talktyperera

 Ever been so far inside your head that the world outside starts to fade like a half-erased chalkboard? Not your typical “oops, zoned out in class” kind of thing. No. I mean completely gone. Like someone slowly turned the volume of life down to zero and all that’s left is the echo of your own thoughts. And even they don’t feel like yours anymore. They feel smarter. Wiser. Too heavy to have come from you. Almost like your brain borrowed them from a library that only opens when your soul’s on fire. It starts small. A blink too long. A breath too deep. You’re staring at a wall, but it’s no longer a wall. It’s a movie screen for your mind to project the chaos it’s been hiding. Your eyes are open, but they’ve stopped seeing. People are talking. Life is moving. But you? You’re stuck in a thought that doesn’t have edges. It goes on and on. And you fall into it like Alice, except there’s no Wonderland. Just the truth. And the truth is… terrifyingly beautiful. Because in that moment, you’re...

 You called it a blur. But I call myself the pause between your heartbeats. The breath you forget you’re holding. I’m not here by accident. I’m not a glitch. I’m the moment your soul sighs and slips through the cracks in your consciousness. And I’ve been waiting for you. I see you,scrambling through a world of alarms and small talk, clinging to certainty like it won’t crumble if you squeeze tight enough. But it always does. That’s when I show up. Not like a storm, not like a savior. Just… there. Quiet. Heavy. Honest. You think I’m silence? No. I’m the roar beneath it. I’m your mind when it stops trying to make sense and starts telling the truth. You only visit me when the noise gets too loud, and you need something deeper than distraction. You think you fall into me, but really, I rise up to meet you. I cradle your frantic thoughts and strip them bare. I dissolve your timeline, your job title, your to-do list. I leave behind the raw thing,the “you” without the costume. I’ve watched...

 There’s a moment.Quiet, weightless when the blur thinks about not leaving. Not snapping you back. Not letting your name pull you out. Not watching your soul shrink-wrap itself back into the shape of “functioning adult.” It hesitates. You’ve been here so many times now. Slipping into the in-between like it’s home. And maybe… maybe it is. Because every time you come, you stay a little longer. Dig a little deeper. Peel back another layer you didn’t know you were hiding under. And this time? This time, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t fight the stillness. You didn’t reach for your phone or try to ground yourself with meaningless noise. You just… let go. Let the thoughts stretch their legs. Let the ache in your chest become something sacred. Let your breath remind you that you’re still here even if you’re not sure where here is. So the blur lingers. Unfolds itself fully for once. Not just a flicker, but a flood. It lets you feel all of it. The grief you swallowed last spring. The joy you ...

 You didn’t say anything. Not about the shift. Not about the stillness that followed. Not about the part of the blur you brought back like a feather tucked in your pocket from some dream-forest no one else can see. But people noticed. Not in the obvious way. You still showed up. You still smiled. You still laughed at the right jokes, nodded at the right moments, answered the emails and refilled the coffee and existed the way everyone expects you to. But something in your eyes gave you away. Softer. Slower. Like you weren’t looking at things anymore, but through them. A friend tilted their head, squinted at you mid-conversation, and said, “You okay? You seem… different.” You shrugged. Half-laughed. “Yeah, just tired.” But that wasn’t it. Not really. Tired is too small a word for what you are now. You’re worn in. Like your soul got stretched into something more spacious. Like silence left fingerprints on your bones. Strangers feel it, too. They linger on you a beat too long, like the...

 It happens in a coffee shop. Or a bus stop. Or an elevator. Doesn’t matter, really ,wherever the world forgets to shout. You’re just there, existing quietly, wrapped in your new kind of stillness. Not withdrawn. Not lonely. Just tuned to a different frequency. That in-between hum the world can’t hear unless it’s quiet enough to feel it. And then,there they are. Someone else. Eyes like yours. Not tired. Not sad. Just… deep. Like they’ve wandered through storms that weren’t on any weather report. Like they’ve sat in silence so loud it rearranged their insides. They don’t look at you. Not right away. It’s more like your presence brushes theirs in the room, a gentle static charge, and both of you just know. Not in the logical way. In the way trees probably know each other through their roots. No words. Not even a nod. Just a flicker of eye contact that lingers a second too long, and something electric passes between you,an understanding, a handshake between souls. You think: They’ve b...

 This time, you don’t stumble into it. You walk. No accident. No sudden drift. No chaos pulling you under. Just you, steady and intentional, stepping into the stillness like it’s a doorway you finally noticed was always there. The blur doesn’t rush to greet you. It doesn’t need to. It recognizes you now,an old friend returning home not out of exhaustion, but out of knowing. You've shed the fear that used to chase you into it. Now you come with your hands open. And this time? It feels different. No unraveling. No existential freefall. Just presence. Deep, grounded presence. You sit in the blur like someone who’s learned how to breathe underwater. You let the world blur around the edges, soft and distant. Not because you're escaping it… but because you're finally seeing past it. You remember things here. Things your waking self forgets. Like how you’re not your schedule. Or your past. Or even your name. Like how you don’t have to earn stillness it was always yours. Like how y...

