Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Some ghosts wear zippers instead of faces. There was a time I couldn’t go anywhere without you. You were comfort on bad days, silence when words felt too sharp. You made cold mornings softer. Loneliness easier to carry. I didn’t question you. You were just there. Always. We went through everything together—late-night walks, grocery store breakdowns, bus rides where I tried to disappear. You hugged me when no one else knew how. I kept you even when you started falling apart. Even when I knew you were past your prime, unraveling at the edges, losing color in places that used to feel like home. You stopped fitting, but I made excuses. Called it loyalty. Called it love. And still, I held on. Maybe out of memory. Maybe out of guilt. Or maybe because I was afraid of what letting go might say about me. But the truth is— I don’t miss you now. Not really. Not who you’ve become. You're stretched out. Sagging. Smell like an old version of me I’d rather forget. You don't ho...

Losing your keys is the quiet rebellion of order against itself. At first, it feels like life has hiccuped. The kind of rupture so small it shouldn’t matter, yet manages to unhinge everything. You check your bag three times, then the counter, then the jacket you haven’t worn in a week. It's not about the keys anymore. It's about what their absence unravels. Because keys aren't just metal. They are continuity. They are the mundane rituals that trick us into believing the world makes sense — that if you follow the same path each day, you'll arrive somewhere familiar. But when keys disappear, the path collapses. Suddenly you’re not just late—you’re disoriented, unmoored, estranged from your own routine. And in that moment, a door becomes a symbol. Not of what's locked, but of how little you understand your own thresholds. How many doors have you opened without knowing what they kept out? How many times have you walked in without noticing what you left behind? The l...

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 used to own this small potted plant I kept by the window.  I don't remember its name—some hardy, leafy thing they said wouldn’t die easily. I believed them. That was the first lie. Or maybe the first faith. I never really watered it. Not on purpose. Not out of malice. Just... I got busy. Or I thought the sunlight was enough. Or I told myself I’d do it tomorrow, and tomorrow kept moving without me. Strange, how we forget to care for the things we once chose. Eventually, the leaves curled in, quietly. No protest. No drama. Just a slow folding, like a secret being buried alive. And still, I left it there. Watching.  Witnessing.  Me, in all my distractions. And it makes me wonder—what else have I left thirsty? What else did I promise life to, only to offer absence? Sometimes I think about legacy—not in the grand, carved-in-marble kind of way, but in the intimate, quiet ruins we leave behind. The forgotten promise to a hopeful person that we didn't really gave much thou...

Strolling through our enchanted path, The righteous Heaven paid a visit, Descending from its huddled spot Misty Clouds! you won’t believe it. It’s just water floating in the air, I thought “Or Is it?” was my afterthought, The park was filled with laughing and giggling, From Kids playing, running and hiding. But to opportunists this fog means fortune Stalking walkers with evil intentions, To leap and attack when no one’s in sight, As a predator hunting its prey at night. A hazy fog caressing my cheeks, Admiring the beauty of this immaculate mist, Inspired by this vapor, I’ll last for a week, And think of the two souls who almost kissed!  Unobstructed vision is an impossibility, As perceptions create my reality, This fog, a being so profound Answers to what is it, is still unfound. …and hoping that it will never be found.

In the hushed solitude of night, under a sky punctuated by celestial wonders, I find myself contemplating the enigma of the moon’s dark side and the iceberg’s tip—the eternal symbols of the hidden and the revealed,  urging us to bridge the chasm between the visible and the concealed. You see, the moon presents to us only one face. The other side, the dark side, remains perpetually out of view, a silent expanse shrouded in mystery. It’s not merely a physical obscurity but a profound metaphor for the uncharted territories within us. This dark side is not just a void; it’s a space brimming with the shadows of our deepest fears, our unspoken desires, the parts of ourselves we keep hidden. It’s the silent echo of our inner worlds, unexamined and unspoken. In embracing this dark side, we confront the uncomfortable truths about ourselves. What lies in the far reaches of our inner moon? Perhaps it’s the grief we’ve buried, the dreams we’ve abandoned, the truths we dare not speak. This dark...