February | 2026 | Pieces Of My Heart

Who Are You Today?

February 26, 2026 at 5:47 pm (Articles, Fairytales, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, mlmm, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, stories, Thursday Inspiration, Writers on wordpress

In response to Jim Adams’s Thursday Inspiration #321

Prompt: Identity

https://wp.me/p8EzVZ-Kvu

The Mirror That Wasn’t There

Once, in a village that danced at the edges of memory, there lived a man who sought his reflection. Every day he stood by a still pond, but the water remained blank. He asked the villagers, “Why does the pond not show me?”

They whispered, “Perhaps the pond only mirrors what is already known, and your face has no name yet.”

So he journeyed, carrying a jar of water everywhere, dipping it into streams, catching sunlight in its depths. And in each drop, he saw fragments of himself – a laugh here, a sorrow there, a thought in between. But never the whole. One evening, when he let the water spill freely over the stones, the man finally saw it…the reflection was everywhere and nowhere, in the ripple, in the shadow, in the glance of a stranger. Identity, he realized, was not a single thing. It was the play of particles and possibilities, the intersection of the self and the cosmos.

From that parable, we begin to see identity not as a fixed portrait but as a shimmering spectrum of existence. Human behavior is the observable manifestation of this spectrum. We are simultaneously the sum of our choices, the echoes of our upbringing, the whispers of genetic code, and the unforeseen outcomes of chance encounters. Just as the man could never catch a single reflection in the jar, we never fully capture ourselves in any one act or moment.

Quantum theory mirrors this paradox elegantly. In the quantum world, particles exist in superposition, multiple states at once, until observed.

Perhaps identity, too, is a superposition. Each interaction we have, every role we play, every thought we entertain collapses our potential selves into a temporary reality.

A person at work is one wave; a friend in laughter, another. Identity, like a quantum particle, is probabilistic, elusive, and, ultimately, more about relationships than absolutes.

Existentialism takes this even further. Philosophers like Sartre argued that existence precedes essence, that we are not born with a pre-determined identity, but must forge it through choice and action.

Yet, the act of forging is never complete. Like the man spilling his jar, identity is fluid, an ongoing negotiation between self-perception, external perception, and the unpredictable tides of circumstance.

In practice, embracing identity as dynamic allows for freedom rather than fear. We become aware that behaviors, roles, and even beliefs are temporary expressions of a deeper, ungraspable whole. Creativity, relationships, and empathy become tools to explore the endless possibilities of selfhood rather than labels to confine us. The pond may never give a full reflection, but it reflects the universe’s dance, and so do we.

Identity is a question, a prism, a quantum experiment of the soul. It is found not in answers, but in the act of looking, acting, and being – each moment both unique and ephemeral, both deeply human and cosmically connected.

And yet, even as we explore its shifting edges, identity often reveals itself in riddles and paradoxes, in moments that feel both familiar and impossible. Like a shadow cast in sunlight, it moves ahead and lingers behind, hinting at truths we can sense but never fully hold.

Perhaps the most profound understanding of self comes not from knowing, but from witnessing – watching the interplay of past and potential, of choices made and choices yet to come. It is here, in this delicate tension between what we were and what we might be, that the backward-running clock of the soul begins to make sense.

The Clock That Ran Backwards

In a forgotten city, there was a clock that ran backwards. Its hands spun counter to time, yet everyone agreed the hours it marked were somehow truer than the hours they lived. One day, a child asked the clock, “If you go backward, do we become who we were, or who we could have been?”

The clock ticked, but offered no answer. People stared, puzzled, until a traveler whispered, “Perhaps identity is like this clock: we move forward, yet carry backward everything we have been, and forward everything we might be. Every choice, every glance, every unspoken thought is a hand spinning in reverse and forward at once.”

The clock continued its backward march, and the city watched, realizing that to know oneself fully might be impossible. And yet… the pursuit was the only way to exist.

So now, dear reader, a question for you…if your identity is both the you that was, and the you that could be, which self are you willing to meet today?

