Patience is paramount, they said.
Wait until things ripen.

So we wait...
for the right moment,
for the right season,
for life to slowly fall into place.

But life quietly teaches another truth.

Ripened things do not stay long.
The moment they ripen,
they begin to decay.

The sweetest fruit softens first.
The brightest moment fades the quickest.
The ripest phase of life
passes almost before we notice it.

Perhaps that is why time refuses patience.

Everything moves swiftly.
Childhood ripens into memory.
Friendships ripen into distance.
Moments ripen into stories we tell later.

Yet strangely,
when it comes to anger, pride, or cruelty...
it takes only a finger snap.

To be human is difficult.
Monstrosity is effortless.

Perhaps that is why civilization survives on a very small habit..
patience.

Not grand virtues.
Not towering ideas.
Just the quiet strength to pause.

After all, civilization is a thin blanket.
And patience is what keeps it in place.

Remove it for a moment,
and the cold instincts beneath
quietly return.

What if the rainbow is only beautiful because it bends under the weight of strings unseen?

What if its colours, dazzling for a moment, are nothing more than travellers who never meant to stay? 

Doesn’t the rainbow too arrive after a storm that shook the skies, yet leave without a sound, as if silence was its truest gift?

If the rainbow itself must lean, must break, must vanish before we can even reach it, why do we chase after borrowed shades? 

What if the silence we fear is not emptiness, but the one presence that does not betray us?

What if it is the silence—not the colours—that carries us when no one else can?

When the skies turn pale, when the applause fades, when no eyes are watching, is silence not the only one that stays without asking for anything in return?

What if grace is not in the rainbow’s burst of colour, but in the quiet that follows it—steady, patient, whole?

And if silence asks nothing of us, no bending, no leaning, no breaking—then why do we keep looking for light in places that cannot last? 

Open roads — no maps… just peace.

I escaped chaos for a few days, only to find my journey walking with more detours than plans.

Earth in the air, smoke-sketched skies, thanks to street corn and coal-burnt clouds…

A bronze-coloured train chugged past like it knew where it was going — while I drifted towards where I wasn’t supposed to.

But maybe it’s in losing the path that I learnt to see its beauty —

for the roads I never meant to take… became the memories I’ll never forget.

There comes a time when presence no longer means being seen,
when meaning is no longer measured in applause.

You begin to notice the quiet workers of the world —
The ones who hold stories together without becoming the story.

The ones who stitch the torn parts silently,
The woman of your happy space, who organizes the home so seamlessly that no one notices the chaos that could have been.

We’ve grown up thinking visibility is power.

But maybe wisdom isn’t always loud.

Behind the curtain, things breathe differently.
It’s not lesser — it’s deeper.
It’s where things are still raw, still becoming, still real.
It’s where things are made whole before they’re shown to the world.

There’s a sacred kind of beauty in stepping back —
not to disappear,
but to exist without demand.
To create, to support, to glow quietly — without becoming spectacle.

And isn’t that the truest form of light?
The one that does not dazzle, but warms.
The one that doesn’t seek attention, but gives clarity.

So if you ever find yourself behind the scenes,
remember — you are not lost, not lesser, not late.

Veiled, not vanished — some lights just need a pause.

So here I am, surrounded by tens of people,  

And yet, somehow, I'm the one feeling tense.  

It’s funny, right? Crowds buzz around me, voices rising and swirling, intense,  

But my heart chooses the quiet, finds comfort behind a book, an immense escape.  

You know, I’ve always thought there’s something about shutting out the noise,  

Just focusing, free from the nonsense, my own mind, a lens sharply fixed.

Someone once asked, “What do you get out of this?”  From being so aloof, so away?”

I remember laughing—tasks ticked off one by one, my thoughts clear, no drama.  

Books that speak and never judge,
A mind clear, no whisper of gossip,
No room for petty talk,
And the sweetest perk of all:
In this bubble, no one knows me

Sometimes, being alone feels like a badge of honor—  

I mean, who else is their own best friend, their own favorite company?  

But here’s the catch: A space so dangerously safe can feel like a fence, can’t it?  

Peace builds walls so dense, even my own words get caught.

Put me in a group, and suddenly, it’s like suspense takes over, a knot in my throat.

Anxiety rises,
My tongue feels foreign,
Hanging out feels like a chore,
Not a joy. 

when the world knocks,  

I realize how far I’ve drifted from the unpredictable,  

How unwilling I’ve become to dance with the chaos of life.

“Am I just an introvert,” I muse,
“Praising this solitude as beauty?”
Have I fallen for the comforts,
A cocoon I’ve wrapped myself in,
Too warm, too snug, too hard to untangle,
Now too scared to wander free? 

Or am I strong in my solitude,
Confident enough to question,

“Am I wandering,
Or am I just stuck?”