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...

I once felt proud for skipping sleep to finish a report. Thought it meant I was dedicated. Thought the bags under my eyes were merit badges, that my value could be measured in unread emails and caffeinated resolve. Someone even called me “inspiring” for it. It felt good. Until it didn’t. No one ever warns you that burnout doesn’t arrive like a storm—it creeps in like a whisper. You start forgetting birthdays. You eat meals with one hand, scrolling with the other. You hear a laugh and don’t remember the last time you made that sound. You mistake productivity for meaning. You mistake being needed for being loved. I used to think the grind was noble. Now I think it’s just well-marketed self-neglect. There's a quiet violence in how we've romanticized exhaustion. We give standing ovations to people who sacrifice everything except their deadlines. We confuse busyness with importance, and rest with weakness. We admire the person who never stops—but we never ask what they’re runnin...

I just finished my 42km Marathon and yeah, at first it seemed like a brilliant idea.  I was fueled by overconfidence and way too much caffeine, thinking, “How hard can this be?”  Looking back now, it feels a bit like reviewing a movie where the plot twist is me questioning every single life choice that led me to that point. The marathon was less about crossing the finish line and more about having an endless conversation with my inner critic. At various stages, I found myself deep in debate: “Is this pain really worth it?” and “Did I actually need to run up that hill?” I practically had a tumultuous relationship with my chafing shorts, and let’s not forget the uphill stretch that had me questioning if I’d somehow offended gravity. But hey, through the sweat, the sore muscles, and the occasional existential crisis, I did it. I faced down every doubt, pushed through every mile, and emerged victorious—or at least, upright. So here’s to me, for running 42 kilometers and discoverin...