Random Stirrings of The Mind.

It stays closed because it isn’t your door. There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from doing everything right and still ending up empty-handed. You show up on time, carrying your best intentions like neatly wrapped gifts. You soften your tone, choose your words carefully, become more patient, more understanding, more accommodating. You shrink where necessary, expand where requested, adjust yourself like a dial you hope will finally land on the “right” setting. And still, nothing opens. So you knock again. Maybe a little louder this time. Maybe a little softer. You replay every interaction in your mind like a detective searching for the one mistake that must explain it all. Surely, it’s something you did. Something you missed. Something you could fix. But the door doesn’t stay closed because you knocked incorrectly. It stays closed because it isn’t your door. That truth doesn’t arrive gently. It lands like a quiet but irreversible shift, the kind that rearranges how yo...

There’s a peculiar kind of heartbreak that doesn’t begin with cruelty, but with imagination. It starts when someone sketches a version of you in their mind. Not with pencil and paper, but with assumptions, hopes, and quiet projections. In that private gallery, you are flawless. Predictable. Convenient. You say the right things, feel the right feelings, arrive exactly when needed, and never stray from the script they’ve written for you. And then, one day, you don’t. You hesitate where they expected certainty. You change where they expected permanence. You reveal a shadow where they insisted there was only light. And suddenly, you become a disappointment. But here’s the truth that doesn’t get said enough: you didn’t fail them. You simply refused to live inside a story that was never yours. The Weight of Being Imagined Expectations can feel soft at first, almost flattering. Someone believes in you, sees potential, admires something they think is consistent and reliable. But expecta...

 The Roman philosopher Seneca observed something unsettling about human nature: people spend most of their lives preparing to live instead of actually living. They work, plan, optimize, and wait for the “right moment.” The right time to relax, to enjoy, to be present, to finally feel alive. But that moment keeps moving. It always seems just out of reach. What makes this idea so uncomfortable is how familiar it feels. We tell ourselves that once things settle down, we’ll start living properly. Once the workload eases. Once we earn a bit more. Once we fix a few things. Life becomes something scheduled for later, as if it’s waiting patiently for us at the end of our to-do list. Seneca saw through this illusion. In his writings, he pointed out that people are strangely careful with trivial things but careless with time, the one thing that cannot be replaced. We guard our money, our possessions, even our reputation. But time slips away unnoticed, often spent in preparation for a life ...

 Have you ever instantly labeled someone as lazy, rude, or incompetent only to later realize you were completely wrong? That snap judgment has a name: attribution bias, and it quietly shapes how we see other people every day. At its core, attribution bias is about how we explain behavior. Whenever something happens, your brain automatically asks, why did this person do that? The problem is that your brain prefers quick answers over accurate ones. Instead of carefully weighing all possibilities, it jumps to conclusions, usually by oversimplifying what’s actually going on. One of the most common forms of this is the fundamental attribution error, which boils down to a simple but powerful pattern: we assume other people’s behavior reflects who they are, while our own behavior is shaped by circumstances. If someone shows up late to a meeting, it’s easy to think they’re irresponsible or careless. But when you’re the one running late, suddenly it’s because traffic was bad or something ur...

Hear me out, we all go through seasons of pain, loss, betrayal, disappointment, or the weight of unspoken struggles. These experiences leave marks on us, and if we don’t take the time to heal, we risk carrying that pain into new spaces and passing it on to people who had no part in causing it. Unhealed wounds show up in subtle ways: sharp words spoken in anger, defensiveness where none is needed, or distance in relationships where closeness is craved. What once hurt us can become a lens through which we see the world, shaping our responses without us even realizing it. Healing doesn’t mean pretending it never happened. It means giving yourself permission to acknowledge the pain, to process it, and to grow beyond it. It’s an act of self-care, but also an act of care for others, because when we heal, we stop the cycle of passing pain forward. The journey to healing takes time. It requires honesty, patience, and sometimes even help from others. But the reward is freedom: the freedom to lo...