© Rohini 2009–2025.
All text, prose, images, and artwork presented herein are the original intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved.
No part of this content may be copied, reproduced, distributed, displayed, or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

For licensing requests or usage inquiries, please contact: manomaya0214@gmail.com

2 Comments

Too Hot to Handle

February 26, 2026 at 3:47 pm (Articles, Fairytales, history, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, Reena's Xploration Challenge, RXC, stories, Writers on wordpress

In response to Reena’s Xploration Challenge RXC #419 February 26, 2026 with the 3 stunning Haiga Images

https://wp.me/p6HvcB-dp7

Prompt: In Between Eclipses

In the beginning, before clocks learned to tick and before calendars learned to count, the Sun and the Moon met at the rim of a newborn sky.

He arrived first, loud with light, convinced that brilliance was the same thing as benevolence. He burned with purpose. He called it love.

She arrived quietly, silver-veined, tide-minded, fluent in listening. She did not shine on her own; she carried his light like a borrowed secret and softened it for the world below. She called that love too.

They fell for one another in the only way celestial bodies can – by orbiting. Not touching or possessing, but just leaning toward.

For a long while, the Earth prospered in their dance. Forests opened their green palms to his heat. Oceans answered her tug with obedient tides. Seeds split. Wolves howled. Lovers wrote poetry. Life learned rhythm from their alternating footsteps.

But love, when praised too loudly, can mistake itself for dominion.

The Sun began to believe the applause of blooming fields was for him alone. He mistook dependence for devotion. “Without me,” he thundered, “nothing lives.” His flares grew arrogant. Summers lengthened. Rivers thinned to silver threads. The air thickened with his unchecked pride.

The Earth began to ache.
The Moon watched.

She had always known she was called lesser, a satellite, a reflection, a borrowed glow. Yet she understood something he did not. Light without restraint becomes a wound. Fire without humility forgets it is meant to warm.

And so, when his ego swelled, too near catastrophe, she stepped between him and the world.

An eclipse.

For a trembling handful of minutes, she covered his face. Not to shame him, but to remind him.

The day darkened. Birds faltered mid-song. Flowers folded like hands in prayer. The temperature dipped as if the planet exhaled relief. And around his blackened crown, a halo shimmered – a quiet revelation…even in obstruction, he was beautiful.

In the sudden dusk, humans looked up and remembered how small they were. The Sun, feeling the hush ripple across continents, felt something he had not felt in ages.

Limits.

He saw his own corona blazing like a confession. He saw that the sky did not belong to him alone. He saw that it was in the soft architecture of shadow that his light became sacred.

When she moved away, the world brightened, but differently. Not triumphant, but balanced.

They did not speak of it. Celestial beings rarely apologize aloud. They adjusted their orbits instead.

And so life continued, not in spectacle, but in the quiet intervals between.

Yet pride is cyclical.

There were ages when the Moon, too, forgot. She began to relish her power to interrupt him. She delighted in being the hush in his sentence. Oceans rose higher than they should. Night creatures grew restless. Humans, who romanticize what they do not understand, praised her mystery and forgot his constancy.

She began to believe she was the necessary correction to his excess, the wiser one, the tempering force, the secret ruler of tides and moods. And so the cosmos answered with another lesson.

A lunar eclipse.

This time, it was the Earth that stepped between them, casting its shadow upon her silver face. She darkened to copper, bruised and beautiful. For once, she did not carry his light.

She felt the absence.

In that red hush, she understood what she had always known but briefly forgotten...she shines because he gives. He burns because she steadies. The Earth thrives because they negotiate.

The lunar eclipse was not punishment – it was equilibrium.

A reminder that shadow belongs to all.

From that day forward, their love matured into collaboration. Not constant agreement, but rhythmic correction. Not dominance, but dialogue.

Every solar eclipse became her gentle hand raised against his excess…“Remember the forests.”

Every lunar eclipse became his steady gaze through Earth’s shadow…“Remember the source.”

