Last one!!

Yeah, September came again. And here I am, in the middle of it, writing what will be my last blog.

Two years ago, I went through some of the hardest times of my life. It was messy, heavy, and it took everything out of me. That September, I made myself a promise — a quiet one — and I’ve held onto it since then.

Since that day, I’ve explored the things I always wanted to explore. And along the way, I also walked into things I never wanted to face, but life made sure I did. Every single experience, whether I chose it or not, became part of my journey.

Today, when I look back, I see a mountain of experiences — as tall as the Himalayas. Some of them hurt me, some of them grew me, and some of them changed me forever. I’m proud of what I’ve learned and who I’ve become. And I have no shame in saying thank you to everyone who has been part of this road — the ones who stayed, the ones who left, and even the ones who tested me. You all brought me here, to this point. Thank you.

Today really feels like standing on a summit. For the first time in a long time, from now on I can breathe easily. I really feel so much lighter. And I want to live the rest of my life carrying this feeling.

That’s why I’m saying goodbye to many old habits — and one of those is writing personal blogs. This place has been my space to be honest, to write freely, and to connect with all of you. Thank you for reading, for supporting me, and for encouraging me through every step.

And if I could leave you with one last thought, it would be this:

“Life doesn’t really make sense until you’ve lived it.”

Those words came from someone very, very special — and I hope, one day, you’ll feel what they mean too.

Goodbye, and thank you for being here with me.

So, this is me, signing off. Cheers🥂

- Susmit

The Silent Weight We Carry!!

You know, there are people like me — people who can’t share the pain they carry inside. We suffer quietly through the day and the night. And the strange thing is, most of the time we don’t even know why we are suffering.

So, we search. We look through books, scroll through the internet, sit with people, sit with silence. We try to dig out the reason. What wrong did I do? we ask ourselves. Why do I feel this way?

But no one tells us the reason.!

And so, we put on a smile. We become the happiest person in the room — or at least that’s what everyone believes. We master the art of making sure no one can see the cracks inside us.

But then there are others.

I have seen people who create their own pain, shape their own story of tragedy, and wear it like a badge of honor. They tell everyone how kind they are, how the world has wronged them, and somehow — everyone believes them too.

And here’s where it hurts the most:

People like me — who know what pain feels like — try to help. We pour our energy into others. We give what little light we have so someone else can grow out of their darkness. And they do. They heal. They rise.

And then, some of them turn around and do the very thing we never imagined they would do — they give that pain back to us. Sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly, but enough to make us wonder:

Was my kindness just fuel for my own suffering?????

This cycle is exhausting.

But here’s what I’ve realized — and maybe this is the only conclusion I can offer right now:

We cannot control how others use our energy. We cannot control how the world treats us after we choose to give. But we can control one thing — whether we allow that pain to turn us bitter.

Because bitterness is heavy.

And healing — real healing — begins when we decide that even if no one sees us, even if no one thanks us, even if someone uses us — we will still choose to stay soft, still choose to stay kind.

Not because they deserve it.

But because we do.

Because at the end of the day, we are the ones who have to sit with ourselves in that silent room — and I’d rather sit with a heart that is tired but pure, than one that is angry and closed off.

So here’s to the silent ones.

The ones who carry pain but still give love.

The ones who cry when no one is watching but still choose to smile at strangers.

The ones who search endlessly for answers and still choose to hope.

You may not know it yet, but WE are the very reason the world hasn’t turned completely COLD. Cheers🥂

Mary Oliver

Sometimes words arrive at the exact moment you need them most. Today, I stumbled upon Mary Oliver’s poem “I Have Decided” — and it felt as though it was written for me, for this very season of my life.

Her lines are not just poetry, they are a reminder: to choose authenticity over fear, to live with a quiet courage, and to accept the truth of who we are without apology. Reading it, I felt something shift inside me — as if a heavy door finally opened.

I want to share this poem here, not only because it moved me, but because I believe it might move you too. Perhaps her words will reach you the way they reached me: deeply, gently, and with a kind of undeniable grace.

“I have decided to find myself a home in the mountains, somewhere high up where one learns to live peacefully in the cold and the silence. It's said that in such a place certain revelations may be discovered. That what the spirit reaches for may be eventually felt, if not exactly understood. Slowly, no doubt. I'm not talking about a vacation.

Of course at the same time I mean to stay exactly where I am.

Are you following me?”

YouTube…!!

Today marks the beginning of something I’ve been quietly building for a long time —

I’m officially on YouTube.

This isn’t just about uploading videos. It’s about creating a space —

a space to breathe,

to think,

to feel,

to pause.

A place for those quiet, late-night thoughts you never say out loud.

For the inner questions that never seem to leave.

