I woke up with a drive to conquer Earth, Or at least to conquer laundry… since my birth. My motivation’s loud, my spirit’s alive Until I see the sink. Then I… don’t drive.
I took my drive for a drive down the lane, Because inner ambition needs outer terrain. But the car had opinions, the clutch had pride And my confidence stalled like my Wi-Fi when guests arrive.
At work my boss said, “You need more drive, my dear.” So I smiled and said, “Sure,” while dying in fear. I went home, ate chips, and then I cried Because apparently “drive” means “work,” not “vibe.”
My mom said, “Girl, you’ve no drive in life.” I said, “Ma, I have one.” She said, “Where?” I said, “Wi-Fi.” She said, “No, I mean passion.” I said, “Oh! That kind.” She said, “Yes.” I said, “Need to update my mind.”
My laptop has a drive full of files I ignore Old resumes, memes, and a folder called “Important_Sure.” It holds dreams, receipts, and one PDF titled “How to Thrive,” Which I downloaded once… for emotional drive.
I joined a gym for the drive to get fit, But the treadmill and I had a mutual quit. It said, “Run.” I said, “No.” It said, “Try.” I said, “I am trying… to not die.”
Then romance arrived like a dramatic tide, My heart found a drive it couldn’t hide. Suddenly I’m poetic, I’m brave, I’m alive, Until they text “k.” Then I lose my drive.
My friend said, “Let’s go on a long drive tonight.” I said, “Yes,” for the vibes, for the city lights. We drove in circles, no plan, no guide, Just two lost adults and our existential ride.
And sometimes, late, when the world feels wide, I feel that strange inner engine inside. Not the car kind, not the file kind, not the boss kind Just the quiet kind that says: “Keep going, you’ll find.”
So here’s to drive, in every disguise, In cars, in hearts, in hard disks, in lies. It means ambition, motion, and sometimes… a vibe, And sometimes it’s just me, lost on Google Maps, trying to survive.
We’re standing in front of a vending machine like it’s Netflix, too many options, nothing feels right, and somehow we’re still here.
The machine is glowing like it has opinions. Like it’s about to say, “Interesting choice. You sure you wanna be that person?”
You’re scanning the chips section like you’re doing a background check. I’m looking at the chocolates like I’m emotionally unavailable but sweet about it.
A1 is giving “safe.” B2 is giving “red flag but tasty.” C7 is giving “this will ruin my skin.” D4 is giving “I’m spiraling but make it aesthetic.”
We don’t talk. We just stand there with our backs to the world like we’re in a sad indie film called Two People Avoiding Their Feelings.
You say you “don’t care.” Which is a lie. Because you’re reading labels like it’s a contract.
I say “get whatever.” Which is also a lie. Because I’m judging you based on what you pick.
Because snacks are not snacks anymore. Snacks are personality.
Chips? You have trust issues but in a fun way.
Chocolate? You’re romantic but will ghost.
Protein bar? You’re either healing or lying.
Trail mix? You’re the type who says “I’m low maintenance” and then cries in 4K.
You hover over the keypad like you’re about to text your ex.
The machine waits. Silent. Menacing. Fully aware it has more emotional stability than both of us.
Finally you press a code.
The spiral turns like fate but cheaper.
The snack drops with the confidence I wish I had.
We pick it up like it’s a prize, like it’s not literally a five-minute dopamine rental.
And as we walk away I realize the vending machine didn’t just sell us food.
It sold us a moment where making a decision felt possible.
Which is honestly rare.
In this economy. In this generation. In this mental state.
There was once a town that came with a label. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not “in a symbolic sense.” A literal label.
It hung from the sky like a tag on a gift:
FRAGILE – HANDLE WITH CARE
People travelled from faraway places just to stand at the town’s border and read it. Some laughed.
“A whole town? Fragile? That’s ridiculous.”
But the locals didn’t laugh. They had learned the rules the hard way.
In this town, sound had weight. If you slammed a door, a window would shiver into cracks. If you shouted in anger, a street lamp would blink out like it had been scolded. If you stomped your feet, the pavement would grow thin lines like tiny heartbreaks.
So the town moved gently. They spoke in soft syllables. They walked as if the earth was sleeping. Even the dogs barked politely, like they were asking permission.
At the center of the town, in a square made of moonlight and cobblestones, there was a shop. No name. Just another sign:
FRAGILE GOODS ONLY
Inside, the shelves held no glass vases or porcelain dolls. Instead, the shop sold the things no one else knew how to keep safe.
A jar of first laughter. A box of unspoken love. A spool of hope. A teacup of yesterday’s courage. A folded paper star containing someone’s last wish.
The shopkeeper was an old woman with hair like a silver comet. Her eyes were kind, but her voice carried a warning.
“Be careful,” she told every customer. “What breaks here doesn’t always shatter. Sometimes it simply vanishes.”
One evening, a traveller arrived. He wore heavy boots, a heavy coat, and a heavy mood. He had the kind of face that looked like it had been trained not to trust softness. He stood under the sky’s label and snorted.