Between these eclipses, life unfolded.

Children were born who would never see one. Empires rose and fell in the ordinary brilliance of unremarkable afternoons. Lovers quarreled and reconciled under moons that seemed full but were, in truth, always partially hidden. Scientists measured spectra. Poets measured longing. Farmers measured rain.

The great celestial dramas lasted minutes.
The in-between lasted lifetimes.
And that is where we live.

We are not made for constant spectacle. We are made for the long, quiet orbit, for collaboration after ego, for warmth tempered by wisdom, for reflection that does not erase the source.

The Sun still burns bright. The Moon still borrows and softens. They still drift apart and come back together in sacred alignments. Their love is no longer naive. It is negotiated, corrected, and cyclical.

When the sky darkens at noon, we are witnessing a reminder. When the Moon turns red, we are witnessing an answer.

And in the vastness between those moments, in the ordinary glow of a Tuesday afternoon or the patient silver of an uneventful night, the real story continues.

Love does not live in the eclipse.
It lives in the space between them.

3 Comments

Bumper Bells & Fairy Spam

February 26, 2026 at 3:23 pm (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, stories, Writers on wordpress

In response to Esther’s “Can you write a story in 46 words using the following words in it somewhere:

HUMBUG

SPAM

FAIRY

BUMPER

For February 26, 2026.

https://wp.me/p3RSgb-wcy

“HUMBUG,” grumbled the old toymaker, swatting away email SPAM while a tiny FAIRY tap-danced on his cluttered desk. She whispered that magic still hid in discarded things. The dented car BUMPER outside shimmered, transforming into sleigh bells, and suddenly, he believed again.

1 Comment

What If?

February 26, 2026 at 7:55 am (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, Fandango's One Word Challenge, FOWC, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, stories, Writers on wordpress

In response to Fandango’s One Word Challenge FOWC

Prompt: Theme

https://wp.me/pfZzxd-u63

In a village where maps were considered complete and roads politely ended where they were supposed to, there lived a boy who did not believe in edges.

His name was Arin, and he owned three peculiar things: a compass that spun when he told lies, a notebook that refused to stay blank, and a window that looked ordinary but sometimes showed him places that did not yet exist.

Arin’s theme was adventure.
Not the loud kind with trumpets and trophies. His was the quiet, humming kind, the sort that begins with What if?

One evening, as twilight poured silver into the sky, Arin opened his notebook and drew a staircase in the middle of the ocean. He sketched lanterns hanging from clouds and bridges woven from spider silk. He designed a pair of boots that could remember the shape of courage. On the last page, he drew a door in the trunk of a tree.

When he looked up, the tree outside his window had grown a door. Adventure, you see, had been listening.

He stepped through and found himself in a forest where ideas floated like fireflies. Each time he caught one, it changed shape – a flying bicycle became a seed planter; a dragon became a weather machine; a pirate ship transformed into a library that sailed across deserts delivering stories.

Arin did not conquer this world. He collaborated with it. When a river flooded, he imagined stepping stones that rearranged themselves.
When a mountain blocked the way, he designed a glider stitched from old kites.
When the night grew too quiet, he invented constellations no one had named yet.

Adventure was not escape. It was innovation dressed as wonder.

Years passed differently in that forest. Every imaginative leap built something useful. Every playful question solved a problem. The compass in his pocket spun wildly whenever he tried to copy someone else’s path, but steadied when he trusted his own curiosity.

One day, standing at the edge of a cliff made of unfinished ideas, Arin realized something astonishing. The world beyond the village had not needed conquering. It had needed imagining.

When he returned home, nothing looked the same, because he no longer saw limits. He saw prototypes. He saw hidden doors in ordinary trees. He saw unsolved puzzles disguised as routine.

The village, once satisfied with completed maps, began to change. Arin built irrigation systems inspired by floating staircases. He designed windmills shaped like kites. He organized storytelling nights where children drew inventions before they learned to doubt them.

Adventure had matured. It was no longer about stepping into fantasy – it was about bringing possibility back with him.

