Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Time moves with a relentless rhythm, An unyielding current, quietly pulling me through the sands of time.  I often hear that life is fleeting, that moments slip away faster than I can grasp them, but there’s a deeper truth to this: it’s not just that time passes—it’s that I change with it, and with each passing second, I’m forced to reckon with who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming. What is it about time that feels so heavy? Perhaps it’s the realization that I can never truly hold onto a moment. I cling to the idea of the present, as if it could last forever, but it drifts like sand, slipping through my fingers. I spend my life trying to capture it, trying to freeze it in place. Yet, the more I try to keep time still, the more it eludes me. I’m never quite here; I’m always a step ahead or a step behind, forever chasing a future I can never fully reach, and a past that keeps fading into memory. And still, there is something beautiful in that struggle. Time teaches me to app...

The self-righteous-religious-fanatic who keeps on using the name of God in almost all her sentences and yet gossips about the life of others. A preacher who keeps on telling us about a merciful God and yet talks about punishment and how souls are hell-bound if ‘donations’ for the church are not made. (which gives me two points for reconsideration:  First, it’s an implicit way of saying that you must join their religion if you want to be saved,  and secondly, donations are defined with a specific percentage of your income.) ok, I don’t intend to wage a war against beliefs here, all I am trying to imply is that donations should be done wholeheartedly. Some does that, but I doubt if everyone really gives the ‘real’ percentage of their income.  Incidentally, faith without reason breeds mediocrity, and religions nowadays are doing the exact opposite of what Jesus preached. (or what they are really meant to do.) Quoting the song Holy Wars by Megadeth: Brothers will kill brot...

Its fundamentally an eschatological treatment to one’s miserable year: in other words, regret. People are resentful of their past year, hoping to make the upcoming year better, brighter and lighter by making promises to themselves which most of the time, they really have no intention of keeping. I don’t make resolutions as I know that I am bonded to my promises. I never want to make a promise to myself that I can’t preserve (in as much as I don’t want to make promises to people that I know I can’t keep.) As clichéd as it sounds, we don’t need to wait for a new year to aim for transformation and new life. Change takes place everyday- Mutation (destructive) and Evolution (constructive) takes place every fudgin day. From the setting of the sun to the rising of the moon, we are already at the mercy of change though most of the times, we ignore it. We are a completely different person 1 second ago – and we don’t have to make promises to appease ourselves of the change happening in us. We w...

I have to argue – regardless of the fact that my friend don’t want to. I need it – thoughts flowing once more. Anyway, our entire argument went haywire: from the blessedness of Sundays, to the idea of immortality and we ended up with hermeneutics and the problem/ingenuity of deconstruction in interpretations (despite of an ant falling in my coffee cup and throwing it away, going back to the kitchen and making another brew – but this is not part of the topic: I just cant help saying it.) Ok. Side comments away. We were chatting about the impossibility of a purely objective interpretation: as she was pointing out that the boundaries and limitations of language is what defines reality. Without which, we will be having fleeting meanings, and not holding on to any concept but pure abstraction of things – to which I categorically interpreted as descent to an ‘unreal’ world. While the chat was ongoing, I was getting bored about her mumblings and so I started watching the “matrix ...

“We outgrow people the same way stars abandon light—quietly, irreversibly.” There’s a strange kind of grief that doesn’t come with funerals or heartbreak songs. It just settles in—quietly, like dust on a shelf no one touches anymore. It begins when conversations feel forced, when silences grow louder than shared laughter used to be. No fight. No betrayal. Just… stretch. Distance. A slow fade of alignment. You try to ignore it. You meet up, talk about safe things—weather, shows, work. But you feel it in your body, don’t you? The gentle pull away. Not because you stopped loving them, but because you stopped recognizing yourself in the reflection of their eyes. They stayed where you left them. Or maybe you were the one who drifted off-course. Either way, the shapes no longer fit. The same jokes don’t land. The same stories feel like reruns. Nostalgia becomes the last thing holding the room together. You want to say something—but there’s nothing cruel to say. Because they didn’t do anyt...