He has his own fears, often he beholds his own wars, some days with a raised face and at times with a downcast smug.  Hate and love are two perfect sides of a coin, there is no in-between. He often tries not to judge people that he rans into amidst the craziness of life. Some new, some acquaintances and many that he has known over long conversations. His type of conversations covers short spurts of strenuous "hellos" and "heys". The amount of fake charades on people's faces and actions always makes his heart cringe; not with fear but with a lot of pain. It takes a certain amount of opening up to get to let people into his life, especially when one is reserved. And when he does, his life resides there; a center of unhinged openness . He hates changes and often a great deal is characterized with a Traditionalist view. He likes to see things organized in a certain way; less drama. Untidy workplaces irritates the comfort in him, and interrupted schedule screws up ...

Ever woken up in the middle of the night, and just sat there, in pitch black darkness, wondering where you life is headed? Well, I cannot spend my whole entire youth grovelling over something that this accursed existence cannot give. There are instances where I have thought of where comfort zones and taking the over-hyped "risks" come into play. A thin line so to say. sadness brims the heart that melts from a simple resistance. There are things that I cannot change; there are those that I can flip with a blink and voila, they are gone, albeit with minimal or no effort at all. I can choose to smile, or frown, to laugh or cry, or even to love or hate, bad or good; and so forth and so on, you catch my drift. One thing though, you are the person that you are, some things you cannot change, they are part and parcel of your existence. Other things can be altered to fit your environment and enhance your daily dos and don'ts. I choose to smile, to love: to always make so...

Perhaps today is not the day for memoirs, but a little churn and a twist from the norm. Today, I write about home—a place we often go back to at the end of a rough or a jolly good day. A home is not just a place, but a realm within us. A space where we find peace, contentment, and joy. Home is the scent of familiar spices wafting from the kitchen, the creak of a well-trodden wooden floor, the soft hum of voices that know our stories without needing to ask. It is the quiet sanctuary after a long day, the laughter echoing in the corridors of memory, the warmth of a beloved presence, even when miles apart. It is not confined to four walls and a roof, nor is it defined by the grandeur of its architecture. But home is also change. It is the bittersweet moment of packing up childhood belongings, leaving behind walls that once echoed with our growing pains. It is the ache of longing when we search for traces of what was, only to find that time has repainted the doors and rearranged the furnit...

There are moments in life that feel sacred, not because of their grandeur but because of the rawness they hold. They arrive unannounced, wrapped in the simplicity of a smile, a conversation that lingers, or the way the world suddenly feels aligned in a way it never quite has before. When we meet a special soul, when we give ourselves fully to the moment, something shifts—we are no longer just existing; we are living. The sacrosanct act of giving it whole. Of offering ourselves with unreserved intention, allowing our thoughts and emotions to flow freely without the barriers we so often construct. There is something deeply human, deeply divine, in that surrender—where nothing is held back, and everything is embraced. It is in these moments that we come to understand the quiet, profound truth: the joy we seek, the peace we crave, has always been within arm’s reach. To be present is an act of gratitude. To take in the moment slowly, allowing it to fill every corner of our being, is a gift ...

Sometimes, being kind-hearted feels like an uphill battle. You give your time, energy, and care to others, only to be met with indifference or even exploitation. It’s a sentiment echoed in the timeless song by Wham. The bittersweet nature of giving and not receiving in return, a feeling many of us can relate to when we put our all on the line. Yet, there’s something deeply hopeful about the idea of giving—even if it doesn’t always work out. Today, I want to reflect on why good people sometimes finish last, and how embracing a mindset of prevention rather than cure can create healthier dynamics while preserving our own emotional well-being. At the heart of every meaningful interaction is the hope of connection. Good people often see the glass as half-full, choosing to approach relationships with empathy and understanding. They’re the ones who listen intently, offer help without hesitation, and believe in the goodness of others, even when it’s hard to see. This optimism is a gift. It all...

