible and the concealed. You see, the moon presents to us only one face. The other side, the dark side, remains perpetually out of view, a silent expanse shrouded in mystery. It’s not merely a physical obscurity but a profound metaphor for the uncharted territories within us. This dark side is not just a void; it’s a space brimming with the shadows of our deepest fears, our unspoken desires, the parts of ourselves we keep hidden. It’s the silent echo of our inner worlds, unexamined and unspoken. In embracing this dark side, we confront the uncomfortable truths about ourselves. What lies in the far reaches of our inner moon? Perhaps it’s the grief we’ve buried, the dreams we’ve abandoned, the truths we dare not speak. This dark...