For the ones who wonder: “Who am I really?”

“What does it mean to be alive?”

“Is there something deeper beneath all this noise?”

Through honest narration, I’ll be exploring topics like identity, the illusion of self, meaning, silence, and the fragile beauty of existing — all through a lens of both philosophy and science.

Whether you stay for just one video or follow this journey all the way through,

I’m simply grateful you’re here.

Because this isn’t just my voice — it’s ours.

Welcome to the channel.

Let’s begin something real.

🔗 [Link to my YouTube channel]

(YouTube- https://youtube.com/@sushscorner?si=Hicz8Dn8Xfj1mytI)

May 31

Today I read something about the purpose of existence.

The book I’m reading tries to answer the question, “Why am I here?”

To be honest, I still have no clue.

I think there are two lines we walk in life — reality and imagination.

Sometimes, I can’t tell them apart.

Maybe they were never separate to begin with.

And maybe that’s okay.

I’m not sure I’m here to find a purpose.

I think I’m here to embrace existence —

To live fully, even when the “why” remains unclear. Peace

the notebook!

When I was in school, I watched a movie called "The Notebook," and for the first time, I found myself deeply moved, crying openly, understanding for the first time how love could drive people to do beautifully irrational things. It impacted me so profoundly that I saved it carefully on my old hard disk, promising myself I'd watch it again only when I truly felt something special with someone.

Yesterday, I rediscovered that old hard disk, hidden among forgotten things. As soon as I saw it, a wave of nostalgia hit me—memories flooding back of younger days, simpler dreams, and the pure belief in lasting love. With curiosity and sentimentality, I decided to watch "The Notebook" once again.

Watching it today, I found myself crying yet again, tears rolling freely, reminding me why this movie meant so much. It wasn't just a story on a screen; unknowingly, it had shaped the deepest corners of my heart, subtly guiding me in my search for genuine love, genuine connections.

Yet now I understand clearly—life is not a scripted film; it's unpredictable, real, and unique for each of us. Even when we deeply connect with others, their paths might differ from ours, and that's perfectly okay. Each person has their own journey, deserving respect and understanding. Embracing this reality has not been disappointing but empowering, allowing me to appreciate relationships and experiences more deeply.

Reflecting on my current situation, I realize how significantly my life has transformed. I completed my education, moved to a completely different country, and found myself in a world of unfamiliar faces, without family, without real friends, surrounded by a different culture, a new work life, and a deep sense of solitude. Yet in that quiet isolation, I discovered a strange kind of peace—one that came not from comfort, but from resilience and acceptance. Life seemed to change around me quietly, smoothly, as naturally as seasons shifting—but the reality was far different. The transition was filled with silent struggles, emotional turbulence, and the weight of adapting to a completely new world. Through these changes, I've come to a meaningful realization: achievements, money, pride, and societal image—these things are fleeting illusions. Though I always knew this in theory, now I truly experience it firsthand. Living through the contrast between expectations and reality has given this understanding a deeper, unshakable truth. They do not truly fulfill us.

What truly matters, what we genuinely crave, is human connection. We need like-minded people—whether few or many—who understand us, support us, and share our dreams and sorrows alike. The ultimate journey in life is about mutual support, helping each other find happiness, peace, and fulfillment. Yet sometimes this journey can be solitary, and there's beauty in that as well.

Ultimately, whatever our ambitions, whatever path we choose, we all seek one thing—inner peace. It's peace of mind we yearn for, the quiet satisfaction within our souls that tells us everything is alright. Sometimes achieving this peace is easy, and sometimes it's challenging. Sometimes we reach our goals, and other times we adjust our course. But peace remains our ultimate destination.

Comparing myself now to the younger version of me who first watched "The Notebook," I feel something deeper than nostalgia—it’s a quiet longing for a time when I believed everything would unfold the way stories do. Back then, I thought love was simple: you meet someone, fall deeply, and hold on forever. That belief lived in my chest like a promise. Watching that movie for the first time didn’t just make me cry—it gave me a lens through which I started to see the world, and unknowingly, I carried that lens.

But life, I’ve learned, doesn’t follow a script. It stutters, it surprises, it breaks and builds all in the same breath. And love—real love—isn’t always cinematic. It’s messy and complicated and sometimes ends before you understand why. Yet those early beliefs still shaped me. They made me look for depth in people, crave sincerity, and hold space for the kind of emotion that doesn’t need words.

Now, as I walk forward through unfamiliar cities and foreign days, I carry those memories not as regrets, but as reminders. They remind me that I once dared to hope purely, to dream freely. And maybe that’s what keeps me moving—not the search for a perfect love or a perfect ending, but the gentle echo of a younger heart that still believes, quietly, that peace, connection, and something meaningful might still be waiting somewhere, just beyond the bend. Who knows? Peace!!

golden week!!

