Written by Prakshay Pedhadiya The mirror reflects a total stranger wearing your clothes. A curated mask for an audience watching the surface. We build up these rigid structures, this academic armor. Anything to keep the deep quiet from asking questions. Who are we when the screen goes completely dark? You trace paths of an unnamed, invisible ghost. Trapped inside the feedback loop of your consciousness. Every single thought becomes a brick in a wall. Built to hide the fragile

There is a silence that does not live in quiet— but in the spaces between words we almost said. It lingers in the throat, like a confession that grew roots instead of wings. We are archives of almosts— almost love, almost truth, almost becoming something unrecognizable to our past selves. And isn’t it strange— how memory edits itself like a careful liar? It smooths the sharp edges, dims the unbearable light, turns earthquakes into whispers we call “lessons.” But beneath it— o

Before the first word there was a silence so complete it remembered everything. Not the silence of empty rooms, but the silence inside a seed waiting beneath winter soil, holding forests no one has seen yet. We are born from that silence. We arrive crying— not because the world is cruel, but because the soul has suddenly become too large for the small body of a moment. And so we spend our lives trying to remember. We build cities of language, towers of certainty, maps of tomo