Embarrassment
The Last Train to Nowhere
It’s not the rattling, metallic grind of the wheels that wakes me up these nights, not anymore. It’s the silence. That particular kind of dead quiet you only get after the last carriage has rumbled out of sight, leaving you standing on a platform that feels suddenly too big, too empty. And then the cold seeps into your bones, deeper than any winter wind. That’s what I hear.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
Who a person is to begin with
I recently entered into an argument with a long time friend, we argued about politics and on our point of view when it came to global politics happening right now in the world, I’ll spare you the details, the main point was I disagreed with how it was being done meanwhile he agreed.
By real Jemaabout a month ago in Confessions
The Quiet Power of Presence: Trust, Desire, and the Weight of Being
I can still feel the chill of that evening, the way it made my skin keenly aware of itself. I leaned against the balcony railing of a small apartment, watching the streetlights flicker below, glowing softly through the dimming dusk. He was there, a few steps away, his gaze on the streets as if he could read the rhythm of life beneath him. There was nothing performative in his posture, no dramatic gesture to draw attention. Yet the way he existed in that space—calm, grounded, and unassuming—pulled me in. I became painfully aware of how his presence shaped the air around him, shaping me in subtle, unnameable ways.
By SATPOWERabout a month ago in Confessions
The Unspooling Hour
The dust motes in the weak afternoon light danced, suspended, just like everything else in this goddamn house. Especially me. The air itself felt thick, like old velvet. My eyes, they just slid back to it, always back to the grandfather clock in the corner. Heavy oak, dark with age and neglect, its face a cracked porcelain moon. Most clocks, they tick forward, right? Mark the passage, the relentless march. Not this one. This one, the second hand, it dragged itself counter-clockwise. Minutes, hours, days, peeling back like old wallpaper. It wasn’t a trick of the light, wasn’t my tired eyes. It was real. A quiet defiance of everything. A promise, maybe. Or a cruel joke, I still haven't figured that out, even now, with the taste of ash in my mouth. My fingers trembled on the armrest, the worn fabric shedding little threads. Little pieces of everything.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
The Shard Keeper
It's just glass, really. But I call them flowers. Crystal flowers. Thousands of them, tucked away in this shed out back, where no one ever looks, where no one ever *will* look. They shimmer, you know, when the weak afternoon sun hits that crack in the corrugated steel, throwing slivers of light across them. They sparkle, each one cut, ground, polished, a sharp, perfect bloom. And each one, a goddamn lie.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
The Iron Confession
The rhythm of the rails. That's what gets you. Not the click-clack, not even the grinding steel, but the steady, relentless push forward. Each jolt a small, sharp reminder that you’re moving, that you chose this, that there's no going back. The car was empty. Practically empty. Just me, hunched over a window streaked with rain and grime, and some old man snoring two rows back, his face hidden by a newspaper from yesterday. Or maybe the day before. Doesn't matter. He wasn't looking at me. Nobody was.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
The Ghost on the Floorboards
The house breathes around me. It’s an old house, full of settling groans and the low hum of the refrigerator. Two in the morning, another Tuesday, another bottle of cheap whiskey working its way through my bloodstream. The wife's asleep upstairs, snoring softly, a familiar, comforting sound, if you don’t think about it too hard. The kids, grown now, gone. Just me, the bottle, and the goddamn moonlight pouring in through the living room window, painting stripes across the hardwood.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
The Weight of the Falling Quiet
The streetlights outside Elias’s window were just dim blurs now, swallowed by the relentless descent. Big, fat flakes, not the tiny stinging kind, but soft, almost lazy, piling up fast. They coated everything, smoothed out the sharp edges of the world. Power lines, fences, the gnarled branches of the old oak in his yard — all turned into soft, white ridges. The quiet. God, the quiet. That was the worst part, always.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
World War 3: Why the Fear Is Growing, Why the Future Is Not Decided
World War 3: Why the Fear Is Growing—and Why the Future Is Not Decided In recent years, the phrase “World War 3” has moved from history books into daily conversation. It appears in news headlines, political speeches, social media debates, and comment sections across the internet. For many people, it represents a growing fear that the world is drifting toward another global catastrophe. But fear alone does not explain why this idea has become so powerful—or why it demands careful discussion rather than panic.
By Wings of Time about a month ago in Confessions
The Last Train to Nowhere
The rain lashed against the window, thick sheets of it blurring the already featureless landscape. Black. Just black. The old train rattled, a constant, low growl that vibrated through my bones, through the cheap fabric of the seat. Empty car. Just me and the rhythmic squeal of the wheels on wet tracks. An easy escape. That’s what I told myself. A clean break. But my hands, they wouldn’t stop shaking. Not even a little. Clenched tight, white knuckles, like they were trying to hold onto something that was already gone.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
The Glare of Ghost Street
The rain was a cold, constant whisper, a thousand tiny accusations hitting the asphalt. It didn’t let up. Just this endless, soft drumming, washing over everything, blurring the edges of a city that never really slept, just sagged into a kind of tired stupor. I watched it pool in the cracks of the sidewalk, each puddle a shattered mirror, catching the smeared smears of neon from the dive bar, the pizza joint, the flashing vacancy sign of the motel that always smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale regret. Red, blue, sickly green, all twisting and shimmering in the black water. Looked like blood in some places, bruising in others.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Confessions
