talktyperera

Here’s something I’ve been thinking about lately how everyone is out here trying to say the right thing instead of the real thing. It’s like we all accidentally enrolled in this invisible PR school where every sentence needs to be market tested, audience appropriate, and pleasantly beige. And the minute someone shows up speaking unfiltered or voicing up an inconvenient truth,they get treated like they walked into a quiet library with a boombox blasting. You ever notice this? The world claims it loves authenticity, but only the kind that comes in recyclable packaging with a soft aesthetic and a caption about self-care. The real real? The kind that shows people the things they try so hard not to admit? Oh, no. That gets exiled like it said something obscene at a dinner party. We’ve built a culture where people apologize for things they don’t even feel sorry for, agree with opinions they don’t believe, and pretend neutrality when their whole soul is yelling. It’s social gymnastics. We’ve ...

 There are days when the sky feels like it’s been borrowed from another lifetime, one where you already died and came back just to remember how light feels against your eyelids. Death, then, is not an ending, but a flavor, sharp, metallic, inevitable. We are all sipping it, drop by drop, through every birthday candle we blow out and every mirror that forgets our younger faces. And yet, what makes it both cruel and divine is how quietly it arrives. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t send a letter or mark a date on your calendar. It just appears one day, like an uninvited guest slipping into the room while you’re still mid-laugh, or mid sentence, or mid dream. There’s no schedule for endings. No rehearsal for the last breath. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes it’s a crash. Sometimes it’s a stillness so sudden that even time holds its breath. You never really see it coming, and maybe that’s its secret mercy or its cruelest trick. A curse or a blessing, depending on the day and the heart y...

 Some people chase peace like it’s a prize,others just build it inside their silence and guard it like a dragon. The world’s obsessed with being seen, but the funny thing is, the ones who actually do something worth seeing are usually too busy to wave their arms for attention. Funny how the loudest ones usually have the least to say, right? See, hard work isn’t romantic. It’s not a montage. It’s messy, ugly, repetitive. It’s the sound of you talking yourself out of quitting at 2 a.m. when your dreams look more like delusions. The people who make it aren’t magical, they’re just the ones who didn’t fold when the world got loud. Spoiler alert,there’s no background music when you’re dying inside but still grinding. Focus is rebellion. In an age where everyone’s screaming, choosing silence is almost violent. You stop feeding the noise, and the noise starts panicking. It’s hilarious. Everyone wants to know why you’re so calm, why you’re not reacting, why you’re not explaining yourself to...