Sarb Randhawa

Before I learned how
to put myself back together,
I wandered for a while
through the ruins—
a solemn, wondrous place
where shadows spoke softly
and I met parts of my soul
I had never been introduced to.
Fragments that had lived in me
all along,
just waiting to be seen.

He did not seek stone walls, nor the echo of chants.

Only sun on wood, water below, and a silence vast enough to hold his longing.

There, on the old deck of a boat, prayer rose — not from ritual, but from stillness.

Because when the heart is honest, even the wind bows in reverence.

I learned something beautiful today:
Octopuses taste with their skin.
Not just their arms—their whole body.
Makes you wonder what we’re holding without knowing.
A glance. A voice. We say we forget. But maybe only the brain does.
The rest of you remembers. Quietly.

Everyone says, “Let it go.”
But not all weight is a burden.

Some things anchor you to who you are.
A promise. A grief. A dream not yet bloomed.

You don’t have to be light to be free.
Just know what’s holding you back—
and what’s holding you still.

Some words smell like summer on your skin.
Chlorine. Crushed grass.
The creak of a swing you thought was gone.
Funny how a few words online
can open a door back to your childhood—
and suddenly, you're barefoot again. 🍃🛝

People fight over land.
They bleed for views, for postcodes. But the most valuable land? The empire between your ears, sits unguarded. Forgotten.
We protect passwords, renovate kitchens, but not thoughts.
But this land—your inner world—is ancestral.
Sacred. Yours by birthright.

We’re all travellers of memory, finding pieces of home in
unexpected places. A stranger’s kindness.
A line in a poem. A certain kind of sky.

Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.

Window weather.
When the light looks warm but the wind still bites.

Some hearts live like that—
glowing on the surface, carrying quiet cold inside.

Love is noticing. Not the sun pretending it's fine,
but the warmth that stays anyway.

I learned something very interesting today.
In Japanese, there's a word — yūgen — that means a beauty so deep, so quietly powerful, it can only be felt.
Not sadness, not joy — but the ache in between. Like a quiet knock from the universe, reminding you:
there’s more. And you’re part of it.

A secret I keep learning again and again:

Have something — anything — to look forward to.

Not someday. Not after the chaos clears.

Just a small moment that feels like yours.

A cup. A breeze. A pause. That’s where life quietly begins again.

A teacup remembers every hand that held it.
Even after the warmth is gone, a trace remains in the porcelain.
Like us—cracked, mended, passed down with stories in our silence.
We carry fingerprints of moments too soft to name.
And still, we pour love.

Have you ever missed something that never even happened?
There’s a word in Finnish: kaiho.
Not quite grief or hope. It’s the ache of a life unlived
It slips in through music. Through dreams. And suddenly, you’re longing for a place you’ve never been, a version of you that only existed in a blink.

Ever notice how memories smell?

Rain on old books.
Your sweater from last October.
Someone’s shampoo in the wind.

Scent is time-travel.
Somewhere, your past is still warm.

There’s a Japanese word — komorebi — for sunlight filtering through trees.
Not just light. That light, in that way.
Like the quiet ways people love you: a blanket tucked in, a memory glowing differently with time.

We carry many kinds of light.
Not always bright. But always real.

👇👇

There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — a longing for a home you can’t return to. It’s like catching a scent — woodsmoke, old books — and feeling your heart stir without knowing why.

We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.

There’s a Welsh word — hiraeth — a longing for a home you can’t return to. It’s like catching a scent — woodsmoke, old books — and feeling your heart stir without knowing why.

We’re all travelers of memory, finding home in unexpected places. Not all homes have doors. Some just live in us.

I learned something very beautiful today.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.

I learned something very beautiful today.
In French, *bibliothèque intérieure" means your "inner library, " filled with every story that's ever shaped you. All the books you've loved, the heartbreaks you've survived, the random quotes that stuck, the memories that built you.

The world forgets noise faster than silence.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.

The world forgets noise faster than silence.
It’s the quiet things—grief, grace, wonder—
that beat and shape us without ever asking.

haha, yes. Who does not want to go viral. Here is another:

Internet controversy in 2025: Step 1—accidentally breathe.
Step 2—trend worldwide.
Step 3—launch a sweatshirt line that says “Just Breathing.”
Step 4—retire on merch royalties.

The future of literature will belong to the books that are impossible to summarize, impossible to explain, the books that you have no option but to sit down and read...

Some ppl on the inside.

In the 18th century, doctors prescribed trips to the ocean to cure melancholy and they shouldn't have stopped doing that

That should be a lovely walk...

What say??

I just heard this at a cafe:
“The brain is rarely in the present, but the heart is always in the present because it’s beating. When we listen to our heart, we turn our attention back to the present moment.”
Wow.