Love
What is the Best Quote for Valentine's Day?
Valentine’s Day is the perfect occasion to express love, admiration, and appreciation for the special people in our lives. One of the most meaningful ways to convey deep emotions is through a well-chosen quote. Whether you are writing a card, sending a heartfelt message, or posting on social media, the right words can make all the difference. But what is the best quote for Valentine's Day?
By Shashi shekhar2 years ago in Fiction
I Lived Like a Monk for 30 Days—Here’s What Silence Taught Me
I Lived Like a Monk for 30 Days—Here’s What Silence Taught Me "No Phone, No Small Talk, No Distractions: How Ancient Rituals Exposed the Modern Chaos in My Mind" I didn’t scream until Day 3. That’s when I realized silence isn’t peaceful—it’s loud. The kind of loud that makes your heartbeat sound like a timpani and your thoughts ricochet like a bullet in a tin shed. The rules were simple: 1. No speaking (except emergencies). 2. No screens (bye, TikTok doomscrolls). 3. No music (not even shower humming). 4. Monastic routine: Meditate at 5 AM, write, walk, read, repeat. I lasted 72 hours before primal-screaming into a couch cushion. Day 1: The Browser Tabs in My Brain Modern life had turned my mind into a Chrome window with 47 tabs open. Silence yanked the plug. At sunrise, I sat cross-legged on my balcony, mimicking the Zen monks I’d romanticized in documentaries. Birds chirped. Cars honked. My inner monologue erupted: Did I pay the electric bill? Why does my knee crack like that? What if I die alone? By noon, I’d counted 1,284 cracks in the ceiling plaster. Day 7: The Ghosts in My Head Without podcasts to drown them out, my ghosts showed up uninvited: - Regret: That harsh email I sent in 2018. - Fear: You’ll never finish your novel.”My 7th-grade choir teacher: “Mouth the words, dear.” I journaled until my hand cramped. Turns out, silence isn’t empty—it’s a haunted house. Day 15: The Liberation of Missing Out I missed my niece’s birthday party. Instead, I walked 8 miles to a creek, where I sat for hours watching water striders skate across the surface. Their entire existence was: *eat, float, repeat*. No LinkedIn profiles. No existential dread. That night, I dreamt I was a ladybug. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. Day 22: The Epiphany in a Loaf of Bread Monks bake. So I baked. My first sourdough resembled a fossilized football. The second looked (and tasted) like cardboard. The third? Edible. Barely. Kneading dough became my prayer. Flour became holy water. When the loaf finally rose, I cried. Not because it was perfect—because it wasn’t. Day 30: The Noise I Chose to Keep On the final morning, I turned my phone back on. 327 notifications blinked up at me: memes, spam, a breakup text from someone I’d ghosted. I deleted 312 unread messages. Then, I walked to the park and ate an apple—slowly—listening to the crunch echo in my skull. A toddler nearby giggled at a pigeon. I laughed too. Loudly. Unironically. What Silence Stole—and Gave Back 1. Stole: My addiction to urgency. 2. Gave: Permission to be bored. 3. Stole: The lie that multitasking = productivity. 4. Gave: The ability to hear my own intuition. I didn’t become enlightened. I still doomscroll sometimes. But now, when the world feels like a collapsing star, I bake bread. Or watch bugs. Or scream into a cushion. Monks call it contemplation. I call it survival.
By Rehan Mozzam2 years ago in Fiction
The Drip. Top Story - February 2025.
The Drip D. A. Ratliff As the new experimental medicine flowed into me, I wondered if it would be enough or too much. My doctors were optimistic, but I had gotten to know them better than I ever wanted to and learned they were kind, compassionate, and prone to optimism. I suppose they had to be positive in the face of failure, or they couldn’t go on, and their patients wouldn’t either. So, I lay here in this stark room, the love of my life sitting next to me, dressed in sterile clothing, because if I got an infection, I would surely die. So, I lie here, listening to the drip, drip, drip of chemicals flowing into my body. Those drips became a metronome, and music flowed through my soul.
By D. A. Ratliff2 years ago in Fiction
Shadows of the Heart
Chapter 1: The Invitation It began with an unassuming letter. Elena found it tucked under her apartment door, written in elegant, almost archaic handwriting. It was an invitation to Blackthorn Manor, a sprawling estate perched on the cliffs overlooking the sea. The letter bore no signature but mentioned a gathering to commemorate the anniversary of an old friend, someone Elena couldn't recall.
By Gaurav Gupta2 years ago in Fiction