Yeah, it was a much-needed holiday — one I truly needed. So many things happened in just the blink of an eye. And now, finally, I can see the bigger picture. Woah.

As human beings, we all go through tough phases. Even when life seems simple, complications creep in. I was caught in one of those phases. It wasn’t clarity I was seeking — it was validation. And somehow, this morning, I finally found it. Everything that had been hidden deep within me became visible.

The morning started cloudy, with the kind of gray that quietly sinks into your mood. As predicted, it began to drizzle — just enough to blur the windows and quiet the streets. Then came the rain, steady and full, almost like nature’s way of crying with me. It felt like a cleansing, like the skies were helping to rinse away the heaviness I had been carrying for weeks. And then, just as suddenly, the rain stopped. The clouds began to part, and a soft, golden sunlight spilled across everything. It wasn’t dramatic — just enough to make you notice. And it felt like a sign, a whisper from the universe saying, "Even this will pass."

That weather — that journey from cloud to rain to light — mirrored what I was going through. My thoughts, once jumbled and stormy, were starting to settle. I had been suffering in silence for a long time. The people I once held close had grown distant. I longed for someone — anyone — to reach out, to say, "Don’t worry, everything will be okay." But no one came. And so I sat with the silence, and in doing so, I began to hear my own voice again.

Sometimes, even those you trust the most walk away at the very moment you need them. I had read about this in books — pages filled with wisdom, pain, and healing — but it’s a different thing altogether to feel it in your bones. And in that kind of moment, you’re forced to learn how to walk alone. That’s how strength is born — not out of comfort, but out of loneliness. That’s when you realize who’s truly with you, and who only walked beside you when the sun was shining. And truth be told, now that I’ve lived through that storm, I understand why people write about it. Still, I never want to go through this kind of emotional storm again.

So, let me try to put this into words.

Like everyone else, I have a family, friends, and special people in my life. But in what felt like the blink of an eye, everything changed. Everyone seemed to drift away. Just when I moved to a new place and started a new job, suddenly, I was surrounded by strangers. I started questioning myself: Am I the wrong one? Am I making mistakes? My self-esteem dropped, and I was drowning in the feeling that maybe I was to blame for it all.

I held on tightly to my old mindset — believing that loyalty means forever, that love never fails, that the people you give your heart to will always show up when needed. But reality unfolded differently. The people I thought would never leave, did. Some showed their true colors, and it hurt. I was clinging to memories, to expectations, and it only deepened the suffering.

But then came the silence. The solitude. And in that silence, I had no choice but to keep going — to do the work, to eat, to put on a smiling face for the new people around me. But deep inside, I felt like I was living through a never-ending dark night. I realized I was holding on to people who had already let go of me.

One day, during a long walk through the quiet streets of my new city, I looked around and realized that change isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes, it’s the path to liberation. And maybe, just maybe, I had to let go of what no longer served me. I began to find peace in small moments — a kind word from a stranger, the warmth of the morning sun, a deep breath that didn't feel heavy.

I also started noticing the people who stayed. Not the ones I expected, but the ones who listened, who checked in without being asked, who accepted me without judgment. That’s when I understood — it’s not about the number of people around you, but the depth of connection you share with a few.

Sometimes, you have to change your old mindset. Letting go of what you once thought was permanent isn’t easy — it feels like losing a part of yourself. But you have to allow new people to become your home, to step into your life with open hearts. And as you let them in, they might just find a home in you too. In that space of renewal, you begin to realize that not everyone leaves — some people arrive. And among them, sometimes you meet those rare, special people who feel like they've been waiting for you all along. People who don't just enter your life, but understand your silence, see your scars, and still choose to stay.

And maybe, all this pain, all this distance, all these lessons — they were meant to shape you into someone who is ready to receive the love and peace you've always deserved. Who we contact and connect with in those moments of change truly matters — not those who left, but those who arrive and stay when you're at your most vulnerable.

And that’s where I am now — not completely healed, but no longer broken. Just… growing.

And that’s enough. And one last message to those who lost me…

Just because you lost me as a friend doesn’t mean you gained me as an enemy. I’m bigger than that, my guy. I still want to see you eat — just not at my table… Peace✌🏻

new page!!

As life turns its pages day by day, we, too, change with it. Moving to a new city has been like starting a fresh chapter—new streets, new shops, new faces. In the midst of adjusting my routines and finding my rhythm here, time seems to blur. I’ve become so busy that time itself feels like it has no time. Yet, ironically, I now have more moments to reflect and write than I did during my student life.

