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.
The Truth About Shadow
When I was really small and the world was really big and scary, I had an imaginary friend who I had become very reliant on. His name was Shadow and it was kind of a play on Peter Pan's Shadow, and how Peter always had to sew his Shadow back onto the soles of his feet. As a child, surrounded by other children who also loved Peter Pan, the pre-woke generation that didn't see the Racism depicted in it, I felt safe enough to bring my Shadow everywhere.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Psyche
The Unshakeable First Impression: Why That First Moment Matters So Much
Title: The Unshakeable First Impression: Why That First Moment Matters So Much You’ve probably heard it a hundred times: "The first impression is the last impression." It sounds like a dramatic, old-school piece of advice from a strict grandparent. But is it really true? Can a single moment at the very beginning really define everything that comes after?
By LegacyWordsabout a year ago in Psyche
Showing Up
Human beings are social creatures, and much of our identity is built on how others perceive us. Most of us want to be respected, admired, and included. Yet for some people, this need turns into a compulsion. They develop the habit of “showing up”— inserting themselves into situations not to contribute meaningfully, but to be noticed, admired, or seen as superior. To observers, this behavior often comes across as arrogant or ignorant. But psychology shows that behind such attention-seeking displays lie complex motivations, insecurities, and social dynamics.
By Life Hopesabout a year ago in Psyche
What lives in the Spaces
Sylvie understood she was in her childhood kitchen without seeing a single tile or cabinet. The knowledge sat heavy in her chest—the weight of recognition without image. She could feel the warmth radiating from where the afternoon sun should be hitting the breakfast table, though no golden light painted her dream-vision. Then, like a camera suddenly focusing, fragments began to appear—a flash of yellow curtains swaying in peripheral vision, the gleam of chrome on the old refrigerator handle catching light that shouldn't exist.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Psyche
The Echo of Silence
The Echo of Silence Evelyn sat in the dimly lit room, her hands resting on the oak desk where old letters lay scattered. The silence of the house pressed against her like a suffocating blanket. She had always feared silence, not because it was empty, but because it was never truly empty. For Evelyn, silence had a voice. It began years ago, after her father’s sudden death. She remembered standing at the funeral, surrounded by distant relatives, when she first heard it—a faint whisper threading through the quiet. At first, she dismissed it as grief or imagination. But as the months passed, the whisper grew clearer, more distinct, until it seemed to form words. “You left me,” it murmured. Tonight, the whisper had returned, sharper than ever. The room seemed to vibrate with its presence. Evelyn pressed her palms to her ears, but the sound came from inside her mind, not outside. She tried to distract herself, reaching for one of the letters on the desk. It was written in her father’s handwriting, a short note reminding her to buy milk. Ordinary, harmless. Yet her heart raced as though she were holding a relic of guilt. “You ignored me,” the voice hissed. Her chest tightened. She had ignored him. She remembered the last week of his life, when he had called her several times, asking if she could visit. She had been busy with work, deadlines, and meaningless meetings. “Next week, Dad,” she had promised. But there had been no next week. Evelyn rose and paced the room, her shadow dancing across the faded wallpaper. It’s not real, she told herself. Just my mind playing tricks. But the voice grew louder. “If you had come… I would not have been alone.” Tears blurred her vision. “Stop it!” she screamed, but the walls only echoed her words. Then came the sound of footsteps. Slow, deliberate, dragging across the wooden floor behind her. She froze, every nerve in her body trembling. She turned, but the hallway was empty. Yet she felt it—an unseen presence, watching, waiting. Her rational mind whispered explanations: stress, insomnia, trauma. But her body felt the weight of something more, something beyond psychology. She staggered back to the desk, clutching the letters like a shield. “You can’t hide,” the voice whispered again. Her hands shook as she scribbled on a blank sheet of paper: I’m sorry, Dad. I should have been there. The moment the words were written, the air seemed to shift. The room grew colder, and the silence became heavier. Suddenly, she felt a hand—cold, fragile—rest on her shoulder. She gasped and spun around. No one. Only the empty chair in the corner where her father used to sit. Evelyn collapsed into the desk chair, sobbing. She did not know whether she was haunted by a ghost or by her own conscience. Perhaps both. The boundary between reality and mind had blurred long ago. Hours passed. The letters remained scattered, her apology lying among them like a confession. The whispers grew softer, fading into the walls until they became indistinguishable from silence. For the first time in years, the silence felt almost bearable. But Evelyn knew it would return. Guilt never dies; it only sleeps, waiting to be awakened by a memory, a sound, a moment of stillness. She sat there in the half-light, her mind caught in a cycle with no escape. And in that fragile silence, she finally understood: sometimes the loudest voices are the ones we carry inside.
By Article Master about a year ago in Psyche
I Was the Strong One Until It Broke Me
For as long as I can remember, people have seen me as “the strong one.” The dependable friend. The sibling who always listens. The co-worker who steps up when things fall apart. I carried that title like a badge of honor, proud that others trusted me, proud that I could be the one who held everyone together.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Psyche
The Best in Us
Few experiences in life genuinely move me. I use the term “move” in the deep emotional or spiritual sense where one is overcome by emotion. Most of life is day to day with ups and downs, highs and lows, but few of those highs or lows hit with a wave of emotion. The circus does this to me consistently.
By Hayden Searcyabout a year ago in Psyche
Returning to My Multitudes
When I was a child, I lived in a universe inside my own head. It wasn’t daydreaming, not really. It was inhabiting. I could slip into stories, into fantasies, into whole constructed lives with ease. One day I was a magical princess, the next a singer, the next the President of the United States. I didn’t just imagine them - I was living them. Entire days would pass with me moving through these roles, narrating scenes, improvising dialogue, and watching the internal movie unfold.
By Danielle Katsourosabout a year ago in Psyche
The Last Broadcast
The Last Broadcast When the world ends, who keeps the music playing? The world ended quietly. Not with bombs or firestorms, not with cities collapsing into dust. It ended in stillness. A sickness swept through, a silence followed, and one by one, the voices that had filled the planet vanished.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Psyche
The Stranger Who Writes My Dreams
The Stranger Who Writes My Dreams When your own journal stops belonging to you, how do you know what’s real anymore? I have kept journals since I was twelve. They were my safe place, my record of small victories and humiliations, my own quiet history. No one ever touched them. No one was supposed to.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Psyche
Secrets of Candle Pattern
The History and Significance of Candlestick Patterns . Understanding Candlestick Patterns Origins Candlestick patterns originated in Japan in the 18th century, where they were used by rice traders to analyze market prices and make informed trading decisions.
By Tariq Pathan about a year ago in Psyche
An Old Soul. Top Story - August 2025.
I've been told I'm an old soul. "In fact, this line, do you see this line right here? In the place where this little fat pad curves in and cuts off a little?" the psychic had a strange not-southern-drawl to her speech. She chewed gum through a bright white smile.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Psyche
