sammy_rambles

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Silence

When I speak of silence, the first thing I ask myself is — what do I really mean by it? At first glance, it feels like a simple question. But the more I sit with it, the more layered it becomes. Most people think of silence as the absence of sound. In conversations, it’s the absence of speech. Between two people, silence is often defined by what isn’t said. But to me, silence isn’t just about what isn’t heard — it’s also about what isn’t received, what isn’t registered. So I began to wonder — is silence just the absence of external sound, or is it something else entirely? If I sit in a room by myself, one might say I’m surrounded by silence. But am I? The fire hums faintly in the corner. The clock ticks by steadily. A vehicle passes somewhere outside. Even in solitude, sound exists. So is it silence just because no one is speaking? Then I thought: suppose I’m in a vacuum. There, no air means no sound can travel. It should be perfectly silent. But even in a vacuum, I would still be...

Writing

Why do people still write? It’s not a question I ask lightly. In a world that seems to be drowning in words, spilling from screens and books and voices, why does anyone feel the need to add more? What is it they’re hoping for? What do they expect to find? Maybe it’s the need to be seen, to be heard in a way that feels permanent. Maybe it’s the hope that, in the labyrinth of human experience, someone will stumble upon their words and feel less alone. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe people write because they’re trying to understand themselves, to make sense of the chaos that churns inside them. I used to believe writing was an act of brilliance, reserved for those with something extraordinary to say. But now I wonder if it’s something much smaller and humbler than that. Writing, I think, isn’t about saying something new; it’s about making sense of the old, of the familiar. It’s about taking what we already know—love, loss, joy, regret—and holding it up...

Happiness, what art thou?

Happiness is not a state that one stumbles upon by accident, nor is it something granted only to the fortunate. It is a condition that can be cultivated, a garden that must be carefully tended. I would argue that happiness is not a mystical abstraction but a practical goal, attainable by aligning one's life with certain principles. First, I suggest that happiness is rooted in a life lived outwardly rather than inwardly. Those who are perpetually preoccupied with their own emotions, desires, and fears are trapped in a kind of prison. They magnify their own troubles and cut themselves off from the richness of the world around them. The truly happy person, by contrast, is one who looks outward—to the beauty of nature, the excitement of ideas, the joy of relationships, and the challenge of meaningful work. Happiness, in my view, comes from engaging with the world rather than withdrawing from it. The modern individual is plagued by unnecessary misery, much of it self-inflicted. Envy,...

The little fairy

There are moments when reading becomes more than just the act of consuming words. It becomes an awakening. As I turn the pages of a book or linger on the lines of a poem, I feel something stir deep within me—a soft, almost imperceptible flutter. It is as though a tiny, old fairy, long asleep, rises from her slumber. She is a being made of quiet magic and ancient sorrow, her presence both delicate and profound. This fairy, who lives somewhere in the chambers of my soul, awakens with the sheer force of the beauty I encounter, brought to life by the words that weave themselves into my mind. I imagine her vividly—small, ethereal, a weaver of tales and dreams. Her hands, graceful and wise, spin invisible threads of language on a spindle crafted from moonlight and memory. She gathers the finest yarn from forgotten corners of the universe—threads of joy, threads of loss, threads of longing—and works with quiet devotion. With every twist of her spindle, she breathes life into words that become...

A Child with a balloon

Yesterday, at a wedding celebration filled with music, laughter, and joyous chatter, a small but poignant incident unfolded, offering a glimpse into the dynamics of parenting and its influence on a child's emotional development. Among the crowd, a young boy played with a balloon, his face radiant with the carefree joy that only children seem to possess. Unaware of the world around him, he ran and jumped, letting his imagination soar as high as his balloon. Then, as often happens in the unpredictability of childhood, he tripped and fell. The sound of his fall briefly interrupted the festive atmosphere, drawing the attention of a few onlookers, including his mother. Her reaction was immediate and striking. Instead of rushing to console her child, she seemed overcome by frustration. Her voice, sharp with anger, reprimanded him for his carelessness. The boy, still on the ground, looked up at her with tears welling in his eyes. His small world, so joyful only moments ago, was n...

Winter dreams

I long to sleep beneath the sun, slow, languid, and at peace with the world. The warm, golden rays would fall gently upon me, their touch feather-light as they curl around my fingers, travel along my arms, and seep into my very being—warming me from the crown of my head to the very tips of my toes. It would feel as though the sun itself were cradling me, whispering its quiet reassurance through its steady, soothing heat. Above me, the vast azure sky would stretch endlessly, a canvas of tranquil blue softly stained by wisps of white cloud drifting lazily in the breeze. The chirping of birds would weave a symphony in the background, their sweet, mellifluous songs rising and falling in perfect harmony with nature’s rhythm. It would be a melody so gentle, so perfect, that it would seem as though the earth itself were humming a lullaby. I would open my eyes just enough to watch sunlight stream through the canopy of leaves above, the golden beams breaking into scattered fragments as...