So, I’ve started a new page called “Whispers.” It’s a space for my thoughts—short, quiet reflections instead of long blog entries. This way, I can express myself more freely and regularly without being overwhelmed.

I’m also making a conscious effort to invest more in myself again. I’ve been thinking about picking up photography, something I’ve always wanted to explore more. Lately, I’ve been streaming my guitar sessions more often, and it feels good to reconnect with that side of me. With this extra “me time,” I hope to rediscover parts of myself I had put on hold.

Everyone needs a way to express themselves—and “Whispers” is mine. It’s not just a blog, but a reminder to stay in motion, to keep exploring, and never stay stuck in one place for too long.

So, here’s to new pages, new passions, and new beginnings. Let’s do this. Peace ✌️

Childhood!!

I survived a childhood where my inner child was dead—a sentence that sounds heavy because it carries the weight of unspoken battles, silenced laughter, and stolen moments of innocence. It wasn’t that I didn’t grow up; rather, I grew up too soon. I lived in a world where maturity wasn’t a choice but a survival mechanism, and where the small joys of childhood were luxuries I could not afford. I had to become someone older than my years, someone who knew responsibility before joy, and silence before self-expression.

From an early age, I learned to read the room before I learned to read books. I knew how to soothe the tension in the air, how to keep quiet when things got loud, and how to avoid being the reason someone else felt overwhelmed. The home that should have been a shelter was sometimes a battlefield of expectations, emotional storms, or neglect. There were no bedtime stories, only the stories I told myself to sleep. There were no tantrums, only inner negotiations of what I could afford to feel without upsetting the fragile balance of my environment. Because of this, I never really got to know my inner child. That version of me—curious, spontaneous, playful—was buried deep under layers of caution and maturity. I didn’t know how to play for the sake of playing. I didn’t have the luxury to be vulnerable, messy, or carelessly joyful. I envied other children who laughed loudly and cried freely, because I was busy managing emotions too big for someone so small. My maturity was not noble—it was necessary.

Now, as an adult, I find myself drawn to mature people. Those who are grounded, emotionally aware, and responsible attract me like magnets. They reflect the survival traits I cultivated early on. I admire people who have a sense of control, who listen deeply, who understand pain, and who communicate without hurting. But here lies the cruel irony—I admire them because I became like them far too early. And I hate that. I hate that maturity, for me, was not a destination reached after youthful exploration, but a shortcut forced by circumstance.

Sometimes I wonder who I might have been had I been allowed to just be a child. Would I have been more carefree? Would I smile more, cry less, worry less about being “too much” or “not enough”? I mourn the childhood I never had. I grieve the version of me who never got to feel safe being little, loud, and loved without conditions. There is sadness in becoming the adult you needed as a child, especially when that adult now resides in a body carrying wounds disguised as wisdom.

Yet here I am, surviving still. There is strength in surviving, even if survival cost me my innocence. There is depth in being mature, even if maturity arrived as a burden. And though my inner child feels distant, I now try to speak to them—gently, with patience. I try to give myself permission to be silly, to rest, to create without purpose. Healing is not linear, and some days I feel like I’m parenting the little me I lost. But that, too, is part of survival.

So yes, I survived a childhood where my inner child was dead. And now, piece by piece, I am learning to resurrect them—not to erase my past, but to reclaim the joy I was once denied.

current mindset!!

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships, and I’ve come to realize that I’m not quite ready to fully commit to one. It’s not that I don’t value connection—but it's just that I really enjoy my alone time. I feel like I don’t get enough of it. I work long shifts, come home, and still have a list of other things to take care of. And somewhere in between all of that, I wonder: where’s the time just for me?

I need that space to focus on myself—to recharge, reflect, and simply breathe without always thinking about the next task or responsibility. So when I ask myself where a relationship fits into all of this, the honest answer is: it doesn’t. At least, not right now.

This realization has actually brought me a sense of relief. I no longer feel the pressure to force something I’m not ready for. Instead, I can focus entirely on myself, which is something I genuinely love doing. That time and energy I give myself is everything to me. It allows me to grow, to heal, and to work toward a version of my life that brings me real happiness.

And I’ve noticed something else—something powerful. The more I focus on positivity, the more positive my life becomes. Things that used to completely throw me off no longer have that power. Sure, challenges still come up, but they don’t shake me like they once did. I’ve built a sense of peace within myself, and I carry that into every day.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to be sad—really sad. But I took it one day at a time. I made small choices to appreciate what I have, to look for the good, even if it was just one thing. And from there, things began to shift.

Now, I feel grateful every day. I look at my life—what I have, what’s coming, and all the growth ahead—and I feel proud. When I started embracing that gratitude, everything began to slowly improve. And I’m still on that journey. Peace