Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I found myself on the couch again, a cup of lukewarm coffee forgotten beside me, the familiar cartoon flickering on the screen like an old friend with secrets. The colors felt sharper now, the jokes less innocent and more like whispered truths I hadn’t noticed before. Episodes I once watched for simple laughs now unravelled themselves, each character’s struggle echoing parts of my own hidden scars—fear, hope, and the quiet ache of growing up. I realized that rewatching cartoons after therapy wasn’t about nostalgia. It was about decoding the language of my past self, translating childhood magic into adult meaning. What was once just silly hijinks became mirrors reflecting wounds I was only just beginning to heal. The heroes weren’t perfect; they were flawed, trying, failing, learning—the same way I had to. There’s a strange comfort in this. Like meeting a younger version of yourself, not to rescue, but to understand why you carried certain stories so tightly. The laughter feels bitter...

I remember the night clearly—the kind where the city hums low, and every door is shut tight except mine. I was alone in the apartment, sitting on the edge of the bed, and the silence pressed in like a weight I hadn’t noticed before. I began to speak—not to anyone, but to the empty room itself. Words I’d never dared say aloud poured out, honest and unfiltered, like a confession whispered to shadows. There’s something strange about talking to empty rooms. They do not judge or interrupt; they absorb. The quiet becomes a canvas for the parts of ourselves that people seldom see—the raw, unfinished edges we hide behind smiles and scripts. In that silence, I found the courage to be more truthful than I ever was in company. Honesty is rarely a gift we give others. More often, it is a debt we repay to ourselves—spoken quietly, without expectation. These confessions don’t seek applause or agreement; they simply demand acknowledgment, a witness in the absence of another. When I spoke to that e...

The Cure and koRn, two of the bands that influenced me into music. What I like about the Cure is Robert Smith’s eccentric personality, his brilliant songs and how he ‘loses’ himself whenever he sings. Everytim I listen to his songs, It’s like having a casual walk in a forest and you forget time as you are basking in the serenity and tranquility of the place. Jonathan Davis on the other hand is also one of my personal favorites. Actually he was my favorite in high school. What I like about JD is his way of pouring out his angst in his songs. He lets his heart sing for him and let his emotions do the talking regardless of the profanity in his words. His bluntness is manifested in his songs, most people prefer painting flowers, but he would rather draw his pain and angst. That’s what makes him special. While browsing youtube, I came across this mashup – (well I’ve heard of this song years ago, but never really paid much attention, until now. I really love how they mixed “Make Me Bad – ...

I have bliss book. It’s a small notebook where I bring and write my epiphanic thoughts that out of nowhere reveals itself to me. At work, while exercising, inside the bathroom – anywhere and I mean, ANYwhere. I’m glad I brought it in my belt bag when I had my run this morning. While resting at this familiar bench, in a familiar park and this familiar feeling, I started jotting down. I had tiny useless ideas running through my head while I was running and I tried to remember every detail so I can write those down. As I sat on the wooden plank, I had this ecstatic feeling that somewhat liberated me from my dark plight. It’s different when I’m writing down my thoughts onto blank pages and when I’m encoding it on my blog. There’s no fear that it will be psycho-analyzed and judged by people on the internet. Writing on my small notebook is very redemptive, and it feels amazing. I never thought i'd be back to writing again. I never even imagine that i will be writing ...

Maybe the cure for anything isn’t grand. Maybe it’s not found in redemption arcs or second chances. Maybe it’s just this— Music. Coffee. Smoke. The holy trinity of the broken who still try to feel. I don’t go a day without them. Music drips through my veins like morphine. It doesn’t ask anything from me—just lets me be. I keep Korn on repeat—yeah, I know, not everyone gets it. Their sound is abrasive to the polished, but to me, it’s a mirror. Every note, a scream I’ve been too tired to let out. They’ve kept me alive longer than some people have. Angst. That beautiful, shapeless thing. It doesn’t tell you whether you’re okay or not. It just sits with you in the in-between. You’re not sad. You’re not fine. You’re a suspended breath. A body between pulses. It’s not even pain, not really. Just the haunting suspicion that you’ve felt too much and nothing all at once. And when that feeling builds—when it claws up my spine and fogs my thoughts—I write. Not for applause. Not for people. J...