Fragments of the Quiet Mind

Today I realized… ... That beautiful memories do not demand forgetting. They only ask to be touched gently, like a scar you’ve come to love. ... That Marlboro Gold tastes like dried sweet potato leaves—bitter, earthy, the kind of disappointment that reminds you you're still alive. Some truths don’t burn, they just wither. ... That silence is not emptiness. It's where wisdom blooms in the corners of the mouth that chose not to speak. There is grace in the unsaid. ... That too much care can drown the very thing you love. Like the stargazer lily I tried to keep alive—I watered it with good intentions, smothered it with tenderness. But love, without listening, kills softly. The wilt was not betrayal. It was instruction. ... That no matter how tightly you hold your pain behind a smile, someone will always see through it. Soulmates are not just found—they are the ones who see you and don’t flinch. You can’t wear masks around them. They were never fooled to begin with. ... That...

Do you believe in soul mates? I don’t. It’s absurd, isn’t it? The idea that there’s someone out there who completes us, who fits the missing piece we feel we’re missing. Maybe it’s just human nature. We all want to connect, don’t we? We crave understanding, the sense that someone else gets us, sees us for who we really are. We search for it in a thousand different ways. Some people create gods and deities to give meaning to their lives. Others wrestle with cognitive dissonance, clinging to beliefs that make the absurdities of existence feel manageable. And then, there are those who disconnect completely, hoping that silence will speak louder than words ever could—hoping someone will hear their unspoken plea. I run. That’s my escape. I don’t just run away from things, I run to something. In each stride, I feel a connection—a thread tying me to something bigger than myself. The hard ground beneath my feet, the wind slicing through the air, the scent of pine trees as I breathe deepl...

Six cups deep, caffeine thrumming like a restless pulse beneath my skin, I’m drowning in the endless scroll—the modern séance for distracted souls. And there it is: Plato’s whisper, half-buried in the noise, trying to stitch the fragments of an ancient truth back into the light. “Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature...” I freeze. Not a casual pause, but a sudden stop where thought crashes, and the heart clenches—uninvited. Soulmates. The word swells and buckles under the weight of all the longing it carries. Does such a thing live outside the dreamscape we paint it in? I’m not sure. Honestly, I’m not sure about much, but the void between uncertainty and hope pulls me in like a magnet. The idea of one perfect match—like a key fitting a lock, jagged edges aligned in quiet certainty—sounds almost too simple. As if we’re halves, unfinished sculptures searching fo...