“Fragile,” he said. “That’s just a fancy word for weak.”
The town did not defend itself. The sky did not argue. But somewhere, a wind chime quietly stopped ringing.
The traveller marched into the square and pushed open the shop door too hard. Something unseen inside flinched.
The shopkeeper looked up.
“Welcome,” she said calmly. “What are you here to buy?”
The traveller crossed his arms. “Show me your most fragile thing.”
The shopkeeper nodded as if she’d been waiting centuries for that exact sentence.
She reached behind the counter and brought out something that didn’t look like anything at all.
Not a jar. Not a box.
A glow. A small trembling light, like the last star awake.
The traveller leaned closer. “What is that?”
The shopkeeper said, “A dream someone had when they were eight.”
He laughed. “That’s it? A dream?”
“It survived war,” she replied. “It survived adulthood. It survived disappointment. But it will not survive mockery.”
The traveller’s laughter stopped as if it had been caught by its collar. The word mockery tasted like ash in his mouth.
“Fine,” he said, louder than necessary. “I’ll buy it.”
The shopkeeper didn’t move.
“You don’t buy fragile things with money,” she said. “You buy them with how you hold them.”
He rolled his eyes. “Give it to me.”
So she placed the glow into his hands.
It weighed nothing. Yet his palms immediately began to sweat, not from heat, but from a strange new fear. Because he understood something instantly.
If he dropped it, it wouldn’t fall. It would simply stop existing. He tried to grip it harder. The glow dimmed.
“Gentle,” the shopkeeper murmured.
He loosened his hands. The glow brightened again, as if it had been waiting for permission to breathe.
He stared. “What kind of magic is this?”
“It’s not magic,” she said. “It’s truth.”
He stepped out into the square, holding the dream as carefully as a bird with a broken wing.
And because he was human, because humans are chaotic creatures in clever clothing, he did something foolish.
He tossed the glow into the air. Just a little. Just to prove he wasn’t afraid.
The town went silent. Even the wind held its breath. The glow rose… paused… and came down. He caught it. For a second he felt triumphant.
Then he noticed the glow was smaller. Not shattered. Not broken. Just… thinner.
The shopkeeper’s voice drifted from the doorway.
“Careless doesn’t always destroy,” she said gently. “Sometimes it only reduces.”
The traveller sat down on the cobblestones, suddenly exhausted.
He stared at the dimmed dream and remembered a boy version of himself, a child who had once believed the world might be kind. A child who had wanted to build flying machines and write impossible stories.
He hadn’t thought of that boy in years. He had treated him like a foolish thing. Like something fragile. His throat tightened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
The glow brightened a little. Not fully, but enough. The shopkeeper came and sat beside him. “People think fragile means weak,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “What does it mean then?” She tilted her face toward the sky.
“It means something survived by staying soft. It means it refused to become stone just because the world threw rocks.”
The traveller swallowed hard. The dream pulsed gently in his hands. And then the town’s label above them, the giant FRAGILE sign, shifted.
As if the sky itself was rewriting it. New words appeared beneath:
FRAGILE NOT WEAK SIMPLY ALIVE
The traveller exhaled. He didn’t know he’d been holding his breath for years. He stayed in the town for three days.
On the first day, he learned to walk softly. On the second day, he learned to speak without bruising the air. On the third day, he returned to the shop.
He held out his hands. The dream still glowed – imperfect, but present.
“I want to keep it,” he said. “But I don’t trust myself.”
The shopkeeper smiled.
“That,” she said, “is the first sign you’re ready.”
She handed him a wrapping, not cloth, not bubble wrap, but something stranger.
It was made of words. It read…
HANDLE WITH CARE ESPECIALLY YOURSELF
The traveller laughed. And this time, the laughter didn’t crack. It rang, like a bell in a safe world.
And as he walked away, the FRAGILE label no longer felt like a warning.
It felt like an invitation.
To love what can break. To protect what can disappear. To be gentle enough to hold something precious…and brave enough to stay soft anyway.
A traveler finds a map that shows only the places they’re afraid to go.
He found the map, the way trouble finds you, quietly, and with excellent timing.
It slipped out of an old library book that he definitely hadn’t borrowed and yet, somehow, was now responsible for. The parchment was warm in his hands, as if it had a pulse. It was mostly blank… except for a few places inked in midnight-dark letters.
Not countries or cities but fears.
THE DOOR YOU DIDN’T KNOCK ON. THE WOODS WHERE YOUR THOUGHTS GET TOO LOUD. THE LAKE THAT SHOWS YOU AS YOU ARE. THE HOUSE WITH THE LIGHT STILL ON.
At the top, in elegant handwriting, were the words…
A MAP THAT ONLY MARKS WHERE YOU’RE AFRAID TO GO.
He laughed once, because that’s what you do when paper starts reading your soul. Then the map shifted slightly, as if pleased to have his attention.
