Fragments of the Quiet Mind

There you were again. Bittersweet. Mysterious. Smelling faintly of burnt hope and toasted almonds. I couldn’t place you, but somehow I already missed you. You arrived on a Tuesday — not a remarkable Tuesday, mind you. Just one of those limp, mid-tempo days that smelled faintly of budget cuts and existential dread. I found you sitting there, steam spiraling like a secret trying to escape, whispering things to my tired soul like: "You’ll survive this spreadsheet." "You are more than your inbox." "The meeting could’ve been an email." Was it your warmth that unraveled the corners of my anxiety? Or your bitterness — so artfully balanced, like heartbreak in a tuxedo? Loving you felt oddly familiar, like recognizing a skyline you’ve only ever seen in a dream. Or a crush on someone who doesn't exist — but has a Spotify playlist somehow eerily aligned with your breakup mood. I started timing my mornings around you. Measured my sanity by your pre...

It’s 2 am and I am still awake. Though I had a long nap this afternoon, for some reason, my stubborn brain suddenly erupts in these manic streaks. My mind suddenly reboots itself and in a couple of minutes, I become as hyper as a kid who just ate 27 chocolate bars.  Since it’s pointless to lie down and struggle to find the best position, I took my laptop, go out at the porch and started writing. As sat there, I looked at the heavens and there shines my moon together with the stars. The sky was barren of clouds and you can perfectly see how the earth is blanketed by the dark sky as the moon and the stars gave it an enchanting touch.  The moon’s light is waning, so are my thoughts. I guess I am lunatic as I can write lots whenever the moon goes full. I consider the moon as my muse so I wondered, Why can't I shift my obsession to the stars?  I think this is quite improbable. Stars are illusions, I mean, most of the time, the light that we see from these stars are actually t...

What’s the worth of utterly accepting life in all its’ pains and glories through complete surrender and having a full  Dionystic attitude? Does Nietzsche's ‘ amor-fati ’ justify the absence of regret and resentment?  In the first place, how should I begin with this rambling?  The answer perhaps, is through another question about regret and a pseudo-philosophical treatment of this. Such is life – too easy to say, yet indescribable in many aspects. It’s just difficult to understand it, additionally, it’s difficult to limit life into something that just randomly happens. We are thinkers and being such, we clamor for reasons behind everything. There SHOULD be a reason behind life and there must ABSOLUTELY BE A REASON for everything that’s happening. (without thinking we're just crazy to assume that there is a magnanimous ecclesiastical destiny that governs life) Life is maybe a very simple concept but was (and is) subjected to multiple definitions. I am even wond...

Memory isn’t a photograph. It’s a murmur in a dark room. A smell, a shift in light, the sudden ache when a song you forgot you loved finds you again. It arrives uninvited, but familiar—like someone who used to know you well. I used to believe memory told the truth. But lately, I’m not so sure. The more I revisit the past, the more it changes. Not drastically, not all at once—but like a shoreline slowly pulled into new shapes by the tide. One day you notice the sand isn't where it used to be. There are scenes I return to that feel real but never happened. A conversation with someone who never said the right thing, but in my memory, they do. A touch that never landed, yet still leaves warmth. I don’t think that’s lying. I think that’s longing, trying to make sense of itself. Sometimes, I miss the version of me that existed in those imagined moments. The me who was loved better, understood more clearly. And maybe that’s what memory really is: not a record, but a refuge. A softer w...

Creation is not a performance—it is a necessity. We create not to be seen, but because there is something within us that insists on becoming. Something unnamed. Something unsummoned, but persistent. Most people mistake destruction for power, yet it is restraint that reveals true strength. To destroy is easy—it is passive entropy. But to build something from silence, to shape what isn’t there into what now is—that’s where the divine whispers. And most days, we lack the patience for divinity. Creative expression, at its core, is a private rebellion. It is the unseen ritual of those who refuse to be boxed in, labeled, or diagrammed. We mask our truths in metaphors, hide behind pseudonyms, not to deceive, but to breathe freely. The world demands clarity. We answer with riddles. I’ve never felt compelled to explain myself. Not because I am proud, but because explanations waste energy—and energy, once distorted, rarely returns intact. This world spins with commentary. Silence is my protes...