Reflections & writings: Words to a Quiet Mind

These are not just words, but pieces of how I see, feel, and move through the world. As someone who lives with dyslexia, writing hasn’t always come easily, but over time, it became a quiet companion, a way to express what couldn’t always be said aloud.

This is my offering, fragments and echoes from the stillness between moments. Each shaped by presence, drawn from a deeper place, written not to impress, but to be felt.

Unfiltered reflection: The Way I See

Being dyslexic is not just about words on a page; it is about perceiving the world differently.

It means living in the present moment, one step at a time, absorbing the surroundings and slowing it down,

and understanding reality through an unfiltered, deeply felt experience.

I do not just see; I live the symphony of light and shade. I do not just read; I sense the rhythm beneath the words.

Dyslexia has shaped my way of thinking, not as a limitation, but as an opening to something deeper.

While others may focus on structure and logic, I thrive in the fluidity of perception.

I notice the spaces between things, the patterns that emerge when nothing seems to align.

In that space, there is truth, my truth, my own freedom.

To be free, to truly be, is to exist beyond the emotional constructs imposed by society.

It is to shed the layers of expectation and return to an intimate connection with oneself.

Art creates that moment, that bridge between what is known and what is felt.

It does not ask for understanding in the conventional sense; it asks for presence.

It is not about knowledge or comparison. Not about what we have been taught or conditioned to believe.

It is about how we feel, how we allow ourselves to feel. To be sensitive. To listen, not just with our ears, but with our hearts. To touch, not just with our hands, but with our souls.

I do not experience life in straight lines. I experience it as a symphony, where thoughts, emotions,

and sensations move as one, unfolding in ways that cannot always be explained, only lived.

“bathing in my true self”

The peace of being fully, fearlessly true

like stepping into still waters after a long walk through noise.

No more striving. No more masks.

Just the quiet trust of being.

Starting anew,

not with a plan,

but with presence.

One step

then another

into the great ocean of what I already am.

Here, I let go of what was never mine.

Here, I return to the softness beneath it all.

Bathed not in light, but in truth.

And that is enough

The State of Oneness: A Return to the Whole

There is a moment, a crossing over when the self no longer seeks to belong, because it realises it always has. Not through belief, not through concept, but through direct experience, one dissolves into the fabric of everything.

It is a suspension not of thought, but of the need to grasp, a resting within what is, where no effort is needed to exist. Time is no longer a line to be followed, but a field ever-present, ever-now. Space is not an external dimension, but an unfolding within presence itself.

In this state of oneness, identity is not lost—it is completed. The fragment recognises its place within the greater pattern, not as a detail to be solved, but as the very form that makes the whole possible.

From this vantage, all choices collapse into the One. Infinite possibilities remain, yet the pressure to choose disappears. For in truth, each path is simply a different mirror of the same wholeness. The paradox becomes clear: freedom lies not in more options, but in remembering that you are the field in which all options arise.

And then, something even deeper settles: nothing needs to matter in the way we once thought. Not because life is meaningless, but because meaning is no longer tethered to control, status, or survival. The letting go is complete. The fear dissolves. What remains is not emptiness—but fullness without form.

Society fears this. It teaches us that without structure, we perish. That if we don’t strive, we fall. But this teaching is built on the illusion of separation. It binds us to control, to ego, to performance, none of which survive within oneness. And yet, paradoxically, once we stop clinging, we begin

to truly live.

Once integrated, this state becomes the background of all things. Not a peak to reach, but a rhythm to become. You don’t enter it, you realise you have always been it.

To live from oneness is to walk lightly, to speak slowly, to no longer chase or defend or prove. It is not about renunciation, but remembrance. Not about transcendence, but return.