Drilling someone’s actions down—or defining their entire personality—based on their likes, engagement, or behaviour in the virtual world is absurd. When did it ever become about that? And why this rushing? What does any of this social-media bluffing have to do with someone’s real life or real character?
Why would anyone assign significance based on what we see on an IG profile, or from reading between the lines of vague yes-or-no messages? WHY? WHYYYY? Are we actually that foolish—basing something so important on something so shallow?
I understand the influence digitalisation has on our daily lives, but when did we forget how to recognise real connections? When did we start getting so irritated, insecure, and worked up over virtual reactions instead? Are we really an anxious generation shaped—and damaged—by the digital world this much?
Category: Uncategorized
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Trying to find answers from a place, or from a person, who holds no key to your question paper, who was never meant to know it in the first place, is another unfair responsibility we place on someone who has no relevance to our anxiety. Just because we feel unsure and crave reassurance, we assume this person, who has never truly known us, who doesn’t understand the depths of us, will somehow have solutions to our chaos.
Nobody is anyone’s missing puzzle piece. No one is their healer or their ointment. What matters is finding each other authentically, on the same healed ground, shaped by whatever the past has done to both of them. Coming together on merrier terms not as substitutes or compensations for old wounds they were never present for, never aware of.
Your mental turmoil is your own; it wasn’t caused by the other person, and they are not obligated to put an end to it. Reading between the lines, assuming things that were never said, these only feed the flames of the mind.
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The calmness of visiting a music show alone — enjoying the music and feeling good without having to feel the solitude. Is this part of growing up? Is that part of spinster life?
There was a lot of fame and fab around the event. The noise, the excitement, the crowd, the glamour. But none of it moved me the way the music did. The music felt personal. It felt enough.
Still, somewhere in between, I missed the prospect of visiting together with a companion. Just the thought of standing beside someone, sharing the moment, maybe exchanging a glance when a favorite song played.
And all the while, that thought about a companion was about that dull guy.
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I knew all along.
The knowledge wasn’t something to boast.
I kept sensing it. I knew it.
I tried my best to hide from all sorts of triggering, because I was fearing the irreversible. I was fearing the departure.
I was screaming.
Frightening away.
Chills crawling through me, thinking of what she’ll do—
if she gives up on life—
without having the courage to keep going on. -
There are so many sections that require rereading multiple times. It’s a mental boom so far for me, to realise the perspective the author is trying to give the reader. I have not come across such a revealing book on this topic so far.
I’m trying to get every part of the facts, and it has been so impactful that I’m writing this review while I’m just 27% into the book. I paused and had to note down my thoughts on the book.
This author also made rethink on the bias I had on indian and foreign authors.
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Something that happened to you out of ordinary, an unusuality. Even you had questions on how it ever happened but now that its robbed off, why do i have this sense of loss, sadness which tells me i should cry or scream out. But for no reason i m calm with deep distress of the loss. Is it freeing or sadness ?
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The funny irony.
On this exact date last year, I was introduced to someone.
On the same date, a year later, we talked about quitting.
And today—exactly one year from that—I wrapped it up.
I never planned it. Never.
It’s funny how it makes me feel sad and liberated at the same time.
I’m not the same me who landed here last year—naive, scared shitless of whatever life would throw at her.
That me has grown. Learned to carry suffering, to hold pain, to take every lesson life throws her way.
Even now, there’s a melancholy running deep inside.
And still, I’m asking the cosmos—this ending, this termination—what’s next?
Bigger? Better?
Because I’ve learned: when something is snatched away, It’s never just cruelty. It’s a sign.Something else is coming. Something better.
That’s why this had to go.
That’s why it had to be taken away. -
Each heartbreak, each suffering, draws you closer to what is meant for you. Though you wish the mishaps and losses had never found you, though it still aches—even now, faintly, somewhere in the quiet corner of your heart—there is purpose in it.
Like the removal of weeds, pain is often more necessary than joy. It cuts, clears, and reshapes. It molds you into who you must become, carries you to places you deserve to stand, places your hands and heart are finally skilled enough to hold. Along the way, it opens doors and hearts that were always destined for you.
Sometimes, what breaks you is exactly what leads you where you belong. -
Compartmentalizing people based on their upbringing, origin, race, community, and countless other labels feels never-ending. I recently came across an interesting question where a podcaster asked someone to describe themselves without mentioning their profession, where they come from, or any of the usual identifiers.
It made me wonder — how would we describe ourselves then?
I think I would introduce myself as a curious, brainy soul on a journey between birth and death. But beyond that, I realize there’s a kind of wordlessness. Our vocabulary suddenly feels too small to hold our entire identity.
So it makes me question: Are we left without an identity when we strip away profession, appearance, and nationality? Or have we simply forgotten the deeper ways to see ourselves?