Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I used to believe the world had a place carved out for me—a bright, undeniable purpose, a calling whispered through the chaos. A dream job that would illuminate the darkest corridors of doubt. But the truth I found was more elusive, more quiet. There is a shame in not having a dream, not because ambition is shameful, but because the silence of absence is deafening. It’s a soft, persistent ache—a question that gnaws beneath the surface when the crowd chants “Find your passion!” as if it were a command rather than a gift. I carry this shame not as a scar, but as a shadow—one that stretches longer than the daylight. It’s the shame of drifting, of not belonging to some grand narrative of destiny. Of waking every morning to a life that feels like a rehearsal without a script. And yet, I realize: maybe this absence is not a void, but a space. A quiet room where I learn what it means to exist without ceremony. This quiet room teaches me something radical—there is dignity in the ordinary,...

It’s only my second day of class, and it already feels like I’ve been through a marathon of exhaustion and frustration. After a series of rescheduled classes that felt like a never-ending game of schedule roulette, I finally meet my students. I’ve been talking for 30 minutes, but their reaction is as engaging as a blank wall. No smiles, no nods—just a sea of unenthused faces. I’ve cracked all the jokes I could think of (though most were just mediocre at best), tried weaving in stories related to the topic, and mustered every ounce of energy I had to give a decent lecture. Yet, the students remained as awake as a hibernating bear. It could have been the corny jokes or the shallow stories, but their blank stares suggested I was speaking in ancient, forgotten tongues. At 2:30 pm, I find myself pondering the existential dilemma of teaching at an hour when even the most engaging topics seem like ancient relics. The challenge of balancing actual learning with keeping students’ attention is g...

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...

Life often feels like a tragic comedy, a paradox we seem to accept but never fully understand. In our quest for connection, we find that the closer we reach, the more elusive our relationships become. The more I strive to uncover the depths of those I care about, the more enigmatic they seem. The essence of this challenge is not merely in solving a puzzle but in understanding the mysterious nature of human connections. Each piece of information about another person becomes a fragment of a larger mystery. When faced with such complexity, the pursuit is not about solving but about embracing the enigma and learning from it. This quest for understanding highlights a profound aspect of relationships: the balance between patience and persistence.  As I navigate these complexities, I am reminded that true understanding requires time and respect for the other’s pace.  It is not about forcing clarity but allowing it to unfold organically. Reflecting on this journey, I realize that my a...