Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Monday mornings feel like waking up in the aftermath of something unspeakable. The alarm goes off—not like a gentle chime, but more like a siren dragging you out of some place deeper than sleep. You don’t wake up so much as surface, disoriented, the bed a kind of shipwreck you were clinging to all night. The sheets are twisted like torn sails. Your body, waterlogged with dreams and dread, doesn't move. Not yet. It’s not just fatigue. There’s a kind of existential drag, as if the very structure of the week is built to resist your being. You stare at the ceiling like it might offer a reason to rise. None comes. The world beyond the blanket is already demanding something from you—your time, your answers, your alignment with a schedule you didn’t invent but are somehow bound to. The idea that Monday is a “fresh start” feels like a corporate myth. Nothing about it is fresh. What you feel is continuity—the heavy kind. Everything you didn’t finish last week is still there, waiting, as if...

Some mornings I wake up already mid-thought, like my mind kept walking while I slept. Not toward anything, exactly—just pacing. The question I fell asleep with resurfaces before my eyes even open. It has no new answer, but it returns as faithfully as breath. A strange comfort: to be haunted not by ghosts, but by inquiry. There’s a pattern to these questions. They orbit. Disappear for a while, then drift back in disguised forms. “What am I doing with my life?” becomes “Is this enough?” becomes “Would I recognize peace if I had it?” They change costumes, but not essence. Like light refracted through time. Answers, on the other hand, are cowardly. They rarely stay put. The ones I trusted at twenty have become hollow at thirty. Truth ages poorly. It sheds skin, then masquerades as something wiser. Maybe this is why I distrust conclusions—they feel too much like ceilings. Some people collect answers like trophies. I collect questions like old books with marginalia—underlined, dog-eared, ...

It’s raining and I’m sitting in a bus going somewhere—somewhere vague enough to feel like progress but familiar enough to make me question if I’m just looping through life on autopilot. The windows are fogged, people are half-asleep or pretending to be, and outside, the rain politely ruins everyone’s plans. I glance at the umbrella tucked beside my seat. It's smug today. Useful. Fulfilled. Finally, it gets to do its one job. No more sulking in dark corners of my bag like some emotionally neglected sidekick. Today, it’s a hero. Rain? Bring it. Wind? Let’s tango. But then I wonder: What about the days it never gets opened? Three sunny days in a row, I still carried it like a nervous habit—just in case the sky changed its mind. And on those days, did it feel... betrayed? Like it wore its best water-resistant outfit for nothing? Like it practiced its unfolding motion all night and then got ghosted by the clouds? Do umbrellas spiral into existential crises when the weather app lies?...

I live in the tension between freedom and belonging—the silent pull shaping every choice. Freedom promises escape and autonomy but leaves a loneliness like concrete pressing down. Freedom isn’t just no chains; it’s a room where no one calls your name. Belonging is messy, a weight carried because isolation terrifies more. It demands surrender, risking erosion—wearing a soft wound as armor until it bleeds. Freedom isolates. Belonging erases. We crave both but find them strangers wearing the same mask. The door to connection often leads to a subtle cage. We trade one prison for another, hoping at least the bars are invisible. No one teaches this dance—how to want people but hold your edges, how to be vulnerable without dissolving. I’ve fled closeness and begged for space. Stayed too long and left too soon. The hardest place is between what we want and what we lose. Maybe freedom and belonging aren’t destinations but forces held in uneasy balance—fractured and whole, both at once. Livi...

Once there was a candle, Confidence manifested in its sturdy built, A wax so thick, Coating an immaculate wick, Hiding inside the waxy mask, A recurring question constantly asked, A Decision has to be made, One so absurd – yet gratifying One so tragic – yet transforming, To taste the sap of immortality? Or to bask in the fire that kills it softly? A Living flame, impossible to resist, A spark that was made to exist, Blazing, enchanting, fiery unison Bold, scorching, fervent affection, Unable to control the eudaimonic destruction, Lost in the oblivion of synchronistic manifestations, Melting wax… Face the facts… Wicked wick waggling wishes then wane Hopeless heart hunting happy heat under the cold rain.

The empty realization regarding a universe so vast handling all possible combinations and permutations of synchronistic events is too profound for my tiny mind. Reading a book about reincarnation and hope makes me a complete sissy.  I mean, hope should be simple, right? After the storm there’s a new dawn, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, it’s not how many times you fall down but what matters is the fact that you stand up every time you fall down and all those Facebook and internet memes about hope. It brings hope to people in search of it. (it should give hope or presumably, die hoping.) Then here comes reincarnation, where your soul based on your past karma will be thrown in another space, another time – a theory where, in a grand scheme of things, order will be put in place as your soul will be raped and ripped somewhere, it can be in the past, present or future. (well technically as a subject, you will always be in the present, but you get my point. Since I...

Cosmic contingencies in wonderland Heavenly synchronicities grasped like sand, Ever occurring, ever happening Sarcastic moon, ever smiling. Harness all wit to solve the conundrum Intricate puzzles forcing one’s doom Running to an imprisoned universe Escaping from a maligned curse Cold December breeze pierces the soul Accursed badly by the eudaimonia I stole, Tea-times over it’s time to escape this rabbit hole.

E very second, every minute, T hinking makes me break my wit. E very hour, Every day, R emembering leaves me disarray. N o one can escape the curse of time, I nfinitesimal memories resonate in chime. T he thing that makes a painstaking forever, Y ou and me, for eternity, can never be together.

Behind the mask lies a magnanimous battle between the self and the illusory projection one portrays. Usually, the self gives in, conditioned to believe in the phantasmal personality projected. The projection then crosses the boundaries of fantasy and reality, making the illusion appear’ real’ and when the self suddenly realizes he is being eaten up and decides to remove the mask, it’s already adhered to his face, it’s a part of him – the mask becomes him. The pain is excruciating.  In removing the mask it’s inevitable that the face will also be affected Surgical scalpels, blades and knives will be used… and upon doing the task, You are left faceless, No personality, No identity, oblivious of who you are, you become - Nothing…

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...