He stepped off a train at a station called ELSEWHERE, where the air smelled like rain and unfinished decisions.
A fox with a tiny scarf sat on the platform bench, watching him with the calm superiority of a creature who has never once overthought a text message.
The fox looked at the map, then walked away. The traveler followed, because some invitations don’t come with words, only gravity.
Elsewhere was a town that rearranged itself when he blinked. A bakery became a clock shop. A fountain ran with starlight. A cat sold postcards in exchange for small, useless memories.
And in a driftwood kiosk hung with wind chimes, an old woman examined his map like she’d seen hundreds.
“You found one,” she said.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A map,” she replied, unimpressed.
He frowned. “It only shows places I’m afraid to go.”
“That’s because most people travel the world,” she said, “and never leave the safest parts of themselves.”
He didn’t like how accurate that was. He chose the easiest fear first.
THE DOOR YOU DIDN’T KNOCK ON.
It stood alone in an alley like a paused moment. Painted deep blue. Familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.
A plaque read:
KNOCK, IF YOU DARE TO CHANGE.
He hesitated. Then knocked.
The door opened into a simple room, warm with lamplight.
And there, at a table with tea, sat… him.
Not him exactly.
Him, but softer. Lighter. Unarmored.
“You finally came,” the other him said.
The traveler’s voice turned small. “Who are you?”
“The version of you,” the other him said gently, “that existed in all the timelines where you knocked when it mattered.”
The traveler stared at the second cup waiting for him.
“I’m not brave,” he whispered.
The other him smiled.
“Neither am I. I just knock anyway.”
When he stepped back out, the words on the map faded, as if relieved.
And a new fear appeared.
He crossed the Woods Where His Thoughts Get Too Loud, where trees whispered his worst-case scenarios in his own voice.
He visited The Village Where Everyone Remembers You Differently, where strangers greeted him as a hero, a villain, a coward, a saint, until he realized none of them were wrong.
He reached the Lake That Shows You As You Are.
The water reflected not what he wanted to be… but what he was.
The sharpness that was really hurt. The sarcasm that was really tenderness. The ambition that was really fear of being forgotten.
He sat at the shore and cried, not because he was broken, because he was tired of carrying himself like a war.
The fox leaned against him, warm and wordless.
And the map grew lighter. At last, only one place remained.
THE HOUSE WITH THE LIGHT STILL ON.
His steps slowed.
“I can’t,” he told the fox.
The fox blinked.
And somehow, without speaking, it sent a message straight into his chest:
You can. You’re just afraid you’ll want to stay.
So he walked.
The house waited at the end of a lantern-lit lane. The porch boards creaked like an old memory. The light in the window was soft and golden, an ordinary light made holy by how long it had been left on.
The door opened before he could knock. Someone stood there. Someone he had once loved, or maybe still loved. They looked at him like they’d been holding a breath for years.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” they said.
“I didn’t think I could,” he admitted.
Inside, the house smelled like tea and old books and laughter that didn’t require performance. On the walls were photographs – some real, some impossible.
In one, he was dancing. In another, he was resting. In another, he was simply… happy.
He swallowed hard. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.
The person touched his hand.
“This isn’t a place you lost,” they said. “It’s a place you refused to return to… because you didn’t believe you deserved to be welcomed.”
His eyes stung. And in that moment he understood… the greatest magic wasn’t foxes in scarves or towns that moved.
It was a door still opening. A light still on. A place still making room for you.
When he stepped outside again, he unfolded the map. The last dark ink mark faded. And in its place, new words appeared, this time in gold.
PLACES YOU ARE READY TO GO.
THE BRIDGE OF SECOND CHANCES. THE ROAD YOU TAKE WITHOUT APOLOGIZING. THE MEADOW OF “GOOD ENOUGH.” THE CITY WHERE YOU BEGIN AGAIN.
The traveler laughed, real laughter, bright as a struck match. The fox hopped onto his shoulder like it belonged there. And together they walked into the soft, shimmering geography of his own becoming, where the map no longer burned like fear…but fluttered like possibility.
“Some memberships come with a card. The most expensive ones come with a personality.”
People talk about membership like it’s a thing you consciously signed up for, like you walked into a neat little office, filled out a form, chose a plan (Basic, Premium, Emotional Damage), and walked out with a shiny badge that says Congratulations, you now belong.
But that’s not how membership really works, is it?
Real membership is sneakier. It doesn’t ask for your ID. It doesn’t send you a confirmation email. It doesn’t even have the decency to offer a free trial. It simply happens to you, quietly, casually, like a cat deciding your lap is now legally its property.
Let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, in a perfectly normal town filled with perfectly normal people who were all pretending they weren’t slightly spiralling, there lived a man named Nikhil. Nikhil was the kind of man who prided himself on not being part of any club. He liked to say things like, “I don’t do labels,” and “I’m not into social constructs,” and “I’m a free thinker,” which is exactly what someone says right before they join twelve invisible memberships without realising it.