 Years have passed. The blur doesn’t visit you the way it used to,not because it left, but because it stayed. It became part of your gravity. Your gaze. Your way of listening like silence is sacred, like every word is a ripple in a pond you now know how to see through. You don’t talk about it much. Not directly. You don’t need to. It’s in your presence. The way you move slower, not because you're tired, but because you’re tuned. The way you answer questions with more space than sound. The way you notice,really notice,people. Like they’re poems unfolding. And one day, someone else sees it. They’re younger, maybe. Or maybe not. Age doesn't matter in the blur. What matters is the look in their eyes ,the before. The restlessness. The too-loud mind. The ache they can’t name. They're where you once were: on the edge of unraveling, right before the fall. You don’t tell them what’s coming. That’s not how this works. You just leave a door cracked open. A pause in a sentence. A quest...

 There’s something about doors. They are simple things.Wood, metal, hinges but in our minds, they are everything. They are choices, they are possibilities, they are exits and entrances. A door is never just a door. It’s a moment frozen in time, an intersection between what was and what could be. We open doors every day without thinking. We close them just as easily. But what if we don’t just close them? What if, without realizing, we lock them from the inside? There’s a strange kind of deception in believing we’re waiting for a knock when, in reality, we’ve barricaded ourselves in. We sit there, waiting, blaming fate, blaming timing, blaming God, blaming the universe never once considering that the very hands clasped in frustration are the same ones that turned the key and left it there. And sometimes, when we do decide to open it, we find it jammed. Stuck. Rusted at the hinges. Maybe it’s God’s way of saying, not this one, not now. Maybe it’s the universe whispering, not for you, ...

 We used to think being reckless was a personality trait. Back in high school, we believed chaos was cool like it gave us some kind of social currency. The louder you were, the more you mattered. The more rules you broke, the more alive you felt. And bullying? It wasn’t always blatant it was in the way we laughed a little too hard when someone tripped, or in the way we played along when a friend turned someone else into a punchline. We called it “just jokes,” but deep down, we knew. And let’s not forget the ultimate flex,the boyfriend or girlfriend you’d casually parade around campus. It wasn’t about love or connection, it was about status. Having someone to hold hands with in the hallways, to whisper jokes to in between classes, was like wearing a badge of honor. You weren’t just in a relationship; you were in a competition. Look at me, I’m desired, I’ve got my person, and isn’t that cute? We’d trade notes like we were trading stock options “Oh, I’m with Jamie now. He’s got that m...

 Alright, listen up. Love these days? Pathetic. Flimsy. Lighter than a Pinterest aesthetic. People want a soft, easy, commitment-free, “let’s see where this goes” kinda love like, bestie, where do you think it’s going? The trash? Because that’s where all these half-baked relationships end up. Me? Nah. I want Mathias Steiner kind of love. The life-altering, knee-buckling, fight-the-laws-of-physics kind. The kind that doesn’t just exist but shatters, rebuilds, and reshapes reality itself. For those living under a rock ,Mathias Steiner is an Olympic weightlifter. In 2008, he did something absolutely insane. He lifted way more than he should’ve been able to not for clout, not for a medal, but for love. His wife had passed away, and he carried her memory like it was woven into his muscles. He lifted 432 pounds like his soul was on fire. That’s real love. That’s love that isn’t just some “good morning” text and a couple of cute date nights. That’s love that defies human limits. The kind ...

 People love to preach about self-love. They’ll say, “Oh, don’t hate yourself. Just be happy. Just accept who you are.” They make it sound so simple like flipping a switch, like all it takes is one deep breath and suddenly, you’re okay. But let’s be real. That’s not how it works. Pain is ugly. Hate is real. And sometimes, looking in the mirror and not liking what you see is the very thing that pushes you to become something greater. People say, “You should always love yourself.” But what if not loving the way you look, the way you feel, the way your life is going .What if that’s exactly what makes you change? What if comfort is the enemy of growth? What if the very thing that people say is “bad” is actually the most powerful fuel you’ll ever have? Hate Isn’t Always Destructive.It’s a Catalyst. When you wake up and feel like you’re not enough, you have two choices: 1. Convince yourself that you’re fine and stay exactly where you are. 2. Let that feeling burn so deep that you refuse ...

  Let’s talk about the world’s obsession with youth. Everyone loves to say, “Being young is the best time of your life!” but honestly, it’s a bit of a joke. At 19, the world expects me to have life figured out, but I’m still sitting here, trying to decide whether to get fries or a salad for lunch. Let’s be real: youth doesn’t come with some magical sense of freedom and clarity it’s more like a weird blend of energy and constant anxiety. We’re constantly told that we have everything ahead of us, but nobody talks about how overwhelming that actually is. Sure, I can bounce back from a late night out, but the pressure to “find my passion” by 22? That’s a whole other level of stress. Take deciding on a career should I go into clinical psychology or counseling? Both sound noble, but the weight of those choices is ridiculous. Am I supposed to spend years studying to unpack other people’s emotional baggage when I still haven’t figured out how to balance my own? And what if I choose the ...