Now let us step out of the parable.
Adventure, in the human sense, is not merely travel. It is cognitive expansion.

Psychologists describe curiosity as a driver of neuroplasticity – the brain’s ability to rewire itself. When we explore unfamiliar ideas, environments, or skills, we stimulate new neural pathways.

Imagination is not childish ornamentation; it is rehearsal for innovation. The boy who draws impossible staircases may become the adult who designs sustainable architecture. The child who invents dragons may grow into the engineer who builds climate solutions.

Adventure begins in imagination before it appears in reality.

Creative thinking, what researchers call divergent thinking, allows the brain to generate multiple solutions rather than fixating on one. This capacity is foundational to problem-solving, entrepreneurship, art, and scientific discovery. Many breakthroughs are simply adventures of thought taken seriously.

Yet somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us trade adventure for predictability. We confuse safety with stagnation. We stop drawing doors on trees.

But here is the profound truth…

Adventure is not the opposite of responsibility. It is the engine of progress.

Every innovation in history began as someone refusing to accept the edge of the map. Flight was once fantasy. Communication across oceans was once myth. Even the device you are reading this on began as a question that sounded unreasonable.

Adventure is the courage to ask “What if?” and the discipline to pursue the answer.

Through the human lens, the theme of adventure reveals three deep lessons:

1. Imagination precedes reality. What you dare to conceive shapes what you dare to build.
2. Curiosity strengthens the mind. Exploration expands cognitive flexibility and resilience.
3. Innovation grows from wonder. Playful thinking often leads to practical transformation.

The boy in the parable never lost his theme. He refined it. He learned that adventure is not about fleeing the village – it is about expanding it.

And perhaps that is the invitation for all of us.

To look at the ordinary and see prototypes.
To look at problems and see blueprints.
To look at ourselves and see unfinished maps.

Your theme of adventure may not require forests of floating ideas. It may begin with learning a new skill, asking a difficult question, changing careers, writing the first page, speaking the honest truth.

Adventure is not measured by distance traveled but by boundaries questioned. Somewhere inside you, there is still a notebook that refuses to stay blank. The door is already drawn. The tree is waiting.

So why not take it on… and explore what’s been waiting for you?

3 Comments

Seasoned Against My Will

February 26, 2026 at 4:07 am (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, Poems that I love, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, prompt, stories, weekly prompt, Writers on wordpress, writing prompt

In response to Esther’s Weekly Writing Prompt

https://wp.me/p3vsTb-9nl

Prompt Word: Taste

Dear Time,

You have the strangest flavor.

When I was young, you tasted like sugar – impatient and sparkling. I gulped you down in summer vacations and licked you off birthday candles. You were syrupy, endless, and embarrassingly sweet. I thought you would always dissolve kindly on my tongue.

Then you changed. Or perhaps I did.

You began to taste like grapefruit, sharp, unapologetic, impossible to ignore. You lingered at the back of my mouth after disappointments. You arrived metallic before difficult conversations. You left the faint salt of unshed tears.

You never asked if I preferred sweetness. You seasoned me anyway.

I used to resent your bitterness. I mistook it for cruelty. But now I suspect you were marinating me, slow and deliberate. Teaching me that not everything exquisite is sugary. That dark chocolate needs patience. That coffee requires courage. That some victories sparkle like champagne but settle into something quieter – a warm, steady aftertaste of earned breath.

You taught me about acquired taste.

How solitude first felt like burnt toast – dry, unwelcome, and later became like well-brewed tea. How ambition once tasted like glitter and applause, but matured into something saltier, steadier, more sustaining. How even heartbreak, that metallic tang I wanted to spit out, softened into wisdom I would not trade back for innocence.

You have a wicked sense of humor, you know.

You let me crave things that would later exhaust me. You let me reject flavors I would someday cherish. You watched me chase sugar highs in people, in praise, in approval, and then quietly let the aftertaste teach me discernment.