One day, Nikhil was walking through the market when he saw a small, odd shop he’d never noticed before.
The signboard read: THE MEMBERSHIP EMPORIUM We enroll you. You don’t enroll us.
Naturally, Nikhil laughed and walked in, because arrogance is always the first step toward enrollment.
Inside, the shopkeeper was a tiny old woman with the calm expression of someone who had watched humanity for centuries and found it consistently hilarious.
Nikhil said, “I’m just browsing.”
The shopkeeper smiled. “Of course. Everyone says that.”
He looked around. There were no products. No shelves. Just a desk, a bell, and a giant ledger titled:
PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY’RE NOT MEMBERS OF ANYTHING
Nikhil said, “What is this place?”
The shopkeeper said, “We provide memberships.”
Nikhil scoffed. “I didn’t sign up.”
The shopkeeper rang the bell once. A soft chime echoed. Somewhere in the distance, a pigeon looked offended.
Then she said, “My dear. That’s adorable.”
She opened the ledger and flipped through pages like a librarian handling forbidden knowledge.
“Let’s see… you’re already a member of the Good Son Club.”
Nikhil blinked. “What?”
She nodded. “Lifetime plan. No cancellation option. Includes guilt, obligation, and the belief that love must be earned through performance.”
Nikhil laughed nervously. “I don’t think so.”
She continued. “You’re also a Gold Member of the Reliable Friend Society. You’re the one who replies. You’re the one who shows up. You’re the one who says ‘it’s fine’ even when your soul is lying on the floor in pieces.”
Nikhil opened his mouth. Closed it.
The shopkeeper flipped another page. “Ah. Premium subscription to Impostor Syndrome. You frequently feel you are a mistake that accidentally learned how to speak.”
She looked up, eyes twinkling. “And of course, you’re enrolled in the Human Club.”
Nikhil frowned. “What’s that?”
The shopkeeper leaned forward. “Side effects include nostalgia, yearning, random anxiety, and the urge to text people you miss at 2:13 AM.”
Nikhil stared at her. “I…how do you know that specific time?”
The shopkeeper shrugged. “We have data.”
Nikhil said, “So how do I cancel these memberships?”
The shopkeeper smiled with great kindness, the way one smiles at a child asking how to cancel gravity.
“You don’t cancel them,” she said. “You just become aware of what you’ve already joined.”
Nikhil looked down at the desk. There, sitting innocently, was a card with his name on it.
It read…CONGRATULATIONS. YOU BELONG. Terms and conditions apply emotionally.
He walked out of the shop, changed, mostly because he now realised he had been paying monthly fees in the currency of his own life.
And honestly? That’s all of us.
Because membership is not a card. Membership is not a gym plan you forget to cancel. Membership is the invisible contract you accidentally sign by existing near other humans. You think you’re just living your life, but you’re constantly being enrolled into roles – quiet ones, loud ones, inherited ones, self-imposed ones.
Some memberships start in childhood. The “Strong One” membership. The “Good Girl” membership. The “Don’t Be A Burden” membership. The “Be Easy To Love” membership. You don’t remember applying. One day you just wake up and you’re renewing it automatically.
And the perks are terrible.
They include smiling while your brain is on fire and calling it “being mature.”
Then there are memberships that feel like they come with a personality, like the “Funny One” membership. That one is dangerous because it gives you applause in exchange for silence. You learn how to turn pain into punchlines so quickly that even you forget you’re hurting. The crowd laughs, you bow, and later you go home and stare at the ceiling like a decorative haunted house.
There’s also membership as belonging to your past, because you can change cities, change careers, change hairstyles, change your entire spiritual belief system… but you cannot resign from who you used to be. You can outgrow the old version of yourself, but that version still sends you messages like an ex who refuses to accept the breakup.
“Remember when you embarrassed yourself in 2016?” Yes, thank you. I remember. I have a membership.
And then, of course, there’s membership as a prison made of politeness. That one is so common it should be a national sport. You say yes when you mean no. You say “no worries” when you are, in fact, a full-service worry factory. You say “it’s okay” while your inner self is holding a placard that reads: IT IS NOT OKAY.
And the world rewards you for it. That’s the sick part.
The more you suffer quietly, the more people call you “graceful.”
Membership also exists in the strangest places: your body.
Your body is the first club you ever joined, and it is the most loyal and the most dramatic. It keeps receipts. Stress in your shoulders. Grief in your throat. Anxiety in your stomach. Love in your chest like a warm engine that sometimes stalls at the worst moments. Your body doesn’t forget. It stores your emotional invoices like a diligent accountant.
And you can’t switch bodies the way you switch phone brands. You’re a lifetime member.
Now let’s talk about the most modern membership: the algorithm.
Because these days you’re not just a person. You’re a profile. A data point. A “you might also like.” You are a member of the scroll. The comparison economy. The attention marketplace. The cult of endless content.
