art
Art of an introspective nature; a look at artwork that reveals the artist's psyche and comments on the inner workings of a chaotic mind.
What I’ve Slowly Come To Learn About Happiness
A friend recently showed me his ‘happiness graph’. It depicts the evolution of his perceived sense of happiness over time. One of my first thoughts was pfff, white people — then I remembered that I, too, was white people.
By Paul Finglabout a month ago in Psyche
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell
Please forgive me for this one. It is only a few days before our semester begins at the college where I teach. I have been in touch with our new coordinator, looked over my notes from having had the same group last year, and deliberately avoided going into the building. Our first meeting gave us the option to be online, and I was hoping I could continue with this particular conceit for the rest of the course. And on top of this, I have been told that I might possibly - just maybe - have two whole courses at the college to teach!
By Kendall Defoe 2 months ago in Psyche
Silenced Voice
Think We Have Freedom of Expression?- Think Again I had worked all day on my writing and then on my art drawings to get the writing posted before the deadline and to have my art of the day shared with my followers across all social media platforms I participate in. I’ve been working tirelessly for months to grow a following and monetize my accounts. Diligently, I have met the daily challenges and requirements imposed by each platform, and today was no exception.
By Alexandra Grant3 months ago in Psyche
Blood and Ink. Top Story - July 2026.
Spiders are my favorite animals. I've always loved them for as long as I can remember, ever since I was a little kid. Charlotte's Web was one of my favorite books and cartoons. This also partially inspired my passion for animal rights, including a decade of vegetarianism.
By Cheryl Lynn3 months ago in Psyche
The Letter That Arrived Twenty Years Late
No one believes that a single letter can change a life. Daniel Harper didn't either. Until the morning it arrived. At thirty-eight, Daniel lived alone in a quiet apartment overlooking the Boston harbor. He worked as a history teacher, loved old bookstores, and spent most evenings reading novels while classical music played softly in the background. His students admired him. His colleagues respected him. But no one truly knew him. For twenty years, Daniel had carried one regret that never faded. The name of that regret was Emma Collins. They had met during their first year at university. Daniel was shy, thoughtful, and happiest with a book in his hands. Emma was fearless. She laughed loudly, talked to strangers, and believed every city had a story waiting to be discovered. Their friendship began in the university library. Daniel accidentally dropped a stack of books. Emma helped him pick them up. "You always carry this many?" she asked with a smile. "Only when I can't decide." She laughed. "I think we're going to be friends." She was right. Over the next four years, they became inseparable. They studied together. Explored museums. Walked through parks until midnight. Shared coffee every Friday after class. Daniel slowly fell in love. But he never said a word. He feared losing the friendship they had built. Graduation arrived faster than either expected. Emma received an opportunity to work in Paris for a famous publishing company. Daniel accepted a teaching position in Boston. The night before she left, they sat on the roof of their university dormitory beneath a sky full of stars. "I'll miss this," Emma whispered. "So will I." She looked at him for a long moment. "There are things we never say because we're afraid they'll change everything." Daniel felt his heart race. "What do you mean?" Emma smiled sadly. "Nothing." The next morning, she was gone. Life moved on. Or at least it pretended to. Daniel never married. Emma disappeared from his life completely. No phone calls. No emails. No messages. Only memories. Twenty years later, an old envelope appeared in Daniel's mailbox. The handwriting stopped him in his tracks. Emma Collins. His hands trembled as he opened it. Inside was a single handwritten letter. It read: «Dear Daniel,» «If you're reading this, then life has played one final trick on both of us.» «I wrote this letter twenty years ago.» «I asked my grandmother to mail it only if we somehow lost touch forever.» «I suppose she waited exactly as I asked.» «There's something I never had the courage to tell you.» «I loved you.» «Not for weeks.» «Not for months.» «For years.» «Every coffee.» «Every conversation.» «Every walk home.» «I hoped one day you would tell me you felt the same.» «But you never did.» «So I convinced myself I had imagined everything.» «Maybe we were simply two people who loved each other at the wrong time.» «If life is kind, perhaps we'll meet again.» «If not...» «Thank you for giving me the happiest years of my youth.» «Love always,» «Emma.» Daniel read the letter three times. Then four. Then ten. His vision blurred with tears. All those years... They had loved each other. Neither had spoken. The following morning, Daniel did something completely unlike himself. He requested unpaid leave from school. Booked the first flight to Paris. And carried the letter in his coat pocket. Paris had changed over twenty years. New cafés. New buildings. New faces. But Daniel had one clue. The publishing house where Emma had once worked. When he arrived, the receptionist searched the employee records. "Emma Collins?" she asked. "Yes." A smile appeared. "She retired last year." Daniel's heart sank. "But..." The receptionist continued. "She owns a little bookshop now." She wrote down an address. Daniel thanked her and hurried through the narrow streets. The bookstore was small. Its windows were filled with old novels. A wooden sign read: Lost Chapters. Daniel pushed open the door. A small bell rang. Behind the counter stood a woman arranging books. Her hair was touched with silver. Tiny laugh lines framed her eyes. But Daniel recognized her instantly. Emma looked up. For several seconds, neither moved. Finally she whispered, "Daniel?" He smiled. "I think your letter got delayed." Emma covered