For starters, happy new year. I have been mulling on doing a piece on intentionality for a while and, for sure, I have mentioned a bit of it to those that I have struck deeper notes of life with.  Well, in brief, intentionality is a philosophical concept that refers to the capacity of the mind to be directed toward an object, idea, or state of affairs. It is a fundamental aspect of consciousness, enabling individuals to have thoughts about something, engage in purposeful actions, and maintain focus on specific goals or outcomes. Originating from the work of philosopher Franz Brentano in the 19th century, intentionality distinguishes mental phenomena from physical phenomena by highlighting the inherent directedness or "aboutness" of mental states. In everyday life, intentionality manifests in our ability to plan, deliberate, and navigate complex social interactions, as it involves both conscious and unconscious mental processes that guide behaviours and decision-making. In tha...

There’s a distant ache, a whisper of something just beyond reach—a longing for the unseen, a familiar yet ungraspable presence. The soul stirs, restless, as though caught in a web of yearning and quiet hope, searching for what it cannot name. Rumi’s words echo gently: "Close your eyes. Fall in love. Stay there." And so, I close my eyes, trusting that this ache, this distant ripple, isn’t emptiness but a bridge. It leads me inward, where contentment exists without boundaries, beyond the need for form or reason. Here, within this sacred quiet, my heart opens to the fullness of things I cannot see but deeply feel—an eternal radiating quiet, a steadfast peace, a silent connection to the unseen. Perhaps the longing is a call to soften, to surrender to the beauty in not knowing. In closing my eyes, I am reminded that some journeys are not about seeking outward but unfolding within. And in this inner space, love holds me still, whispers, and asks only one thing: "Stay here....

A very good friend of mine gifted me a wholesome book a couple of months ago, while I was departing Budapest. The book, has given me an interesting yet fulfilling perspective about life. Thank you my dear friend :) It goes without saying, questions did find a way to squeeze in between the love of literature. The book, "Before the Coffee Gets Cold: Tales from the Café" by Toshikazu Kawaguchi is a sequel to his first novel and continues to delve into the mystical and emotionally charged world of a unique café in Tokyo. This café offers its customers a singular opportunity: the chance to travel back in time. However, the journey is governed by a set of stringent rules: They can only visit people who have been to the café. They cannot change the present, no matter what they do in the past. They must sit in a particular seat. They must return before their coffee gets cold. The sequel introduces a fresh set of characters, each with their own deeply personal reasons for wanting ...

That took a while. Two years incommunicado. Then today, out of nowhere, that little familiar feeling warmed up. May is usually a beautiful month to write home about and with time ticking away, he has cooped up several experiences that have left permanent marks.  At this age, everything is changing. Day by day we don't notice much that goes on around us, and looking back over the passing year, he realizes everything has. We often think that we are going to be at a specific place forever, and the people that we thought were going to walk with us in our life's journey aren't there, and those that we never imagined we'd be speaking to are now some of the closest friends.  He deeply thinks, life makes little sense, and the more we grow the less sense it will make. A little nudge, please make the most of it now, before all changes again. Remember, the future is never promised, and all you've gone through will only be memories. Life is a perplexing dance, it defies logic, ...

 "Is there enough Silence for the Word to be heard?"  Name of names, our small identity unravels in you. You give it back as a lesson. With zeal, or without. Trudging, finding perspectives, seemingly more lost than ever. To go through a contemplative life is akin to being open enough to see, free enough to hear, and real enough to respond. It is a life, and as it is always interwoven, it has its own rhythms of darkness and light, even when we always see a dying-rising. Simply put, it is a life of grateful receptivity even though minus some, or wordless awe, of silent simplicity. Today, he is here to remember steps; little ones made over an uncertain period in life and world. People, instances, grace, servitude, humility, hope, grace, pain and hopelessness. A basketful for sure. Nothing is for sure. But one thing remains true, a place deep down, open, hoping and always looking. Sufficient grace, willing alms, for nothing is always promised. For this and others are nex...