The algorithm knows you better than your relatives do. Your relatives ask, “How are you?” and then immediately start telling you about someone else’s cousin’s wedding.
The algorithm, on the other hand, takes one look at your face at 1:47 AM and goes: “Ah. Sad girl hours. Here’s a video of a golden retriever comforting a baby.”
And you cry.
Because yes, you are a member.
Then there’s membership as love.
Love is the most intense membership of all because you don’t just join a person. You join their weather system. Their history and their soft spots, their weird habits, their unhealed corners. Their family group chat, which is frankly the most terrifying place on Earth.
You don’t just fall in love with someone.
You accidentally subscribe to their entire emotional ecosystem. And there is no refund policy.
Even worse, you sometimes become a member of their pain without meaning to. You hold their fears. You carry their bad days. You become a home for their storms.
And if it’s the right love, you don’t resent it. You just… stay.
Which brings us to the most philosophical membership – the stories you believe.
Because the deepest memberships are internal. They’re the ones you never question.
“I must earn love.” “I’m too much.” “I’m not enough.” “I must prove myself.” “I am only safe when I control everything.”
These are not thoughts. These are clubs. And some of them have been charging you your whole life.
Finally, there is the most ironic membership of all – the secret society of people who don’t feel like they belong.
The entry requirement is simple. You must constantly feel like you are in the wrong room.
You walk into a party and immediately think, “Why did they invite me?” You achieve something and think, “This was an administrative error.” Someone compliments you and you look around like they’re talking to the person behind you.
Congratulations. You’re a member. And the funniest part? No one talks about it, because everyone is too busy pretending they are not members of anything.
Which brings us to the most extraordinary way to see membership – as a cosmic group chat.
Existence is one giant intergalactic group chat where some people mute everything, some people spam motivational quotes, some people leave dramatically, some people read messages from 2012 and spiral, and some people type “lol” while actively falling apart.
And every once in a while, once in a rare, glittering while, someone sends a message that saves you.
A friend texts you, “Are you okay?” and you realise you’ve been holding your breath for weeks.
A stranger smiles at you in the lift and you feel, for a second, like the world isn’t a hostile place.
A loved one says your name softly and you remember you are not a machine. You are a person.
That’s membership too.
Not the membership of roles and prisons and algorithms and pain, but the membership of being part of the same strange human broadcast.
So yes, people talk about membership like it’s something you signed up for.
But the truth is, most of our memberships happen the way rain happens.
Quietly, gradually, and without permission. And the real art of living isn’t collecting memberships.
It’s noticing which ones you’re paying for with your peace… and which ones are actually worth the cost.
Because you can’t resign from being human. You can’t cancel your past. You can’t unsubscribe from love without consequences.
But you can choose, at least sometimes, to stop renewing the memberships that make you smaller, and start honouring the ones that make you feel like you belong.
Even if belonging is messy and even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s just you, at 2:13 AM, holding your phone like a sacred object, thinking: I should not text them.
And then texting them anyway. Because, welcome to the Human Club.
Your membership has been active this whole time. And no, there is still no free trial.
In ancient Greece, when people had problems, they did what any emotionally stable civilization would do. They sacrificed goats and asked a goddess. No journaling and no therapy, no “have you tried drinking water and going for a walk?” Just straight-up… “Dear divine being, fix my life.”
And among the gods, there was one who got the most unhinged fan mail of all. Her name was Panakeia – goddess of universal healing. Her resume was intimidating – Heals anything. Fixes everything. Probably has a skincare routine that cures heartbreak.
Her name eventually became a word – panacea, a cure-all. The only issue? Humans are humans. So naturally, they misunderstood her.
THE DAY PANAKIEA RECEIVED A DM
Panakeia lived on Mount Olympus, where the air was pure, the clouds were aesthetic, and Zeus’s ego had its own zip code. One morning, she woke up to a strange sound. DING. She blinked. DING DING DING. The sky glowed. Not with divine light. With… notifications.
A shimmering holographic screen appeared before her like a cursed prophecy.
WELCOME TO: OLYMPUS ONLINE™ “Healing has never been this scrollable.”
Panakeia stared. “What in Hades is this?” Athena walked in calmly, sipping something that looked suspiciously like an oat-milk latte. “Oh, we got Wi-Fi.” Panakeia looked horrified. “WHY?” Athena shrugged. “Because mortals are now praying through apps.” Panakeia’s hands trembled as she read her inbox:
@SadSpartan420: “Goddess, my situationship won’t text back. Cure him.” @CryingOracle: “I’m spiraling again. Do you have a potion or a playlist?” @BreadIsMyEnemy: “How to heal from eating carbs???” @ZeusIsToxic: “My boss keeps flirting with everyone. Help.”
Panakeia whispered: “…they used to sacrifice goats.” Athena nodded. “Yes. Now they sacrifice their dignity publicly.”
