Humanity
Scrambled Eggs and Silence
The Year Was 1967 I was four years old. My world was small but crowded—my parents, my two little sisters barely out of babyhood, and me. We lived high above the street in a middle-class high-rise, fourteen floors up, trying to build a life like everyone else. Both my parents worked, which meant that, like so many families, we relied on a babysitter.
By Debbieabout 10 hours ago in Confessions
A Confession: Why I Remained a Scammer
Life has been good. And the definition of good now is different from the definition of good a year ago. Good means enough sleep. Good means I don’t have to worry about being electrocuted or being beaten up. Good means I live without expectations.
By Evren Ta day ago in Confessions
Benefits of Looking Forward To Something
Everyone looks forward to something because it is part of life. When we were younger, we looked for most things that were different from what we look forward to now that we are older. Even so, we might still look forward to some of the same things: birthdays, holidays (some more than others), graduation, first job, dating, marriage, anniversaries, raising a family, and more.
By Margaret Minnicks2 days ago in Confessions
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By Organic Products 3 days ago in Confessions
The Version of Me That Almost Was
I found the old notebook while cleaning, tucked behind things I no longer used but hadn’t thrown away. The cover was bent, the pages yellowed, the spine fragile from years of neglect. Inside was a version of me that felt both familiar and distant, like meeting an old friend whose face you recognize but whose life you no longer understand.
By Salman Writes3 days ago in Confessions
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page For a long time, my mornings started the same way. Not with breakfast. Not with stretching or deep breaths or gratitude, like people on the internet suggest. My mornings started with refreshing a page.
By Salman Writes4 days ago in Confessions
The Kind of Tired Sleep Can’t Fix
I’m not tired in the way sleep can fix. I’ve tried that. Early nights. Late mornings. Power naps that turn into guilt. None of it touches this kind of exhaustion. It lives deeper, somewhere behind the eyes and under the ribs, where rest doesn’t reach. It’s not the kind of tired that fades with eight hours under a blanket—it’s the kind that lingers even after the alarm clock says I’ve had enough.
By Salman Writes4 days ago in Confessions
I Became Strong the Day No One Checked on Me
There’s a strange kind of silence that doesn’t come from being alone. It comes from realizing that people know you’re struggling and still choose not to ask. It’s not the absence of voices—it’s the absence of care. That silence is heavier than solitude, because it reminds you that you are visible, yet unseen.
By Salman Writes4 days ago in Confessions
