Murphy Woods

The truth is, no matter how much you desire. Some things are truly — I mean truly beyond your ability. Sit with it. Perhaps on a bench located in a park as the winds blow and gently lift the autumn leaves. We all have demons tormenting us. Some are labelled as insecurities, while others are labelled as failures. I? I am tormented by a subtle demon. His name? Helplessness. I just want to say “ sorry “ even though it's not my fault, even though it has nothing to do with me. And yet! “I am sorry” I couldn't save you. I was late. The girl whom you write of, the little reckless one, the one who gave every bit of love in her heart away. Only to be broken, only to not be treated with any care, left Broken. I feel… like.. umm I really couldn't help you. The truth is, you didn't want to heal. You purposely locked that part of you. You were afraid. Afraid that, your heart would be broken again, aren't I correct? It's your defence mechanism, to distance yourself from everyone whom you once were attached to… (sighs) you are right Stanford. I am just trying to rationalise what already happened…

Sleep: because honestly, nothing beats a good nap after a long day. It’s peaceful, it resets my brain, and sometimes it’s exactly what I need.

Reading: getting lost in books, ideas, and other people’s worlds is one of my favorite ways to relax and learn at the same time.

Studying: yeah, I’m counting this as fun. Solving problems, understanding concepts, and slowly getting better at things actually feels satisfying to me.

Talking with my friends whether it’s random jokes or deep late-night talks, those conversations make everything feel lighter.

Writing — putting thoughts into words, even when they’re messy, helps me understand myself a little better.

Honestly? Nothing dramatic. I wouldn’t suddenly change who I am or start acting like my life flipped overnight. I’d still study, still write, still overthink at 2 a.m. basically, I’d stay the same person.

But… there would be one clear sign that something had changed.

My already growing pile of books would turn into a small personal library. More novels, more philosophy, more science, more random topics I suddenly get curious about at midnight. If money had to reveal itself somewhere, it would definitely be on my bookshelf.

So yeah, no luxury cars, no huge mansions.

It’s honestly very simple — maybe too simple.

If I want something really, really badly, I buy it. No overthinking. No ten-step analysis. If it matters enough to me, I’ll spend on it without guilt.

But if I don’t care about it deeply? I won’t spend a single piece of currency. I can go from spending half my money in one go to spending absolutely nothing for weeks. There’s rarely an in-between.

I’m not impulsive about random things — I’m intense about specific things. Books? Maybe. Something meaningful? Sure. But casual spending just for the sake of it? Not really my style.

So yeah, my budgeting philosophy is basically:

Honestly? Never.

At least, not that I’m aware of. I try to stay mindful of what I do, follow rules, and not put myself in situations where I’d even accidentally cross a line. I’m not really the rebellious type anyway — I prefer peace over chaos.

Attachment theory, developed through the work of psychologist Mary Ainsworth and her colleague John Bowlby, explains how our early relationships shape the way we connect with others later in life.

One of the most misunderstood patterns is anxious attachment.

What Is Anxious Attachment?

Anxious attachment develops when love and care are inconsistent.

A child may have experienced:

Warmth sometimes, distance at other times

Affection that depended on mood or circumstances

Attention that was unpredictable

The child learns something subtle but powerful:

“Love exists — but it might disappear.”

This belief doesn’t vanish with age. It becomes an internal expectation that follows the person into friendships and romantic relationships.

What It Looks Like in Relationships

Someone with anxious attachment does not lack love. In fact, they often love deeply. But they may:

Overthink small changes in tone or behavior

Feel distressed when messages aren’t answered quickly

Seek reassurance frequently

Fear abandonment even when things seem fine

From the outside, this can look like “neediness.”

From the inside, it feels like trying to secure stability.

The key point:

They are not chasing closeness for drama.

They are seeking consistency for safety.

When Two Wounded People Meet

Sometimes, a person with anxious attachment falls in love with someone who struggles to give consistent affection — perhaps because they also grew up without stable love.

This creates a painful cycle:

One partner seeks reassurance.

The other feels overwhelmed and withdraws.

The withdrawal increases anxiety.

The anxiety increases withdrawal.

Neither person is “bad.”

Both may simply be repeating patterns they learned early in life.

Understanding this can bring compassion — but compassion alone does not fix the cycle.

The Myth of Self-Sacrifice

A common belief is:

“If I love them enough, I can endure anything.”

But healthy attachment is not built on one person sacrificing their emotional needs.

Love may involve compromise.

It should not require self-erasure.

If someone constantly suppresses their need for consistency to “keep the relationship,” their nervous system remains stressed. Over time, resentment, exhaustion, or emotional burnout often follow.

Sustainable love requires:

Reliability

Emotional responsiveness

Mutual effort

Not just intensity

Can Anxious Attachment Change?

Yes but not through suffering.

It changes through:

Experiencing consistent, stable care over time

Learning emotional regulation skills

Developing self-worth independent of reassurance

When consistency becomes predictable, the attachment system slowly relaxes.

Final Thought

Anxious attachment is not weakness.

