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Artistic, musical, creative, and entertaining topics in Journal's workplace sphere.
Chain Break. Content Warning.
She first noticed the prison walls after the accident on Highway 9. Three cars, two families, one child who would never see seven. The news anchor's voice was steady, professional, as if reporting the weather. But Sarah heard something else underneath—the sound of her faith cracking like ice in spring.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Journal
Self Assessment for Freelancers: A Complete Filing Guide
Freelancers often navigate a complex landscape of income streams, expenses, and tax obligations. The HMRC Self Assessment system is designed to ensure that all income is reported accurately and taxes are paid on time. Understanding the nuances of the process is essential for avoiding penalties and maintaining financial clarity.
By Self Assessment Tax Returnabout a year ago in Journal
Monetizing the Fall
There’s a specific kind of video you’ve seen a thousand times — a person crying into their phone camera, breaking down on a live stream, confessing secrets they swore they’d never share, or capturing the exact moment they get fired, dumped, or canceled. And while the moment is painful, maybe even real, it’s what happens after that reveals the game:
By Randolphe Tanoguemabout a year ago in Journal
The UK Passport Backup Plan
In an era defined by global volatility—from political shifts to economic uncertainties—the concept of a "backup plan" has evolved beyond savings accounts and insurance policies. For a growing number of British citizens, the ultimate form of security is a second passport. This isn't about rejecting British identity; it's about pragmatically enhancing personal and financial resilience. A UK passport backup plan is increasingly seen not as an exit strategy, but as an essential component of a modern, globalised life.
By KAMRAN AHMADabout a year ago in Journal
Rashida’s Stand
Rashida’s Stand When silence breaks, courage speaks louder than fear Rashida’s mother had started warning her when she was only twelve. But the real meaning of those warnings only struck her two years later—when Shafi, the shopkeeper, stopped looking at her face and began letting his gaze rest two hands lower. Their family had a monthly credit account at his store. Out of necessity, Rashida had to visit once or twice a day. But each time Shafi stared, her breath froze inside her chest. She felt a crawling sensation on her skin. Her back bent unconsciously, as though trying to shield itself. In the prison of his filthy eyes, her dupatta was reduced to nothing more than a fragile illusion. And it wasn’t just him. The vegetable seller, the milkman—every man seemed the same. When walking down the street, Rashida’s eyes automatically fell to the ground. She ignored every barking dog and every leering glance. If only her mother hadn’t been paralyzed, Rashida wouldn’t have been so helpless. Nature had been cruel in its generosity. Her youth had blossomed before childhood had even ended. A truth impossible to hide—so she learned to hide herself instead, stooping lower and lower, trying to disappear. Moving through the lanes, Rashida’s steps were always hesitant. Her arms would fold across her chest, pressing against her racing heart, afraid that the rhythm of her fear might be visible to others. The dupatta no longer rested on her head gracefully—it clung tightly around her body like armor. Shafi, though married with children, behaved like the spawn of some cursed breed. Rashida was the only child. Her father worked long hours, while her mother lay confined to her bed with illness. Rashida never dared tell her father about Shafi. Would he spend his strength on her mother’s medicines, or on quarrels with men like Shafi? Her mother’s tongue was sharp but powerless. Between the grindstones of life, Rashida’s youth was being crushed. Her beauty became her curse. Even when her father accompanied her to school, men’s eyes would not rise above her chest. The worst fear came when uncles or cousins visited—men who should have looked at her like family, but whose eyes betrayed something else. Inside her own home, her dupatta became a blanket, a shield against the unwanted hunger of familiar eyes. Even her father, unknowingly, avoided looking at her too long. But Shafi—older than her father—was never deterred. One Sunday, Rashida was washing clothes when the detergent suddenly ran short. Her mother, restless and demanding, insisted: “Go get more surf. Finish the laundry today. Tomorrow you have school.” Three times Rashida peeked out into the street before stepping out. The policeman’s sons were hanging around the corner, laughing at something on a mobile phone. They had brushed against her deliberately before, “accidentally” colliding, trying to touch her. Her mother’s constant nagging left her no choice. She wrapped only her dupatta instead of a full shawl and stepped outside. As soon as the boys noticed her, she knew—they had already invented their filthy jokes. Rashida quickened her pace, heart hammering as their whispers reached her ears. By the time she reached Shafi’s shop, she was breathless. Her rising chest caught his attention instantly. His own breath faltered. “Three packs of surf,” Rashida blurted out in one breath. The small sachets dangled above the counter like streamers. “Take them yourself,” Shafi said carelessly. Rashida raised both hands to reach for them—when suddenly a scream tore from her throat. Shafi had grabbed her viciously, like tearing flesh from bone. Her right hand rose on instinct and landed across his face with the full force of her youth. Shafi, a man grown old, collapsed against the side counter and fell sprawling into the street. For a moment Rashida froze at her own audacity. But then, four years of silent torment burst awake inside her. She stormed out, kicked the man twice, thrice, as he struggled on the ground. Two passersby stopped, puzzled but unmoved. The sound of the counter crashing brought the three loafers running—but even they didn’t dare step closer. Rashida’s eyes burned into them, and their smirks melted into fear. Shafi twitched beneath her feet. Without screaming, without crying, she pressed her foot against his face and stood tall. Her bent back had straightened. Her dupatta had slipped away. But no one dared stare at her body now—their eyes were fixed only on the defeated shopkeeper beneath her heel. The vegetable seller came rushing, pleading: “Rashida, my daughter, let him go!” The word daughter made her glare at him too, but she stayed silent. Shafi’s wife and the policeman’s wife emerged from nearby houses. The latter swung her slipper and smacked Shafi across the mouth. “Rashida, go home,” she ordered firmly. Rashida turned with calm confidence and walked away. By then, women had started gathering around the scene. In her left hand, she absentmindedly carried ten or twelve sachets of detergent. Her mother called from inside: “Did you bring the surf?” “Yes, Mother. I brought it,” Rashida replied, switching on the washing machine. Her mother muttered: “Stains, good or bad, must always be washed by women.” But Rashida knew one thing now. This society did not need silence. It needed courage like hers—courage to stand, to fight, to say no. Or else… Or else, every woman would be left with only her dupatta, her fears, and the endless burden of washing away stains she never caused. --- ✍ Writer: Habib Ullah
