art

Art of an introspective nature; a look at artwork that reveals the artist's psyche and comments on the inner workings of a chaotic mind.

The Night I Understood Football
I didn’t go to the game expecting hope. It was a cold November Thursday. My brother had just lost his job. My nephew hadn’t spoken in days after a school incident. The world felt heavy, and the last thing I wanted was to watch a mismatch—our hometown team facing a dynasty that hadn’t lost in months.
By KAMRAN AHMAD2 months ago in Psyche
The Erasure of Silas Thorne
The clinic did not look like a place where souls were altered. It looked like a high-end spa in the heart of Zurich—all white linen, soft ambient bird-call recordings, and the faint, sterile scent of ozone. Silas Thorne sat in the leather chair, his hands trembling.
By Luna Vani2 months ago in Psyche
The Last Whistle
The platform wind bit at Arthur’s exposed neck, a cold, wet dog nosing for a weakness. It was a miserable hour past midnight, and the only light came from a single, stuttering lantern hanging precariously from a rusted iron beam. His breath plumed in front of him, thick and heavy, like the fog that usually hugged the river on nights like these. He adjusted the strap of his worn duffel bag, the weight on his shoulder nothing compared to the one pressing behind his ribs, a dull, constant ache that had become his only real companion.
By HAADI2 months ago in Psyche
Neon Bruises
The rain came down in sheets, a cold, indifferent curtain between Leo and everything else. His cheap jacket, already waterlogged, clung to his shoulders like a shroud. Each step splashed, sending icy sprays up his ankles, but he barely registered the cold anymore. It was just a dull throb, a constant companion to the ache in his chest that had settled in weeks ago and refused to leave.
By HAADI2 months ago in Psyche
The Moon's Cold Embrace
Arthur’s kitchen smelled of stale coffee and old wood. Every night, the same. He’d sit at the table, just him, the dim yellow glow of the pendant light pulling shadows long across the checkered linoleum. He’d trace the rim of his empty mug, the ceramic cool against his thumb. The quiet hum of the refrigerator, the distant whine of a dog somewhere down the street, these were his companions. And the empty chair across from him, that was always there too, holding the ghost of Eleanor, a faint imprint of her presence in the air, a scent he still sometimes imagined: lily of the valley, her favourite.
By HAADI2 months ago in Psyche
Broken Light on Wet Streets
Elias hadn't meant to be out this late. The rain, a cold, persistent sheet, had caught him three blocks from the bar, the one he’d just stormed out of. The argument, a low, simmering thing with Clara, had finally boiled over, spilling out in harsh whispers and a slammed door. Now, the city's neon signs, usually a garish blur, became something else, something sharper, something almost malevolent in the puddles.
By HAADI2 months ago in Psyche
When Silence Hurts More Than Words
Mia grew up in a quiet house. Her parents never screamed. Never threw things. Never called each other names or slammed doors. To anyone looking from the outside, they were the picture of civility—calm, controlled, perfectly composed.
By Ameer Moavia3 months ago in Psyche
Why Some People Feel Alone Even in Relationships
Lena woke up next to her husband of seven years and felt like a stranger was sleeping beside her. Not because Tom had changed. But because somewhere between the wedding and this Tuesday morning, they'd stopped being two people who knew each other and become two people who lived in the same house.
By Ameer Moavia3 months ago in Psyche
Dust and Doubt
Elias preferred the deeper stacks, where the light struggled to penetrate even at midday. It was a refuge, a sanctuary from everything outside those thick stone walls. The air here, heavy with the scent of decaying paper and forgotten leather, used to be his comfort. He’d come here, year after year, meticulously cataloging the dead languages, the lost histories, anything to keep his hands busy, his mind numb. He hunched over a folio, its pages brittle like old skin, the ink faded to ghosts.
By HAADI3 months ago in Psyche
The Spine-Cracked Confessions
The library groaned, a familiar, ancient sound Elias had come to mistake for breathing. It was 4:30 AM, cold enough to see his breath in the vast reading room, even before the heating kicked in properly. He moved through the cavernous space, a lone figure amidst a million hushed stories, the scuff of his work boots the only intrusion on the deep quiet. Dust motes, like tiny, lost stars, danced in the weak pre-dawn light filtering through the high, arched windows. He loved this hour, before the students arrived, before the murmurs and the rustle of turning pages, before the world remembered the library existed.
By HAADI3 months ago in Psyche
I Was Taught to Earn Love. AI-Generated.
I was taught to earn love the way others were taught to speak. Fluently. Carefully. With consequences for mistakes. Love arrived when report cards were clean and voices were quiet. When my shoes were lined up by the door, and my opinions stayed folded inside my chest. Approval didn’t come wrapped in warmth. It came as a nod, a softened tone, a temporary peace. Silence after failure said more than words ever could. No one needed to say, “You only matter if you do this right.” The message was embedded in every glance, every sigh, every delayed smile.
By luna hart3 months ago in Psyche
Why Humans Find Comfort in Sad Music; The Science and Psychology Behind It
Sad music shouldn’t feel good. It’s slow. Melancholic. Sometimes heartbreaking. And yet, people seek it out especially during emotional moments.
By Zeenat Chauhan3 months ago in Psyche