And oh, that aftertaste. You are clever there. The applause fades. The room empties. The sweetness dissolves. And what remains is you.

Sometimes you taste like salt – preserving what matters, stinging where I am still tender. Sometimes you taste like hunger, reminding me I am not done wanting, not done reaching, not done becoming.

You have refined me in ways I didn’t consent to but now understand.

You have stripped my palate of excess.
You have sharpened my discernment.
You have taught me that “good taste” is not what dazzles immediately but what nourishes quietly.

I no longer fear your bitterness. I no longer chase only sugar. I have learned to sit with complexity, the dark chocolate days, the citrus mornings, the briny afternoons of effort and resilience.

If childhood was candy, adulthood is a layered meal.
And you, Time, are the chef who never repeats a recipe.

I still have a sweet tooth. I still delight in warm doughnuts and melting chocolate and the sharp surprise of grapefruit (not all at the same time, I have learned moderation). But now I understand something I did not before:

It was never about flavor alone. It was about transformation. You do not simply pass.
You ferment.
You distill.
You season.

And in doing so, you have made me, slowly, stubbornly, an acquired taste to myself.

With reluctant gratitude and a refined palate,
Me.

7 Comments

Perspective in Motion

February 25, 2026 at 11:45 am (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, Poetry (Self Inspired), psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, photography, pieces of my heart, Ragtagdailyprompt, RDP, stories, Writers on wordpress

In response to Ragtagdailyprompt

RDP Wednesday: Crazy

https://wp.me/p9YcOU-6dQ

Crazy is a shout the world didn’t hear coming,
a spark that ignites in the gaps between reason and fear.
Crazy is the child spinning in circles while adults clutch their maps,
the lover who dares to touch the impossible,
the poet who writes letters to the wind, knowing the wind will answer.

Crazy is not a mistake, it is the blueprint of life itself.
The stars are crazy, burning and dying in silence.
The rivers are crazy, carving mountains without permission.
Time itself is crazy, folding and stretching, ignoring our clocks.

And we call someone crazy?
We call them crazy as if the universe obeyed our rules,
as if wonder could be measured,
as if freedom could be caged.

Crazy is the audacity to see what others ignore,
the invisible geometry in chaos,
the music in the trembling of a leaf,
the truth hiding in laughter that shouldn’t exist.

Crazy is perspective on fire.
It is the fool leaping where reason trembles.
It is the child insisting the sky is upside down.
It is love unbound, hope unbroken, grief unashamed.

Crazy is rebellion. It is devotion, life – raw and untamed.
It is the mind daring to touch infinity,
the soul refusing to shrink,
the pulse of a universe laughing at its own audacity.

And sometimes… we all have a bit of crazy in us.
Like when you talk to your plants and swear they’re judging you,
or when you’ve memorized every line of a movie and quote it in real life like it’s sacred scripture,
or when you eat dessert first because someone, probably your inner genius declared life is too short for rules.
Crazy sneaks in with your morning coffee, with your dancing alone in the kitchen,
with the weird little thoughts you think are too embarrassing to say out loud.
And honestly? That’s the part that makes you wonderfully, unapologetically human.

So call it crazy.
Call it wild, foolish, impossible.
But know this…the world, the stars, the seas, the fleeting heartbeat of a single life, is crazy,
and you, when you dare, are simply joining the revolution.

2 Comments

Whispers Of Growth

February 25, 2026 at 5:44 am (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, SSSS, stories, Sunday Six Sentences Stories, Writers on wordpress

In response to Girlie on the Edge’s Sunday Six Sentences Stories

https://wp.me/pFebB-8gx

Prompt: Sign

1. Glimmers of hope appear in places you least expect, quietly guiding your heart.

2. Rivers of change flow around you, urging you to release what no longer serves.

3. Open your eyes to the hidden signs that speak softly in every breath.

4. Wander through uncertainty, for it is there that your courage quietly blooms.

5. Trust the gentle pull of intuition; it always leads toward light.

6. Hold onto wonder, and you will see that every ending is a new beginning.

3 Comments

The Ballad of Blunt Bob

February 25, 2026 at 5:18 am (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, stories, Writer's Workshop Prompt, Writers on wordpress

Write about an encounter with a very difficult person

In response to John Holton’s Writer’s Workshop for February 24, 2026

https://wp.me/p18YYd-h4C

I choose 3.