By Habib Ullah about a year ago in Journal
The Quiet Revolution in a Noisy World
M Mehran Everywhere we look today, noise surrounds us. Phones buzz with notifications, news cycles scream for attention, and social media pushes us to share, like, and perform. In a world where silence is rare, one simple practice quietly resists the chaos: journaling. A journal doesn’t demand followers, doesn’t beg for likes, and doesn’t shout back. It waits—patiently—for us to show up. And when we do, it changes everything. --- More Than Pen and Paper I used to think journaling was nothing more than teenage scribbles—hearts drawn around crushes’ names, secret notes about high school drama. But one day, a friend handed me a small notebook on my birthday and said, “Use this when the world feels too heavy.” At first, I laughed. What could a blank book possibly do against the weight of real problems? But one night, when my thoughts refused to quiet down, I opened the notebook and started writing. The strange thing was, I didn’t plan what to say. Words spilled out as if they had been waiting for me to give them a home. By the time I closed the notebook, my chest felt lighter. That was the night I realized: journaling is more than pen and paper. It’s medicine. --- The Practice of Presence Most of us move through our days on autopilot—scrolling, working, rushing, worrying. Journaling interrupts that cycle. The moment you sit down with a notebook, you are forced to slow down. You are present. There’s no algorithm deciding what you should think about, no advertisements competing for attention. Just you and the page. In fact, psychologists often describe journaling as a mindfulness practice. Writing grounds you in the current moment. When you record how you feel, you stop running from emotions and start facing them. That simple act of presence is powerful in a culture built on distraction. --- Journals as Honest Spaces The world trains us to curate. We post only the best photos, share only the happiest updates, hide our struggles behind a polished version of ourselves. But journals? They invite honesty. You don’t need to pretend in your journal. You can be angry, insecure, ambitious, heartbroken, or hopeful. You can confess dreams you’re afraid to say aloud or fears that sound irrational. The page does not judge. I think that’s why so many people describe journaling as “a conversation with yourself.” It’s a dialogue where you can finally stop editing who you are. And once you stop editing, you start healing. --- The Science of Writing It Out There’s more to journaling than intuition—science backs it up. Studies show that expressive writing can: Reduce stress by helping the brain process emotions. Improve problem-solving by clarifying thoughts. Strengthen memory and learning. Even boost the immune system by lowering stress hormones. But beyond the research, most journalers will tell you this: it just feels good. When your mind feels like a crowded room, writing turns the volume down. --- Creativity Without Pressure One of the most underrated gifts of journaling is how it sparks creativity. A blank page invites play. Some days you may write lists. Other days you may doodle, paste photos, or jot down random words. There are no rules, no deadlines, no audience. Ironically, some of the world’s most famous writers, artists, and inventors used journals not because they were creating masterpieces—but because they were playing. Leonardo da Vinci’s journals were filled with sketches, half-baked ideas, and observations. Those “messy” pages became the birthplace of genius. When we free ourselves from the pressure to be perfect, we make space for creativity to bloom. That’s what a journal offers: permission to be imperfect. --- A Bridge to Tomorrow If you’ve ever stumbled upon old notebooks, you know the strange magic of meeting your past self. You laugh at old worries, smile at forgotten victories, and sometimes cry at memories that still sting. Journals don’t just record who we are in the moment; they become bridges between past, present, and future. They remind us how far we’ve come, and they quietly encourage us to keep going. I once reread an entry from five years ago where I wrote, “I’ll never be brave enough to move to a new city.” Ironically, I read that entry while unpacking boxes in my new apartment—proof that our journals often see us grow before we even notice it ourselves. --- The Legacy We Leave Behind Here’s a thought: what happens to our journals after we’re gone? Many will stay private forever, tucked away in drawers or boxes. But sometimes, journals become legacies. They give voice to people long after they’ve passed. Anne Frank’s diary continues to teach the world about resilience, empathy, and hope. Countless other journals have become historical treasures, revealing what textbooks often leave out: the human heart behind events. Even if no one else reads them, journals leave a legacy for our future selves. They whisper, “This is who you were. Look how far you’ve come.” --- Starting Is Simple If you’ve never journaled, here’s the secret: you don’t need a fancy notebook or poetic words. Start messy. Write down one thought, one feeling, or even just one word. Write without worrying about grammar, spelling, or structure. Tear out the page if you don’t like it. Journaling isn’t about creating something beautiful—it’s about creating something true. And once you begin, don’t be surprised if you find yourself reaching for your notebook again. Because the more you give your thoughts a place to land, the more you’ll want to return. --- The Quiet Revolution In a noisy world, journaling is a quiet revolution. It is rebellion against distraction, a stand for honesty, a practice of presence. It asks for nothing but your time, and in return, it gives you clarity, healing, creativity, and memory. One day, the digital world will move on to the next trend. Apps will vanish. Platforms will disappear. But journals—those humble pages filled with ink—will remain. Because unlike noise, truth never goes out of style.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Journal
Gate to Nowhere
Nona had always hated airports after midnight. The way the harsh lighting made everything look bleached and artificial, the way her footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty corridors, the way time seemed to stretch and distort until she couldn't tell if she'd been waiting for twenty minutes or two hours.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Journal