her mouth. "My grandmother..." "I know." Tears filled her eyes. "You read it?" "Yesterday." She laughed softly through her tears. "Only twenty years late." Daniel stepped closer. "I've been trying to answer it ever since." Emma looked at him. "What would your answer have been?" Daniel reached into his pocket. He unfolded the worn letter. "I loved you too." Silence. Then Emma began crying. Not from sadness. From relief. She walked around the counter and hugged him tightly. For a long time, neither spoke. Words were no longer necessary. Over the following weeks, Daniel extended his stay in Paris. Every day they rediscovered each other. Some things had changed. Their favorite music. Their careers. The color of their hair. But something essential remained untouched. The comfort they found in each other's company. One afternoon they revisited the university campus where they had first met. The library still stood. Daniel intentionally dropped three books. Emma laughed exactly as she had twenty years earlier. "You still can't decide?" He smiled. "Some habits survive time." Months later, Daniel made a decision that surprised everyone back home. He resigned from his teaching position. Moved permanently to Paris. Together, he and Emma expanded her bookstore into a literary café where visitors could read, write, and share stories. The walls became covered with handwritten letters from customers around the world. One section held anonymous love letters. Another displayed letters people wished they had sent. Daniel framed Emma's original letter. Not for everyone to read. Only for themselves. It remained behind the counter. A reminder that silence can sometimes steal decades. On the anniversary of their reunion, Daniel invited Emma to the rooftop of an old Parisian building overlooking the glowing Eiffel Tower. The city shimmered beneath them. Emma smiled. "You've become much braver." "I learned that time isn't as generous as we imagine." He took her hands. "For twenty years, I thought I had missed my chance." She squeezed his fingers. "And now?" "Now I know love doesn't disappear." "It waits." Daniel reached into his jacket. This time it wasn't a letter. It was a small velvet box. Emma laughed before he even opened it. "You really like surprises, don't you?" "Only the happy ones." He knelt. "Emma Collins..." His voice shook. "You once thanked me for giving you the happiest years of your youth." He smiled gently. "I'd like to spend the happiest years of our future together too." He opened the ring box. "Will you marry me?" Emma didn't answer immediately. Instead, she gently lifted him back to his feet. Then she kissed him. When she finally spoke, only two words escaped her lips. "Of course." Their wedding was small. Simple. Beautiful. Friends from university attended. Former students traveled across countries. Customers from the bookstore filled the front rows. Instead of traditional wedding vows, Daniel and Emma exchanged handwritten letters. Letters they promised never to leave unsent again. Years later, visitors often asked how they had met. Daniel would simply smile. "We were separated by silence..." Emma would finish the sentence. "...and reunited by a letter." Every evening, after closing the bookstore, they placed two cups of tea on a tiny table outside. They watched people hurry through the streets. Young couples. Old friends. Families. Dreamers. Sometimes someone would ask for relationship advice. Daniel always gave the same answer. "If your heart has something kind to say..." Emma smiled beside him. "...don't make it wait twenty years." As the sun disappeared behind the rooftops of Paris, Daniel reached for Emma's hand. She intertwined her fingers with his. The old letter rested safely inside the bookstore. Its paper had grown fragile with age. Its ink had begun to fade. But the love written between those lines had only grown stronger. Some stories begin with a first kiss. Some begin with a chance meeting. Theirs began with a letter that arrived twenty years late... ...exactly when two hearts were finally ready to read it.
By Ahmed aldeabella3 months ago in Psyche
The Scars
Understanding that invisible wounds need the same care as visible ones Hiding the HurtFor years, Zain carried a pain that no one could see. To the world, he looked strong, capable, and unshaken by life’s difficulties. He had built a good career, supported his family, and handled every challenge with a calm face. But beneath that steady exterior, he was still living with the effects of a difficult childhood and a series of painful events that had shaped his early years.
By The Curious Writer3 months ago in Psyche
How to Spot a Lie Without Making the Situation Worse
Have you ever walked away from a conversation thinking, Something about that didn't feel right? Maybe a friend gave an explanation that seemed a little too polished. Perhaps a coworker changed small details every time they retold a story. Or maybe someone close to you answered a simple question with an unusually complicated response.
By Shahid Zaman3 months ago in Psyche
With God as My Witness, I Learned to Trust My Body
I write this as a witness to a pattern that is often denied because it is uncomfortable to name. Many survivors of childhood and adult abuse describe a similar mechanism: their internal signals of danger are consistently invalidated by authority figures who use love, fear, and confusion in cycles.
By THE HONED CRONE4 months ago in Psyche
THE SECRET OF DREAM - ALEXIS KARPOUZOS
The Dream is not an object to be decoded, nor a message patiently awaiting the appropriate interpreter to reveal its content. The dream occurs prior to every distinction between subject and object, between reality and imagination, between meaning and absurdity. The interpretation of the dream can reach only a certain limit, and this limit is neither technical nor epistemological; it is ontological. What is at stake is not the inadequacy of a method, but the inability of any form of thought to fully grasp that which emerges from the unnameable depths of existence. The dream is the trace of a region where language has not yet solidified into concepts, where being has not yet crystallized into forms.
By alexis karpouzos4 months ago in Psyche
