Faces I Cannot Read

Today my mind felt restless yet strangely curious. I have always loved listening to podcasts, especially the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and other detective stories. Perhaps it is that influence which often pushes me to read the minds of others, to guess their hidden thoughts and feelings.

This evening, while returning home from college on the bus, I looked outside and saw countless faces. Each face seemed like a page of a book written in a language I could not understand. One man walked slowly, as if the weight of the day pressed heavily upon him. Another spoke eagerly into his phone, his words spilling out with urgency and excitement. A group of children played with careless laughter, as though the world belonged to their joy.

I kept asking myself What are they carrying within? Are these smiles real? Do those eyes hide pain? But no answer came. The truth is, I cannot step into their minds I cannot decode their emotions like a detective untangling a mystery.

Then, a simple thought struck me. Why must I predict? Why should I reduce people to puzzles, when they are meant to be themselves? Every person has the right to carry their silence, their secrets, and their laughter without my interpretation. Life is not always about solving others it is often about accepting them as they are.

Perhaps this acceptance is the greater wisdom to see without judgment, to observe without conclusions. In that moment, I let go of my restless curiosity and simply admired the river of humanity flowing past me. Each face, unreadable yet beautiful, was a reminder that mystery itself is a part of life’s charm.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Let Me Sleep, Not to Dream....

     Some nights, I don’t want answers I just want silence. Not the kind filled with buzzing thoughts, but the deep, weightless stillness that John Keats writes about in “To Sleep.” His lines feel less like poetry and more like a whisper to the weary .      Keats doesn’t glorify sleep as a dreamy escape filled with fantasies. Instead, he sees it as a quiet refuge from the noise of life. I remember one night, after back-to-back classes and an unexpected family argument, I sat by my window, emotionally exhausted. No words, no energy just the weight of being awake. That night, I opened Keats. His line, “Seal the hushed casket of my soul,” made me close my eyes. For once, I wasn’t trying to sleep. I was inviting it in like an old friend.      I’ve often found that poetry meets us where no one else can . Keats understood that some days feel too loud, too real. And what we need isn’t escape, but a pause a gentle covering of all that aches. His...
Read more

From Questions to Acceptance: The Quiet Strength Within

Today, I began writing my blog not with clarity, but with a curious uncertainty. I didn’t know where to start or what to write. Once, I was filled with questions. I constantly asked: How? Where? When? Why? What? These questions shaped my journey, my identity, my hunger to understand the world. But something changed. I’ve stopped asking. I’ve begun accepting. Life has slowly revealed its quiet wisdom to me not in answers, but in acceptance. I no longer seek explanations for everything around me. I no longer expect people to explain themselves, prove themselves, or live up to my vision of who they should be. Why should they? Everyone is walking their own path. It’s not my responsibility to evaluate their pace, their truth, or their struggle. I’ve learned not to expect, not to demand, not to act out of pressure or illusion. Instead, I’ve chosen to receive what life brings openly, peacefully. “I don’t expect, so I don’t act. I just accept.” That is my mantra now. I’ve found that ac...
Read more

When Hope Sings Softly Within !!!

     There are times in life when everything outside falls silent, dreams are delayed, plans fall apart, and people we trust walk away. Yet, even in such silence, I’ve felt something quietly fluttering within me a small, unwavering voice that says, “Move forward.” Emily Dickinson’s poem “Hope is the Thing with Feathers” captures that feeling so perfectly. She compares hope to a bird that perches in our soul, singing wordlessly through the fiercest storms.      What struck me most is how Dickinson says this bird “never stops at all.” That line stayed with me. In my own life, when I felt lost after rejections, personal losses, or simply long nights filled with doubt, I didn’t always have someone to lean on. But this soft inner song remained. It never asked for anything in return. Just like Dickinson’s bird, hope never demanded food, praise, or reward. It just kept singing.      I’ve learned that true hope doesn’t come from external success o...
Read more