Journals

There are days when I feel as though I should not exist. That I have somehow stolen a place in this world that was never meant for me. On those days, even the smallest gestures of kindness feel misplaced, undeserved. A text message from a friend, a warm meal set before me, the simple act of being addressed by name—each one bears the weight of an unbearable debt, one I can never repay because I am, at my core, unworthy.

Unworthiness is a strange thing. It does not come with grand, sweeping tragedy. It creeps in, silent and insidious, often disguised as humility or self-awareness. It convinces you that you are being rational when you question whether you deserve the very fundamentals of human existence—food, shelter, dignity. It presents itself not as a feeling,

As a society, we have been too obsessed with women’s bodies, equating her honor and worth solely with her physical form. This obsession has led us to deny women their full autonomy—a denial of their right to psychological agency and cognitive freedom. In rape, we often talk about the physical violation, but the true exploitation lies in the violation of the mind. The anger should not be just about someone touching the body; it should be about someone’s control over your will, your decisions, your sense of self—which is central in sociology, psychology, and anthropology.

For centuries, women’s value has been tied to their physicality, making them vulnerable to psychosocial objectification.

We keep moving, don’t we? Step after step, day after day. But where are we really going? We rise, fall, and rise again—often unsure if we're heading toward something or just running in circles. There’s that nagging question: “Is there a purpose?” “Am I really progressing or just surviving?” It’s easy to feel lost in these moments. But isn’t that the essence of being human? To question, to stumble, and to rise again? Falling is inevitable. It’s part of life. When you fall, it feels like you're sinking—overwhelmed by doubts, swept by the weight of uncertainty. But somewhere in that fall, something shifts. You find strength in the rawness of it all—like the flames of a volcano. You might burn, but you can always rise from the ashes. As Nietzsche once said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” That "why" becomes the reason to stand back up, no matter how difficult the journey. And with every rise, we find new purpose in the chaos.

I have seen men broken—not by chains, not by hunger, not by the weight of their misfortunes—but by the gaze of their own blood. A gaze that does not strike but suffocates, that does not wound but rots the flesh from the inside. Shame. It does not shout, does not whip, does not imprison—and yet it is a sentence heavier than any prison term, a gallows erected within the mind.

Here, among the ones who should be our refuge, it thrives the most. They do not need to lock us up, for they make the world outside feel like a cell. They do not need to starve us, for they make food taste like dust.

There is a peculiar magic in beginnings, isn’t there? Like the first light of dawn breaking over the moors of Yorkshire, or the hesitant trickle of a stream carving its path through ancient stone. Beginnings are rarely grand, rarely perfect. They are raw, unpolished, and often unremarkable.
Yet, they hold within them the seeds of everything that is to come.

I think of the great oak, which once was but an acorn, buried in the earth, unassuming and fragile. It did not wait for the perfect conditions to grow; it simply began. It stretched its roots into the soil, however rocky, and reached for the sky, however distant.

Some mornings, I wake up already behind. The day hasn’t begun, but I feel the weight of all the hours I’ve wasted before it. Plans were made by the person I was last night—the one who believed I would wake up different. But I wake up the same. And the war begins again.

Discipline isn’t about control. It’s about survival.

I think of the horologium—the ancient Roman sundial—its shadow creeping inexorably across the stone, marking time with silent precision.

At the heart of human society lies a simple yet disturbing truth: the bigger fish always eat the smaller ones. This isn’t just a metaphor; it’s the rule that governs everything from corporate ladders to social hierarchies, and yes, even the very caste system that continues to shape our lives in the modern world. Whether we like it or not, history has shown us time and again that the powerful will always prey on the powerless—often without a second thought. But here’s the twist: when you’re the one on the receiving end of the hunt, it’s not the predator that stings the most—it’s the lesser, often invisible fish, the ones that aren’t even worth noticing, that make us feel like we’re being washed away.

I’ve seen it, felt it, lived it.

To exist is to be in a constant state of negotiation—between control and chaos, knowing and unknowing, presence and erasure. We walk this razor’s edge daily, often without realizing it, until something forces us to stop, to examine the cracks beneath our feet. Lately, that something has been House, M.D.—a show I approached as entertainment but left as an unsettling mirror, reflecting the brittle contradictions of human existence.

Dr. House doesn’t simply diagnose diseases; he dissects lives. His patients are more than cases—they are questions, paradoxes wrapped in flesh.