I was walking past a stranger’s house yesterday. Their kitchen window was open. The smell of vanilla and butter drifted out. I stopped. I couldn’t move. Suddenly I was seven years old. Standing on a wooden chair. Flour in my hair. Cookie dough on my fingers. My mother beside me, letting me lick the spoon.
Access to everything; understanding of nothing. How constant information erodes attention—and how to make space for wisdom.
There’s a guitar in the corner of my room. I haven’t touched it in three years. The case is dusty now. But sometimes, late at night, I catch a faint smell from it. Wood. Old strings. Cigarette smoke from coffee shops I used to play in. I remember when music felt like breathing. Now it
My phone buzzed forty-seven times today. I counted. Emails. Messages. Notifications. Calendar reminders. Three video calls happened at once. My coffee went cold on the desk. I forgot to drink it. Again. Somewhere in the middle of all this, a thought came. A small, quiet thought. What I really wanted was to sit by a
I walked into the conference room. Twenty-three people turned to look at me. It was a quick look. Polite. But I felt it. That millisecond of recognition before their faces rearranged into professional smiles. I was the only one. You know what I mean. The only one who looked like me. I took my seat.
Between you and me, there is silence. Not empty silence. Full silence. Heavy with everything we never learned to say. I’ve been thinking about this lately. How much we hide. Not because we’re dishonest. But because we never learned the language for certain truths. We can talk about weather. About work. About politics and sports
I tried to remember my mother’s voice yesterday. I couldn’t. This scared me more than anything has scared me in years. She died three years ago. I remember her face clearly. Her hands. The way she walked. But her voice? It slips away like water through fingers. I reach for it. It’s not there. This
The mirror reflects a stranger in interview clothes. Between authentic self and professional persona lies the complex psychology of workplace performance – where method acting meets career survival.
When the last person who will remember you is dying, an entire world goes with them—scenes, scents, voices no record ever held. Death isn’t only a body ending; a library burns, and memory’s second death follows in silence. In a dim hospital room, a glass of water and a silver blister pack witness the quiet collapse of a universe.
I went home last week. I mean, I went to my parents’ house. The house where I grew up. But somewhere on the way, I realized I don’t call it “home” anymore. I call it “my parents’ house.” When did this change happen? I turned the key. The door opened. And immediately, something felt wrong.
Curated insights, thoughtfully delivered. No clutter.