There comes a time in every mild-mannered person’s life when you look back and think, “Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I slap that comeback onto the grill and serve it hot?” For me, that moment came in the form of a man I like to call Blunt Bob – because calling him Truthzilla, Destroyer of Workplace Peace seemed a tad aggressive (and HR said no).

Bob had a superpower. Not flying, not invisibility – no, that would have required subtlety. His power? Brutal honesty, served with the emotional intelligence of a traffic cone.

“You look tired,” he’d say, peering at you as if you were a soggy dishrag.

Translation: You look like you were dragged through a hedge by a caffeinated badger.

“Don’t take it personally,” he’d shrug, “I just call it like I see it.”

Yeah Bob, and serial killers also follow their truth.

At first, I thought I was the chosen one. The only target of Bob’s unsalted candor. Like a roasted chicken under the heat lamp of his feedback. But then… it spread.

First, it was Karen from finance. One minute she’s presenting a new spreadsheet model; next minute Bob’s saying, “Well, that’s a bold approach. If your goal was to confuse a goldfish.”

Karen hasn’t made eye contact with Excel since.

Then came Pete. Sweet, gentle Pete. All he did was bring in cookies.

Bob: “These taste like regret.”

Pete hasn’t baked since. His stand mixer now lives in a therapy group for emotionally abused appliances.

Every time someone gasped or blinked rapidly to suppress a tear, Bob would launch into a TED Talk:

“Honesty is the highest form of respect. Sugarcoating is for people who can’t handle reality.”

Translation: I enjoy verbal dropkicks. Deal with it.

But here’s the kicker. Bob could dish it – but he couldn’t take it.

One time, someone asked him gently if his PowerPoint had a typo. He reacted like they’d insulted his ancestors. He whipped out a 3-page thesis explaining why it was a stylistic choice, complete with footnotes and a bar graph labeled “You’re Wrong and Here’s Why.”

I watched in dismay. I nodded, smiled, and I said nothing. And every time, I kicked myself later. Why did I let him verbally kung fu chop us into submission?

Then came the party. Oh, the glorious party. A casual office BBQ. Bob brought his kid – an angel-faced, juice-box-wielding truth grenade named Max.

Bob was holding court, as usual, explaining to a group how “some people just aren’t built for leadership.”

Then Max piped up, loudly and with toddler-level obliviousness:

“Daddy, why do you always say mean things when people are happy?”

Silence. You could hear the ketchup squeeze bottle recoil in horror. Bob froze. His eyes darted around. Everyone stared. Someone dropped a sausage.

Max took a bite of his hotdog and added:

“You said Ms. Karen looked like a potato. Potatoes are nice. But she cried.”

BOOM. That was it. The downfall. The crumbling of Mount Bluntmore. To Bob’s credit, he didn’t explode. He just sort of… deflated. Like a balloon that farted itself into a corner.

Later, he pulled me aside.

“Was I really that bad?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

I said, “Because I was trying to be kind. But maybe too kind. Wimp-kind.” We both laughed awkwardly.

So, what would I do differently, if I could turn back time?

Simple. I’d carry a mirror. Not metaphorically – an actual mirror. Every time Bob said something savage, I’d hold it up and say:

“Let’s all reflect on that, shall we?”

I might’ve printed his quotes on inspirational posters and hung them up ironically.

“These taste like regret” over a scenic mountain lake.

“You look tired” with a kitten in a hammock.

And more importantly, I’d have spoken up – not with malice, but with spine. Because kindness without courage is just surrender dressed in pastels.

The lesson? Give people the benefit of the doubt. Be kind. But never let “polite” turn you into a doormat.

