Embarrassment
Tatiana Schlossberg, Kennedy Daughter Who Wrote of Her Cancer, Dies at 35. AI-Generated.
Tatiana Schlossberg, a member of the storied Kennedy family, an accomplished writer, and an environmental advocate, has died at the age of 35 after a battle with cancer. Her passing has prompted an outpouring of tributes recognizing not only her family legacy, but also her deeply personal writing and commitment to public service.
By Asad Ali2 months ago in Confessions
USA, Israel, and Iran-What’s Really Happening
Tensions in the Middle East: USA, Israel, and Iran — What’s Really Happening In the past few days, international attention has focused on a high-profile meeting between Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and former U.S. President Donald Trump at Trump’s private estate in Florida. The talks were not about routine diplomacy — they centered on growing concerns over Iran’s ballistic missile and nuclear programs and how the United States and Israel might respond.
By Wings of Time 2 months ago in Confessions
The Weight of Glass
It started, as these things always do, with a glint. Just a flicker on the sonar, a signature that didn't make sense, too geometric for a natural formation, too sharp for a wreck. Two hundred fathoms down, off a forgotten trench in the Pacific Rim. My old man, God rest his soul, he always said the ocean gives you nothing for free. He was right. It gives you things, alright, but you pay for them, a slow, agonizing interest on your soul.
By HAADI2 months ago in Confessions
The Weight of Unsaid Things
Arthur’s kitchen counter was a graveyard of crumpled paper. Empty coffee mugs, a half-eaten sandwich from lunch, and the amber glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the window were his companions. It was three in the morning again. He held the pen, a cheap ballpoint, its plastic worn smooth from endless nights like these, and stared at the blank page. The fresh sheet mocked him, always did. He’d scribbled the first line a dozen times: 'Clara, I need to tell you…' and then his hand would cramp, his mind would seize, and the whole thing would get wadded up and flung into the overflowing bin by the sink.
By HAADI2 months ago in Confessions
The Last Train to Nowhere
It’s not the rattling, metallic grind of the wheels that wakes me up these nights, not anymore. It’s the silence. That particular kind of dead quiet you only get after the last carriage has rumbled out of sight, leaving you standing on a platform that feels suddenly too big, too empty. And then the cold seeps into your bones, deeper than any winter wind. That’s what I hear.
By HAADI2 months ago in Confessions
Who a person is to begin with
I recently entered into an argument with a long time friend, we argued about politics and on our point of view when it came to global politics happening right now in the world, I’ll spare you the details, the main point was I disagreed with how it was being done meanwhile he agreed.
By real Jema2 months ago in Confessions
The Quiet Power of Presence: Trust, Desire, and the Weight of Being
I can still feel the chill of that evening, the way it made my skin keenly aware of itself. I leaned against the balcony railing of a small apartment, watching the streetlights flicker below, glowing softly through the dimming dusk. He was there, a few steps away, his gaze on the streets as if he could read the rhythm of life beneath him. There was nothing performative in his posture, no dramatic gesture to draw attention. Yet the way he existed in that space—calm, grounded, and unassuming—pulled me in. I became painfully aware of how his presence shaped the air around him, shaping me in subtle, unnameable ways.
By SATPOWER2 months ago in Confessions
The Unspooling Hour
The dust motes in the weak afternoon light danced, suspended, just like everything else in this goddamn house. Especially me. The air itself felt thick, like old velvet. My eyes, they just slid back to it, always back to the grandfather clock in the corner. Heavy oak, dark with age and neglect, its face a cracked porcelain moon. Most clocks, they tick forward, right? Mark the passage, the relentless march. Not this one. This one, the second hand, it dragged itself counter-clockwise. Minutes, hours, days, peeling back like old wallpaper. It wasn’t a trick of the light, wasn’t my tired eyes. It was real. A quiet defiance of everything. A promise, maybe. Or a cruel joke, I still haven't figured that out, even now, with the taste of ash in my mouth. My fingers trembled on the armrest, the worn fabric shedding little threads. Little pieces of everything.
By HAADI2 months ago in Confessions
The Shard Keeper
It's just glass, really. But I call them flowers. Crystal flowers. Thousands of them, tucked away in this shed out back, where no one ever looks, where no one ever *will* look. They shimmer, you know, when the weak afternoon sun hits that crack in the corrugated steel, throwing slivers of light across them. They sparkle, each one cut, ground, polished, a sharp, perfect bloom. And each one, a goddamn lie.
By HAADI2 months ago in Confessions