A couple of days ago, someone admirable recommended Matt Haig’s bestseller, “The book of comfort”. He succinctly remembers that early-noon class, a backbencher notwithstanding, her rather audible undertones quipped, “Matt Haig will rattle your wits,” and true to those words, the pearly comforting words, some a one-pager, others a single sentence; are becoming a closer companion. Matt talks about the noun “Mess” in one of the pages and this piece struck quite home, especially on how this day, the 13th of the first month of the start of autumn. Trees outside, show the tell-tale signs of hue flaxen and aureate. The easterly weather is toning down to a cool and bristle feel. He woke up with the heaviness of an awry feel down the pits of the stomach. And true to that, two hammers had dropped in a day. In that piece, Matt quips that the hardest thing to be is oneself. He points out that we are so overloaded that we cannot always see the truth of who we are. We turn to distraction sometim...

"A society grows great when old men plant trees the shade of which they know they will never sit in. Good people, do things for other people, without expecting anything in return."  A bit of a reflection; he has the least of grappling to discern where this is headed. Well, it is said, may the flow have its way.  Amongst the days where light has shone on bare "knuckles", there is an epitome of consciousness that has nothing to do with being sane or present. Well, the mind is miles away from what many will say is sanity or even satisfaction...  There is an old alibi that belts off the music system; one that declares how old souls we are. he reminiscences the year 1998, like it was yesterday, noontide, clear skies, calm with a humid waft of air from the midlands of the Rift; with a constant flutter of winds and warm tufts of air rising from the green fields of freshly weeded maize plantains. he could feel minute droplets of water on his face, yet the sky wa...

Of restful days, where time wills away like a sundial, Unstoppable, eons of ticks and turns … This a day, like few in the past, Where hand wraps around ink and the mind synchronizes with the present. It has been days of nothingness; Excruciating moments of doubts, unawares, and a constant flow, Growing, learning, and expanding borders. Today, like the few limited occasions where the hand meets ink, where the mind rhymes to the tune of the ages… The pen speaks of new beginnings, new experiences, and new joys. This little jolt comes from an unknown space… One yet to be harnessed, but full of promise. One thing has stood out, man is no island … We feel, we experience, and we express. Limitless borders of expansion. Outstretched, the arm gropes for a light, Amidst the vast expanse of growth… Scary face… Call code that washes my head in forever, I know there is hope, in these waters, Nonetheless, I can hold onto my hopes whilst drowning. The freedom of the skies; that st...

We exist in times where affection is left to wait at the last table of a coffee shop or packed up in some dark storage locker where only casual  entanglements are in demand. Where people come and willingly serve themselves with the same cocktail of heartbreaks, disappointments and pain because it’s ‘casual’ and ‘cool’. A trend that sets on a short high and a facade of temporary pleasure. Emotions and feelings are relegated to a corner, unnoticed and laughed at because old school romance is probably not in trend in the shallow-hit-me-quick, that we have shrouded ourselves in.  It’s besetting, isn’t it? That we find it easier to disappear rather than face what fate has placed before us. We casually throw words around such as “break” and “space”  wishfully thinking that everything would just magically work out after some time, and even if it doesn’t, it’s fine because that’s how the world we live in now defines love. Unions are no longer about staying and facing ...

Two paths lead to a greater understanding of a broken heart. One is to imagine it broken in tiny little shards, some ground to dust; left to be scattered about by the wind—a feeling most of us behold, and a fate we wouldn't even wish our enemies. Flip the coin, picture a heartbreak that opens it up into a new capacity—a process that cannot escape pain, but one that many a person would welcome.  As the world passes by, standing in the tragic gap between possibility and reality, that fistful thing called heart can break open to hold more of what the world readily gives; to hold more of what one goes through; the world's suffering and joy, successes, and losses, despair and hope, Forgiveness. But still, it beats, albeit with occasional flutters, but it keeps going.  Every minute of life without forgiveness is existence separated from the sacred and from the most basic of instincts bestowed upon our hearts. Living every moment with forgiveness to ourselves, to others, and even to ...