And if you ever meet someone like Bob, just wait. Karma might be wearing velcro shoes and holding a juice box.

Disclaimer:

All names and scenarios in this post have been fictionalized or altered for the purpose of humor and storytelling. Any resemblance to real people, living or otherwise, is purely coincidental. This piece is intended in good spirit and does not aim to offend or target any individual.

P.S. A little déjà vu? This mischievous nugget appeared in an earlier challenge too.

That said, we’ve all met (or been) a “Blunt Bob” at some point. Such personalities do exist, and while honesty is valuable, kindness and self-awareness are too. Let’s all take a moment to introspect before we act like a know-it-all, because there’s a fine line between being honest and being just plain condescending.

5 Comments

Shop ‘Til You Drop…Your Life Savings

February 25, 2026 at 4:41 am (Articles, Fairytales, Humor, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, keepitalive, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, pieces of my heart, stories, Sunday Poser, Writers on wordpress

In response to Sadje’s Sunday Poser #274

Prompt: Buyer’s Remorse

https://wp.me/paf3ao-mM8

I should start by admitting something to you, something shameful, yet oddly thrilling. I have an expert-level PhD in buying things I absolutely do not need.

Shoes that make me look taller but cripple me after 10 minutes? Bought.

A kitchen gadget that slices, dices, juliennes, and probably also walks my dog? Bought.

A sweater in a color I swear I’ll wear, but somehow only looks good in the lighting of a Parisian Instagram filter? Bought.

And then comes the fun part…the slow, creeping horror of Buyer’s Remorse.

It usually starts innocently enough. I arrive home, triumphantly carrying my new purchase like a queen returning from battle. I set it down, take a sip of celebratory coffee, and feel the warm glow of self-congratulation. “Yes,” I murmur. “This is exactly what I needed. My life is now complete.”

Fast forward 12 hours, and the glow has been replaced by that suspicious chill in the air, like the universe is whispering, “Really? THIS was your life-altering choice?”

Suddenly, the shoes stab my feet with the intensity of a thousand tiny daggers. The kitchen gadget sits on the counter staring at me with unblinking judgment. And the sweater…oh, the sweater now looks like it belongs on a slightly depressed llama.

Then the spiral begins. I scroll online for reviews, searching desperately for a reassuring voice. “No, you’re fine,” I whisper to myself. “Everyone else loves it.” But deep down, I know I’ve entered the sacred, eternal club of shoppers past redemption – the people who own things they’ll never use but still defend in casual conversation like brave soldiers at a battlefield of poor judgment.

I’ve tried coping mechanisms. There’s denial – “It’s not that expensive.” There’s justification – “It’s a classic piece, it will come back in style.” And then there’s the cruelest of all, rationalization – “Well, I can always use it as a gift…for myself…next year…”

The truth is, Buyer’s Remorse isn’t just about money. It’s about trust. Trust in my own judgment. Trust in my ability to resist glittery sales signs. Trust in the universe to tell me, “Maybe skip the eighth novelty mug.”

And yet, here’s the most ridiculous thing, even after the pain, the shame, the existential questioning of my life choices, I always go back.

Because nothing beats the thrill of the first swipe, the scent of new packaging, the seductive whisper of “you deserve this.” I’m trapped, but I’m happy…umm…mostly.

So, if you ever catch me buying something completely unnecessary, don’t judge. I’m simply practicing my art. My art of regret, my sculpture of impulse, my magnum opus of Buyer’s Remorse. And honestly…if there’s going to be a club, I might as well be president.

Because one day, I’ll look back on all these ridiculous purchases, laugh until I cry, and say with pride: “Yes. Every last one. Even the llama sweater. Even the ‘automatic avocado slicer.’ Even…everything.”

And at that moment, the universe will shrug, the shoes will stop stabbing, and I will finally feel like a champion of my own wonderfully flawed, chaotically consumerist life.