PANAKIEA ENTERS THE INTERNET
Panakeia did what any responsible goddess of healing would do. She tried to help. She opened a forum called: r/HealingAndChill
Her first post was gentle, wise, and divine. “True healing takes time. Sometimes you must sit with your pain and…” She got downvoted into oblivion. A user replied: u/InstantFixPlease: “Not reading all that. Do you have a shortcut?” Another: u/ManifestingChaos: “Actually I don’t claim negativity. Blocked.” Someone else: u/ScienceBro69: “Source?” Panakeia’s eye twitched. She tried Twitter.
PANAKIEA TRIES TWITTER AND LOSES HER IMMORTALITY
She posted… “Healing is not a trend.” Within five seconds: #HealingIsOverParty started trending. Someone accused her of being anti-selfcare. Someone else accused her of being pro-selfcare but in a problematic way. A guy with an anime profile picture replied: “Ratio.”
Panakeia gasped. “What is a ratio?” Athena patted her shoulder “It’s how mortals now win arguments instead of being correct.”
Panakeia blinked slowly. “So they heal by… humiliating others?” Athena smiled. “Yes. Very efficient.”
THE RISE OF THE NEW PANACEA
Soon, Panakeia realized something horrifying. Humans had invented a new universal cure. Not herbs, not potions and not wisdom.
No. Their new panacea was…POSTING ABOUT IT. They didn’t want solutions. They wanted: a comment section a hashtag a viral quote and 3 strangers saying “OMG SAME”
And honestly? It worked. Not permanently, but temporarily, which is basically the official currency of the internet.
A MORTAL PRAYER GOES VIRAL
One day, a mortal named Elara posted: “My life is falling apart. My job hates me. My skin hates me. My ex hates me. Even my plants are dying. I need a panacea.” Panakeia leaned forward. Finally, a real prayer. She clicked. The comments were immediate…
“GIRL SAME” “This is so me coded” “Have you tried magnesium?” “You need to cut off toxic energy. Also buy my course.” “Drop his birth chart.” “Therapy but make it aesthetic.” “Hot take: plants dying is a red flag.”
Panakeia whispered, stunned, “…none of these people are helping.” Athena shrugged. “They’re not helping. They’re engaging.”
Panakeia looked at the mortal’s post again. The mortal had replied: “Thanks guys I feel better now.”
Panakeia stared. “How?” Athena leaned in. “Because she got attention. Attention is now a substitute for oxygen.”
Panakeia clutched her divine chest. “This is blasphemy.”
Athena smirked. “No, it’s branding.”
PANAKIEA GETS CANCELLED BY A WELLNESS INFLUENCER
Panakeia decided to intervene. She appeared in Elara’s room, glowing, radiant, holding a golden bowl of healing nectar.
Elara screamed. “OMG WHO ARE YOU?” Panakeia smiled kindly. “I am Panakeia, goddess of universal healing. I heard your cry.”
Elara blinked. Then immediately did what any modern human would do: She opened her phone and started filming. “Guys… GUYS… you won’t believe this… I have a literal goddess in my bedroom. #Blessed #HealingEra #OlympusEnergy”
Panakeia raised her bowl. “This nectar will restore your health, your peace, your clarity…” Elara interrupted: “Wait wait – can you hold it higher? It’s not in frame.”
Panakeia paused, “…what?” Elara smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I just need content. This is my panacea.”
Panakeia’s expression cracked. “Your… what?” “My panacea,” Elara said, very confidently, as if she hadn’t just insulted an immortal deity. “This…Posting, sharing, going viral. It heals me. Like… emotionally.”
Panakeia blinked. Then, softly: “So you do not want healing?” Elara laughed. “Oh no I do. But like… not in a hard way.”
THE GODDESS LEARNS THE TRUTH
Panakeia returned to Olympus shaken. She found Asclepius, god of medicine, polishing a scalpel. “Brother,” she said, “mortals are using forums and tweets as a cure-all.” Asclepius sighed. “Yes.” “They think hashtags can heal them.” “Yes.” “They think comment sections are medicine.” “Yes.”
Panakeia sat down slowly. “…but it works.” Asclepius nodded. “It works in the way a bandage works on a broken bone.” Panakeia whispered: “So they are not healing… they are coping.” Asclepius smiled gently. “Welcome to humanity.”
PANAKIEA MAKES HER OWN SOCIAL PLATFORM
Panakeia, being a goddess, did what no mortal ever could. She built her own app. It appeared overnight in the App Store. PANACEA™ “Cure-All. Scroll Less. Live More.” The app had features like:
Mute Your Ex Auto-Block Toxic Positivity Reality Check Notifications A Button That Says “Drink Water” A Pop-Up That Slaps Your Phone Away After 20 Minutes
The slogan was simple: “Healing isn’t viral.” The app got 7 downloads, 2 of them were accidental, and one was Zeus trying to flirt with customer support
THE FINAL TWIST
Months later, Panakeia checked the mortal world again. Elara was thriving. Not because she’d gone viral, but because she’d done something radical. She had logged off. She was journaling. Sleeping, walking, going to therapy and taking care of her plants. Panakeia smiled. Finally. Her work was done.
