interview

Interviews with lovers, fighters and the various professionals who deal with our dysfunction.

White Lies. Top Story - May 2025.
Last night, one of my girlfriends had asked me about how I view lies. I don't agree with lying, but I have lied before... so, I am not perfect. But, I try to avoid lies.
By Adora Hooperabout a year ago in Humans
How AI and Social Media Are Quietly Taking Over Our Lives
Let’s be honest. How many times have you opened your phone just to check the time… and suddenly it's two hours later? You’ve watched 37 random videos, laughed at three memes, and now you feel strangely sad—or worse—completely empty.
By Wonder Wavesabout a year ago in Humans
My Father Was a Homeless Man—Until I Found Out the Truth…
I used to tell people my father was dead. It was easier than telling the truth: I didn’t know who he was. Growing up, my mother avoided the topic. Anytime I asked about my dad, she'd change the subject or say something like, "He’s not worth talking about."
By Aliabout a year ago in Humans
All the Ways I've Come Back to Myself
I used to think self-love was loud. Bold affirmations. Big decisions. A spotless track record. But now, I understand it’s often quieter— a whisper of grace in the middle of the mess. A deep breath in the chaos. A pause before the spiral. What follows are ten quiet truths I’ve learned to love about who I am becoming.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Humans
The Haircut, the Heart, and Holding On
I never thought a haircut would make me cry. Not in the dramatic, just-got-dumped kind of way. Not even because it was botched. But because of who it was for, and what it meant. My brother, Sami, was sitting in the faded leather chair at the back of Malik’s Barbershop. It was a small place—wood-paneled walls, a dusty fan circling overhead, and a scent that was part shaving cream, part nostalgia. The kind of place where boys became men, and men came to find a sliver of peace. Sami had always been particular about his hair. He liked a low fade with a clean part, the kind that made him look sharp, like the hero of some old Bollywood movie. But today, he didn’t care. Because today, he didn’t recognize his reflection. It’s been nearly six months since our lives changed. One misdiagnosis. One delayed scan. One rare autoimmune disorder that began robbing Sami of his speech, coordination, and slowly, the light in his eyes. I’ve become his caregiver. It’s a word people don’t say enough. They say “blessing,” “burden,” “duty,” “love”—but not caregiver. As if acknowledging the labor of it somehow diminishes the love. But let me tell you the truth: Love is heavy. It’s carrying a grown man to the bathroom at 2 a.m. because he can’t walk on his own. It’s spoon-feeding oatmeal while pretending it's the same old breakfast he used to rush through before school. It’s crying in the laundry room because you miss being a sister instead of a nurse. And yet—it’s everything I’d ever do again, without a second thought. I remember our childhood vividly. Sami was always the brave one. He used to jump off rooftops into muddy puddles, convinced he was invincible. I was the careful one, always patching him up afterward. Maybe this was always going to be our fate—me putting him back together, piece by piece. Back at the barbershop, Malik clippers buzzed softly. Sami tilted his head slightly, eyes closed. A tiny twitch of discomfort crossed his face, and I instinctively stepped forward. Old habits. Malik looked at me and smiled softly. “I’ve got him,” he whispered. I nodded and stepped back. Watching the tufts of hair fall was like watching pieces of him scatter. I felt my chest tighten. This was the first time in weeks he agreed to leave the house. The first time he let a stranger touch him without flinching. Maybe this was healing. Or maybe it was surrender. I didn’t know. Outside, the sun was beginning to set—casting golden light through the windows, turning the dust in the air into tiny, dancing stars. And as if drawn by fate, a line from an old poem came to mind: > She is a sun, glowing through the grit, A keeper of warmth in a world unlit. Except this time, it wasn’t she. It was he. It was my brother, glowing quietly in the ruins of what had been. A different kind of strength. One that didn’t roar but whispered. One that held on. After the haircut, I helped him into his coat. His hand trembled as he tried to button it. I reached out, and he looked at me with those storm-colored eyes—full of gratitude, full of loss. We didn’t say much. Words had never been necessary between us. On the way home, he fell asleep in the passenger seat. I took the long route through town, letting the radio play old songs we used to sing loudly to, just to fill the