Fragments of the Quiet Mind

“Some songs ask to be felt, not performed. He chose the wrong answer.” I wasn’t even planning to watch. I was just flipping channels, letting boredom pick for me, when The Clash came on — that singing competition where emotions get belted louder than the lyrics. I stayed. Not because I follow the show (I don’t), but because I heard someone say he was going to sing Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. That song doesn’t just play — it haunts . It’s stitched into the background of moments I don’t talk about often. Quiet heartbreaks. Long drives. Things left unsaid. The contestant, apparently, was a crowd favorite. Maybe it was his backstory, or his journey, or the way the camera loved him. I had no idea who he was. I didn’t carry his narrative. All I had was the song. And then he sang it. And I wished he hadn’t. He didn’t cover Iris . He performed over it — louder, shinier, emptier. What was once a song that bled quietly now sounded like it was trying to prove something. He turned a confess...

There are moments when life throws us into chaos. Despite our efforts to maintain a positive outlook, some instances push us to our limits. Suddenly, it feels like we're staring at our own reflection, where darkness engulfs the itsy-bitsy light that we are so desperately trying to ignite. It's disheartening...  In this state of condemnation and self-judgment,  as we struggle to make sense of it all,  we find ourselves consumed by angst and painful realizations.  No matter how hard we try to mend things, there are unforeseen circumstances where destruction triumphs over creation. Perhaps it's due to our limitations,  our inherent inadequacies that we persist in trying to fix what's broken. But more often than not, our attempts only result in shattering it further, leaving us with countless irreparable fragments.  Maybe they're right;  I seem to destroy everything I touch. I can't help but question what is wrong with me. I feel like a forsaken soul, ...

This sign I give you: every people speaks its tongue of good and evil, which the neighbor does not understand. It has invented its own language of customs and rights.” ~ Nietzsche, 1892/1966,  Thus Spoke Zarathustra   (W. Kaufmann, Trans.), p. 49 Isn’t it fascinating how we all speak different languages when it comes to what we consider good and evil? Each person has their own unique set of values and beliefs, shaped by their experiences and background. Nietzsche was on to something when he said that every person speaks their own “tongue” of virtue and vice—clearly, he knew we’d be forever tangled in the mess of miscommunication. Picture this: you’re at a party, and someone hands you a drink. For you, it’s a sweet gesture of friendship. But for someone else, it’s like they’ve just handed you a live grenade. How did we get from “cheers” to “run for cover”? Because our moral languages are as different as ordering a coffee in Paris versus trying to decipher a secret menu at a din...

I stand there, beside her, but not truly there— caught in the strange gravity between presence and absence. In these tragic moments, when words should matter most, I find myself retreating, silently. My voice, though formed with care, meets no resonance. It's as if the air between us thickens into something impenetrable. I crack a joke—lighthearted, perhaps too light for the weight of the moment. It drifts away, unnoticed, and I am left wondering, am I fading too?   What’s worse than being unheard? It’s not even the absence of words but the hollow feeling that swells in the silence afterward, like standing in a room where the walls are slowly closing in. The mind stumbles, thoughts tripping over themselves as they scramble to reach the surface. Each idea dissolves into the air before it can take form—vanishing like smoke against the cold, hard surface of her grief, her preoccupation. Yet still, I stand there, trying. Failing.   There's a gap between us, and though I feel it ke...