It is an adaptation to unpredictability.

But understanding someone’s past does not mean you must sacrifice your present well-being.

The goal of love is not to prove how much you can endure.

Honestly, I don’t really have one of my own. My favourite candy is whatever my dear friends like.

There’s something nice about sharing small things — eating the same candy, enjoying the same moment, even if it’s something simple. It stops being about the taste and becomes about the people you’re with.

I share it with that one good friend of mine.

Not everyone just the person who genuinely understands, who listens without jealousy, and who feels happy with me, not just for me. Telling them somehow makes the good news feel more real, more complete.

My dream house isn’t about size or luxury. It’s about space for ideas. I imagine rooms filled with bookshelves — walls lined with books of every kind: science, philosophy, history, fiction, the kind of books you return to again and again. Not neatly staged, but lived in. Some stacked horizontally, some with folded pages, some half-read and waiting.

Between the shelves, there would be little globes placed here and there — reminders of how big the world is and how much there still is to learn. The remaining wall space would have posters: scientific diagrams, old space missions, maybe a quote or two that quietly stays with you. Nothing flashy. Just things that make you stop and think.

If I could change one law, it would be the laws around sexual assault and harassment. I wish they were far stricter, far more unforgiving, and powerful enough to actually make people afraid to commit such crimes. In my mind, the idea of the harshest possible punishment comes from one place: the need to make India a safer place for women.

It angers me that victims are often the ones who suffer the longest — emotionally, socially, and mentally — while perpetrators sometimes escape with weak consequences or endless delays. That imbalance feels deeply wrong. When a crime destroys someone’s sense of safety, dignity, and trust, the response from society should be strong enough to say, clearly and without doubt, this will not be tolerated.

For me, this isn’t about cruelty. It’s about protection. About deterrence. About sending a message that women deserve to live without fear — in public spaces, at home, everywhere. A society that cannot protect its women is failing at something fundamental.

At my age, my parents were already deep into responsibility. My dad was working at our family shop, learning the value of effort, consistency, and showing up every day no matter what. He wasn’t just passing time — he was contributing, learning how the world works from the ground up.

My mom, on the other hand, was studying. Focused on her education, building her own foundation for the future. Quiet effort, discipline, and patience shaped her days.

confidence is the quiet alignment between what one can do and what one is willing to attempt. It does not shout; it stands. Humility is not the shrinking of the self, but the accurate measurement of it—knowing the scale of the world and choosing to act anyway. Where confidence without humility becomes noise, humility without confidence becomes silence. Strength lives in their balance, like tension in a bow that neither snaps nor slackens.

The trope of the crowd warrior is often misunderstood. We imagine the hero as one who rises above others, but the truer image is one who rises with them—who can carry momentum without claiming ownership of it. The crowd warrior is not fueled by applause but by responsibility; they move because stillness would cost others. Their courage is social, not theatrical. They are formidable precisely because they are not alone, and not pretending to be.

Expression is not something I do only when I feel inspired; it’s something I rely on to stay sane. When thoughts keep looping and every small worry starts growing into something bigger, I’ve noticed that keeping everything inside only makes it worse. Going out into nature helps because nothing there seems to overthink its own existence. The trees don’t question whether they deserve sunlight, the river doesn’t pause to wonder if it should keep flowing, and the sky doesn’t hesitate before changing its mood. Watching that kind of quiet certainty makes me realize how unnatural it is for us to hold everything in and analyze every feeling until it becomes heavier than it needs to be. Being outside doesn’t magically solve problems, but it reminds me that movement, change, and release are normal parts of living.

That’s where expression comes in. Writing, talking, listening to music, or even just walking without checking my phone gives my mind somewhere to place all the noise. Instead of letting thoughts clash endlessly in my head, I give them a path out. And once they’re out, they don’t feel as threatening anymore. They become words, sounds, or simple moments instead of invisible pressure. It’s not about finding perfect answers; it’s about making space so that my mind doesn’t feel like it’s constantly crowded. Expression doesn’t remove pain or confusion, but it keeps them from turning into something overwhelming.

Nature and expression work together in that way. Being surrounded by something bigger than myself makes my problems feel less suffocating, and expressing what I feel stops them from silently growing. Together, they turn survival into something gentler. I think that’s why so many people feel calmer near open skies, quiet parks, or empty roads — those places don’t demand explanations. They just exist, and in their calmness, they give you permission to exist too, without constantly justifying your thoughts or emotions.

The truth is simpler and far less dramatic. Art is born from attention, not agony. From noticing the way light rests on a table, the way a joke rescues a bad afternoon, the way a melody makes the body remember that it is still alive. Happiness is not shallow. It is precise. It teaches you what is worth keeping. When you create from joy, you are not escaping reality. You are selecting the parts of it that deserve to survive.

Pain can shout, but joy teaches you how to listen. And listening is what art really is. A long, patient listening to the world and to yourself, until something small and honest asks to be made. When that happens, you do not feel heroic. You feel grateful. You feel briefly in tune with the strange, generous accident of being here at all.