silence. As I drove, I thought about all the ways people misunderstand caregiving. They think it’s about being strong. Being patient. Being angelic. But caregiving isn’t sainthood. It’s sacrifice. It’s giving up your plans, your weekends, your sleep, your career, sometimes even your sense of identity. It’s mourning someone while they’re still alive, and still showing up every day to hold their hand. And yet—it’s holy work. In the quiet moments, in the stolen smiles, in the eye contact that says “I’m still here”—you find pieces of yourself you never knew existed. Compassion that surprises you. Rage that humbles you. And love that doesn’t need conditions. Back home, I tucked Sami into bed. He looked peaceful. Before I left the room, he squeezed my hand. It was weak, but it was his way of saying thank you. Or maybe, just I love you. I sat outside on the porch afterward, staring at the moon. My thoughts spiraled. I thought about burnout. About how I once yelled at a nurse on the phone out of sheer exhaustion. About how I miss just being his sister. About how lonely it is to watch the world move on while you’re stuck in a loop of routines, medications, and memory loss. And yet, I also thought about that haircut. That small act of reclaiming normal. That quiet resistance. Sami isn’t who he used to be. And maybe neither am I. But maybe we are both still becoming. In the distance, I heard laughter from a neighbor’s yard. Life, buzzing as always. Untouched. Unaware. But here, in our small world, a battle is being fought—not with swords, but with spoons, clippers, and bedtime stories. And every little victory matters. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all again. And maybe, just maybe, one day Sami will smile and say, “It was a good haircut.” --- Author’s Note: To all caregivers out there—you are seen. You are heard. You are not alone.
By Ikram Ullahabout a year ago in Humans
Ten Awesome Things About Yours Truly
This interesting challenge comes from Rick Henry Christopher! For this challenge, we have to write about ten things we appreciate about ourselves. Here goes everything!
By Jason Mortonabout a year ago in Humans
Scientists Find Molecule That Blocks Brain Cell Death in Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s
Australian scientists have made a groundbreaking discovery in neurodegenerative disease research. By identifying a small molecule that blocks cell death, researchers from the Walter and Eliza Hall Institute may have found a potential treatment path for Parkinson's and Alzheimer's. The molecule targets the BAX protein, which damages mitochondria and causes neuron death. This research opens new possibilities for developing drugs that could slow or stop the progression of these challenging neurological conditions
By SANJIB DEYabout a year ago in Humans
Life: A Journey of Meaning and Growth
Life: A Journey of Meaning and Growth Life is a remarkable journey, a tapestry woven with moments of joy, challenges, growth, and discovery. It is not a destination but a continuous process of evolving, learning, and finding meaning. While each person’s path is unique, there are universal principles that can guide us to live a fulfilling life.
By Syed Abdullahabout a year ago in Humans
The Art of Happiness
In a quiet village nestled at the edge of the mountains, there lived an old man named Rahim. He was a painter, but not one whose name echoed in galleries or whose works fetched high prices. His art was simple—landscapes of the valley, portraits of villagers, scenes from the marketplace. What made Rahim known far and wide wasn’t the value of his paintings, but the serenity in his eyes and the warmth in his smile. People said he was the happiest man they had ever met. He lived alone In a small mud-brick cottage, surrounded by a garden of wildflowers. His clothes were worn, his meals were modest, yet he never seemed to want for more. Strangers often visited just to talk to him, to ask the question they all wondered: What’s your secret, Rahim? But Rahim would only smile and say, “Happiness isn’t a secret. It’s an art.” One summer, a young man from the city arrived. His name was Ali. Tall, well-dressed, and clearly used to a life of comfort, Ali looked out of place among the simple houses and slow pace of the village. His eyes were tired, and his shoulders carried invisible weight. He found Rahim painting beneath a tree near the village spring. “You’re Rahim, aren’t you?” he asked, slightly out of breath. Rahim looked up and nodded. “I’ve heard about you. They say you’re the happiest man in the region.” Rahim chuckled lightly. “I don’t know about that. But I try not to be unhappy.” Ali sat beside him. “I came from the city looking for peace. My life feels… hollow. I