Then Elara posted one last tweet: “Logging off was my panacea. #SelfCare #Healing #TouchGrass”
Panakeia froze. Athena laughed so hard she dropped her latte. Panakeia whispered, defeated: “They… turned healing into content.” Athena nodded. “Yes. But at least this time it’s good content.” Panakeia sighed. Then she opened Twitter. And posted: “Fine. You win. #PanakeiaOut” It got 3.2 million likes.
EPILOGUE: THE MODERN PANACEA
And so the world learned…The internet is not a cure. It is a mirror. It reflects your pain. Amplifies your chaos. And occasionally gives you a stranger who says… I don’t know you, but I’m rooting for you.” And that, for a moment…Feels like healing. Even if it’s not.
Author’s Note (Because Apparently I’m Also Seeking Healing)
If sarcasm were a panacea, I’d be immortal by now. Unfortunately, the gods didn’t bless us with a cure-all… just a Wi-Fi signal and a comment section.
And coffee? Coffee isn’t a panacea… but it’s definitely my first-line treatment, because some days, the only universal cure is caffeine and the audacity to try again.
A traveler once arrived at a village where everyone walked with their heads bowed, as if the sky had offended them.
He asked a little boy, “Why does everyone look so tired?”
The boy shrugged. “Because the world is heavy.”
The traveler smiled and said, “Show me your oldest tree.”
They led him to a giant banyan at the edge of the village. Its roots were thick like ancient arms, and its branches stretched wide as if it was trying to hug the entire horizon.
The traveler placed his palm on the bark and said, “This tree is not strong because it has a perfect life. It is strong because it remembers its ORIGIN.”
The villagers looked at each other, confused.
He continued, “When storms come, it doesn’t argue with the wind. It doesn’t panic at the thunder. It simply returns, again and again, to where it began. To its roots. To the quiet truth that it belongs here.”
Then he turned to the villagers and pointed upward.
“Now look at the branches. They don’t stay low because the roots are deep. They reach high because the roots are deep.”
The boy squinted at the canopy and asked, “But why do the branches stretch outward so far?”
The traveler chuckled. “Because life is not meant to be survived in a corner.”
He picked up a fallen leaf and held it to the sunlight.
“Some people spend their whole lives protecting the OUTER parts of themselves – smiles, reputation, pride, fear. They polish the surface until it shines… but inside, they forget they are alive.”
The villagers fell silent.
The traveler looked around and said gently, “Your OUTLOOK is not the weather. It is the window.”
“Two people can stand in the same rain. One will curse the clouds. The other will feel the blessing in the cool air.”
He stepped back from the tree and spoke with sudden fire in his voice:
“You don’t need a new life. You need a new way of seeing. And you don’t need to become someone else, you need to return to who you were before the world taught you to shrink.”
That day, the villagers did something strange.
They stopped walking with bowed heads.
They began planting again. Singing again. Laughing again. Hugging longer. Forgiving faster. Dreaming louder.
Not because their problems disappeared, but because they remembered their ORIGIN, changed their OUTLOOK, and stopped living only for the OUTER world.
And in the weeks that followed, the village became known for a simple saying:
In a world that was ALWAYSTHINKING about power, borders, and who was “right,” the air had grown heavy.
Not heavy like rain. Heavy like anger. The news screamed. The streets argued. Even families sometimes stopped MEETing each other with warmth.
And the strangest thing was this…Everyone wanted PEACE…but nobody knew how to hold it.
The Child With a Quiet Tune
In a small corner of the world, no one remembers exactly where, because it could have been anywhere, there lived a child named Noor.
Noor didn’t have grand speeches. Noor didn’t have armies. Noor had MUSIC. Not the kind that tries to win. The kind that tries to heal.
At night, Noor would sit by a window and play a CALM, RELAXING melody on a tiny instrument. It was a SIMPLE tune, but it carried something rare. It carried truth.
And every time Noor played, it felt PERSONAL, like the song knew each listener by name.
The First Listener
One evening, a tired soldier sat outside the building, far away from home. He didn’t know why he stopped. He just did.
The MUSIC drifted down like a soft hand on his shoulder. For the first time in months, his chest loosened. He whispered, “I forgot what CALM feels like.”
Noor looked down and said gently, “Then let this be your REMINDER.”
The soldier blinked hard, as if his eyes were embarrassed.
He said quietly, “I’m THANKFUL.”
The Song Begins to Move
The next day, the soldier shared the tune with a medic. The medic hummed it to a frightened child. The child sang it to a grandmother. The grandmother taught it to her neighbors. And something strange happened.
The song began to travel, not through airplanes, not through politics, but through people.
It crossed languages without translating. It crossed religions without arguing. It crossed borders without asking permission.
Because PEACE is a language the heart already knows.
When Enemies Recognized Each Other
In another part of the world, two teenagers stood on opposite sides of a fence. They had been taught to fear each other. They had been taught to hate.
