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Social media. A digital Eden, once upon a time. A playground of pictures, a gallery of thoughts, a room of mirrors—until it began to crack. Now it hums with tension, drips comparison, spills noise. It was meant to bring us closer, but so often it pulls us apart, pixel by pixel, post by post.

Scroll long enough and you’ll feel it. The dread. The weight. The strange fatigue from seeing too much, knowing too little, pretending to care, reacting too quickly, posting too perfectly. And beneath it...

To the one reading this with silent ache,

To the one whose world paused while the rest kept moving,

To the one who wakes with weight and walks with whispers—

This is for you.

Grief is the invisible guest that doesn’t knock. It enters like fog, soft but suffocating. It wraps itself around your chest, winds into your throat, and sometimes makes it hard to breathe. It is not loud. It doesn’t always scream. Often, it sits quietly beside you, a still shadow with deep eyes. And even on the days you...

Give. That small word. That fragile verb. That sacred action. Give.

Give, not because you are rich, or wise, or even because someone asked. Give, because your hands were never meant to stay closed forever. Because clenched fists cannot hold light. Because what you give away doesn’t diminish you—it defines you.

The world, as we know it, is often a clenched thing. A tightened belt. A shut drawer. A locked door. But it doesn’t have to be. It shouldn’t be. And you, dear reader, are not meant to be...

There are days when the light simply refuses to come. When every breath feels borrowed, and the soul aches in places the body cannot reach. Days when your spirit is threadbare, when you carry your heart like a stone in your chest, and hope—hope, that elusive thing—feels like a story someone else gets to tell.

But even now, in this moment of heaviness, I need you to know this: you are still here, and that means something. That means everything. You are breathing. You are reading. You are...

There is a quiet kind of madness that has crept into modern living, disguised in the polished garments of ambition, perseverance, and “doing what it takes.” It parades through offices, hums in laptops, sleeps under fluorescent lights. It whispers that rest is weakness. That exhaustion is noble. That your worth is equal to your output. That if you’re not burning out, you’re not burning bright enough.

This madness has a name. Overworking.

We clap for it. We reward it. We dress it up as...

There’s a green-eyed serpent that slithers through the corridors of our hearts—quiet, subtle, and venomous. It doesn’t roar or stamp its feet. It doesn’t come with fangs bared or claws unsheathed. Instead, it arrives dressed in silk, whispering into our ears while we scroll through social media or sit in the shadows of someone else’s spotlight.

It begins with a glance, a sigh, a harmless wondering: Why them, not me? And from there, it grows. Like ivy on a stone wall, it climbs into your...