have a good job, money, friends, even followers online. But none of it makes me feel alive. Someone told me you could teach me something I’ve been missing—something about the art of happiness.” Rahim dipped his brush in paint and replied, “Then stay a few days. Not to learn, but to observe. Watch the world without rushing. Speak kindly. Walk slowly. And perhaps—paint.” Ali stayed. The first day, he followed Rahim to the village well. Rahim greeted every person he met by name, often asking about their children, their crops, their health. His presence was calm, and he never seemed in a hurry. Later, Rahim invited Ali to his home. It was small, neat, and filled with art—dozens of canvases stacked against the walls, each telling stories of ordinary moments. “Why paint such simple things?” Ali asked. “Don’t you want to paint something grand? Important?” Rahim smiled. “The simple things are what matter most. A mother’s smile. A child’s laughter. A quiet morning. Happiness lives there.” The next day, they visited the fields. Rahim walked barefoot in the grass, helping an old woman pick herbs. Ali stood aside, unsure of what to do. He had never picked anything in his life except his phone. Rahim handed him a small basket. “Try it. Feel the leaves. Smell the earth. This is life, Ali. And life, if touched gently, gives back joy.” Ali was puzzled, but he tried. As the hours passed, something in him shifted. The sun on his face, the roughness of the leaves, the laughter of the villagers—all felt real in a way nothing had in the city. By the third day, Rahim handed Ali a paintbrush. “I’ve never painted,” Ali protested. “That’s fine,” Rahim said. “It’s not about skill. It’s about seeing.” Ali dipped the brush and began. His lines were crooked, his colors uneven, but he didn’t stop. For the first time in years, his mind was quiet. Each evening, they sat by the fire. Rahim would tell stories—some humorous, some thoughtful. He spoke of loss without bitterness, of mistakes without shame. To Ali, this was strange. Back in the city, people hid their flaws behind filters and silence. “How are you so at peace?” Ali asked one night. Rahim looked at the stars. “Because I don’t fight life. I accept what comes, and I let go of what goes. Happiness isn’t about having the most. It’s about needing less, giving more, and being present.” Ali listened, truly listened. A week turned into ten days. Then two weeks. Ali no longer reached for his phone every hour. He no longer needed noise to feel alive. He helped villagers fix broken fences, watched the clouds drift across the sky, and painted scenes that, though imperfect, felt full of life. One morning, Ali said, “I think I understand now. Happiness is not a destination—it’s a way of being. A way of seeing.” Rahim nodded. “Yes. It’s an art. You don’t master it in a day. You practice it in small strokes, every moment, every choice.” Ali returned to the city, but he wasn’t the same. He left behind his high-paying job and opened a small art studio. Not to become rich, but to teach others what Rahim had taught him—not just how to paint, but how to slow down, how to appreciate, how to feel. And every morning, before the studio opened, Ali would sit quietly with a cup of tea, watching the sunrise, and whisper to himself: “This, too, is the art of happiness.”
By Sajid about a year ago in Humans
7 Shocking Truths About Where Your Kinks Come From
Let’s just start with the truth: you didn’t wake up one day and choose your kinks. They didn’t just show up randomly either. The things you’re into? They’re signals. Clues. Messages from parts of your brain you don’t even know are working behind the scenes. And if you’ve ever wondered, “Wait… why does this turn me on and not that?”yeah, you’re not alone.
By Phong OG about a year ago in Humans
The Love Renaissance: What Gen Z's Relationships Reveal About Modern Connection
Are Gen Zers sabotaging the true essence of romance or redefining it? Or they simply might be building something more intentional, resilient, and emotionally intelligent than any generation before. Once upon a time, romance came with rules. Handwritten letters, carefully curated phone calls, and silent nods of the elderly were the foundational stance of old-school love. But now, emojis, dating apps, and Instagram reels document love stories.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Humans
Why Are Your Competitors Hiring Better Tech Leaders Faster?
Running your Technology-driven business? You might be busy making great products. But what if I tell you there is one more important thing to focus on? Besides making products, you should also curate teams capable of driving innovation at scale.
By Prakhar Consulting Groupabout a year ago in Humans