But that evening, the MUSIC reached them, through a phone speaker, crackling and imperfect.
The tune was RELAXING, almost foolishly gentle for such a harsh world. One of the teens laughed.
“Why would anyone play something so… soft?”
The other teen said, “Maybe because we’re tired of being hard.”
They stood there, the fence between them, and for the first time they did not insult each other.
They simply listened. Then one teen said something unexpected.
“Do you want to MEET tomorrow? Not as enemies. Just… as humans.” And the other teen nodded.
The World’s Quiet Rebellion
Soon, people everywhere began doing something bold. Not loud, violent, and dramatic.
They began doing something SIMPLE.
Every week, at the same hour, strangers gathered in parks, rooftops, schoolyards, beaches, villages, and crowded cities.
They came with instruments. They came with voices. They came with silence.
They came to MEET.
Not to debate, not to prove and certainly not to win but just to be.
They played MUSIC that was CALM and RELAXING, not because the world was safe…but because they were making it safer.
It became a peaceful rebellion. A rebellion made of notes.
The Leaders Couldn’t Ignore It
At first, the powerful laughed.
“What will songs do?” they said. “Songs don’t stop wars.”
But then something happened that shocked them.
The people did not stop. The people were ALWAYS THINKING, yes – but now they were thinking differently.
They started asking…
“What if strength looks like mercy?” “What if unity is smarter than division?” “What if love is not weakness but strategy?”
And suddenly, leaders began receiving letters. Millions of letters. All saying the same thing…
“This is our REMINDER: We want PEACE. We want FRIENDS. We want a future.”
The Moment the World Changed
On one unforgettable day, the song was played everywhere at once.
In a hospital, in a classroom, a refugee camp, in a temple, a mosque, a church, a stadium, in a prison, in a palace.
And people who had never agreed on anything…agreed on this.
They were tired. Tired of fear, of blood, of being told that hatred was normal.
And in that shared exhaustion, something holy happened.
A new kind of power rose. Not the power to crush. The power to connect.
The Peace Hour
From that day onward, the world created something new – THE PEACE HOUR.
One hour every week. A global pause. During this hour, people MEET their neighbors, they share MUSIC, they speak one PERSONAL truth, they offer one SIMPLE act of kindness, they become FRIENDS with someone different, they choose CALM over chaos, they choose PEACE over pride, they stay THANKFUL for life, and they keep the REMINDER alive
And slowly, steadily, the world began to soften. Not because humans became perfect…but because humans finally remembered they belonged to each other.
There once was a village, calm and neat, Where panic was rare and stress was beat. A traveler came, half-dead, half-sweat, Like someone who’s just paid the EMI debt.
He asked them, “How do you all stay sane?” While I’m one email away from pain! The elder smiled, wise and true, And softly said, “We have a word for you.”
Not a mantra. Not a hymn. Not a sacred chant on a mountain rim. Just one small sound, simple, tried and true,
Phew.
So, Phew is not a word. It’s a vibe. It’s your nervous system feeling alive. It’s the sound your soul will make When you narrowly escape a social mistake.
It’s the exhale after your heart went boom, Like a dramatic actor leaving the room.
It’s when you press “send” with brave intent Then remember the attachment… wasn’t sent. You stare at the screen. Your face turns grey. Your ancestors faint far, far away.
Then you fix it before anyone knew, And you whisper the holy word…
Phew.
It’s when you’re looking for your phone all day Checking the sofa, the sink, the tray. You blame the universe. You curse the thief. Then realize it’s in your hand. What a relief.
Your brain takes a bow, your logic flew, But you still say it proudly…
Phew.
It’s when someone texts, “We need to talk.” And suddenly your knees forget to walk. Your mind writes tragedies, five seasons long, You start regretting everything you’ve done wrong.
Then they add, “About dinner. What should we do?” And you return from the dead like…
Phew.
It’s when you type, “Kind regards,” with grace, Then re-read and fear you’ve ruined your face. Did you type “Kind retards”? Did you just destroy your career in regards?
You check. It’s fine. Your life is new. You live to see another day.
Phew.
It’s when you send “I miss you ❤️🥺” And your heart begins to leak Because you think it went to your boss instead, And you see your whole future… unemployed… dead.
Then you check. It went to your boo. And you laugh like a person who survived a coup.
Phew.
It’s when you hear a sound at night, And your soul prepares for a horror fight. You grab courage. You grab a slipper too. You march to battle like heroes do.
It’s just the fridge doing fridgey stuff, And you feel both brave and not enough.
Phew.
Phew is adulthood’s lullaby. A small soft sound that says, “Don’t cry.” It’s what you say when life is wild But you still manage to remain… mild.
It’s the pause between chaos and calm, A tiny exhale, a healing balm.
So here’s to the word that saves the day, In the most exhausted, human way. A four letter prayer, a stress shampoo…
Pieces Of My Heart 