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Invisible Threads

February 25, 2026 at 4:28 am (Articles, Fairytales, kids stories, mental health, My Reflections, MYSTERIOUS, philosophy, psyche, research, satire, stories)
Tags: articles on wordpress, blog, blog post, creative writing, inner self, introspection, lifelessons, PaletteNPixels, parables, photography, pieces of my heart, Ragtagdailyprompt, RDP, stories, Writers on wordpress

In response to Ragtagdailyprompt

RDP Tuesday: Observant

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In a village that prided itself on being loud, there lived a woman who barely spoke.

The village was famous for its bells. They rang for births, for weddings, for market sales, for arguments, for victories that were small and defeats that were theatrical. Noise was proof of existence. If something mattered, it was announced.

But the woman, they called her Mira, listened instead.

She kept no shop, held no office and claimed no authority. Yet, people often found themselves sitting beside her on the stone bench under the neem tree, speaking more honestly than they meant to.

Mira noticed small things.

She noticed that the baker slammed his dough harder on mornings after receiving letters from his brother.
She noticed that the schoolteacher’s voice grew brighter when speaking of other people’s children, but softened, almost broke, when mentioning her own.
She noticed that the village headman laughed too loudly when someone else succeeded.

One year, the rains came late.
The villagers panicked loudly, as they did with everything. They argued about irrigation channels, blamed neighboring towns, accused the sky of betrayal. Meetings were held. Speeches were made, but nothing changed.

Mira said nothing in the meetings. Instead, she watched. She watched the riverbank shrink by a hand’s breadth each week. She noticed which farmers were watering at dawn when no one saw. She noticed which fields stayed greener longer. She noticed the old well behind the temple that everyone had forgotten because it was too small to matter in good years.

And one evening, when the bells rang again to announce another emergency gathering, Mira stood up. Her voice was not loud. It did not need to be.

“The river is not failing us,” she said. “We are draining it unevenly. Three fields draw twice what they need. Five draw nothing because they fear asking. And the old well still holds water, but pride has kept it abandoned.”

There was silence. She had not accused. She had observed. And because she had watched without ego, she could speak without hostility.

The farmers adjusted. The well was reopened. Water was redistributed. The rains eventually came, but by then the village had already been saved, not by noise, but by attention.

Years later, when Mira died, there were no grand speeches. But something curious happened. The bells rang softer that day. As if even they had learned something.

Observation is not mystical. It is a discipline.

Psychologists call it attentional awareness, the ability to perceive subtle cues in behavior, tone, and environment. Research in emotional intelligence shows that people who notice micro-expressions, body language shifts, and inconsistencies between words and actions make better decisions, resolve conflict more effectively, and build stronger relationships.

In leadership studies, “situational awareness” consistently ranks among the most critical skills, not dominance, not charisma.

In relationships, the difference between rupture and repair is often a moment of observation:

Did you notice the pause before “I’m fine”?
Did you notice the fatigue behind irritation?
Did you notice your own defensiveness rising?

Observation prevents escalation. It reduces projection. It exposes imbalance before it becomes injustice.

But here is the difficult truth. Being observant requires stillness. And stillness threatens ego.

These are questions I find myself returning to again and again. I share them not as answers, but as companions in reflection.

1. What patterns have I noticed in my workplace or home that others dismiss as “nothing”?

2. When someone speaks to me, am I listening for a response, or for truth?

3. What does my body do when I feel threatened, unseen, or unheard?

4. Where might resources (time, attention, emotional labor) be unevenly distributed in my relationships?

5. What small sign have I ignored recently because it was inconvenient to address?

And perhaps the most important:

6. Am I brave enough to observe without immediately judging?

Because to observe without ego is rare. To speak from observation without accusation is rarer still. The world does not always need louder bells. Sometimes, it needs someone willing to watch the water level drop, and say something before the river runs dry.

Pieces Of My Heart

Who Are You Today?

Too Hot to Handle

Bumper Bells & Fairy Spam

What If?

Seasoned Against My Will

Perspective in Motion

Whispers Of Growth

The Ballad of Blunt Bob

Shop ‘Til You Drop…Your Life Savings

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