A friend sent me an image without any context. A flower shop burning, flames rising and a man walking forward holding flowers. She asked me to write something spontaneous. So this is not an explanation or an interpretation. Just a response to what I felt looking at it.
The fire knows how to take
He knows how to hold
Between flame and stem
Love remains the same.
The shop burns with purpose
The flowers burn with meaning
One destroys because it can
The other exists because it must.
- Sarukrishna R
He is known for speaking easily. Conversations flow for him with less effort and people often remark on how fortunate he is to be that way. He remembers people, checks in without any reason, keeps discussions alive when they stall and makes the effort to hold connections together. To those around him this appears a trait.
He is the one who sends the first message, asks the follow up question, bridges gaps between people who drift, and fills the void before they disappear. He is present in many lives not as a central figure but as a constant one. Eventually, people stop noticing that he is the one holding things together.
One day he decides to stop initiating. He wants to know what happens when he is not the one reaching. The days started passing without any disruption as no messages come in. Conversations he once sustained continue elsewhere or have disappeared entirely. Nothing dramatic happens and that absence itself becomes the answer.
The realization did not come in all at once. It forms slowly through behavioural patterns. People he spoke to daily do not check in. Those he reached out to weekly do not circle back. There is no hostility in this void. It simply shows how those connections were structured and who actually carried the momentum.
This does not mean others are mean or deliberately detached. It may simply be how some people stay connected by answering rather than initiating. Some exist comfortably within what comes to them. A few step forward to keep things alive. Neither is a failure of character. But the imbalance becomes visible only when the one who reaches decides to stop.
He wonders whether this tendency belongs to others or to himself. Whether his nature fosters dependence or whether he unconsciously trained people to wait. He considers whether this is how connection functions now. These questions remain unanswered because they do not get into right or wrong.
He tries to become someone else for a while, meaning less available and less present but it does not hold. The silence costs him something internal. He finds that stepping back does not bring relief but discomfort. Reaching out may drain him at times yet holding back feels wrong.
What is revealed is not loneliness but imbalance. He sees that his extroversion served to sustain connection rather than drawing attention. It was never company he was after, but the effort to keep things intact. And when that effort depended solely on him its absence was felt more than its presence ever was.
What he is left with is whether he can make peace with being the one who reaches without looking for equal effort, or remain himself without losing himself, or the connection is still worth sustaining when the contribution is not equal.
What troubles him is not that people did not reach out, but that he had never known how much his presence was doing the work. He had believed that connection moved both ways. Only in silence did it become clear that many bonds existed because he kept returning to them. This was never something he suspected while it was happening. It is visible that much of what felt mutual had relied on his willingness to keep speaking. Realising this does not make him angry. It simply alters how he sees his place within other lives.
Each turning of the calendar is ushered in with a habitual expectation. The coming year is expected to be kinder than the last and soften what life has already inflicted. Hope is placed upon the year itself as though it was capable of mercy. But those who insist upon gentleness from time are not always prepared to practice gentleness themselves especially when circumstances offer no reward for it.
A year departs only after pressing itself upon human lives. There are losses that endure, disappointments that persist, and work that never received its due. Such experiences do not merely wound, but they educate. In moments of such distress kindness is treated as a virtue suitable only for favourable conditions. It is set aside as impractical when life tightens its grip. And yet, it is under such pressure that kindness displays its actual depth since equilibrium has never been its crucible.
To be kind is not to be untouched by transgression nor to deny the legitimacy of anguish. Kindness in its purest form is discipline rather than leniency. A decision to retain one’s moral shape when experience encourages distortion. It often appears least reasonable, precisely when it is most necessary. In this sense kindness is no abdication of strength but its most rigorous manifestation.
Kindness is seldom theatrical in its expression and resides in conduct rather than in proclamation. It is found in the willingness to listen without interruption and in the discipline to esteem another life without percipitance. Respect for time, for dignity, and for the inward realm of others gives it coherence, particularly where no recompense is forthcoming. It is most evident where acknowledgment is least anticipated.
Much is said of the harshness of the age, of the waning of civility, of a world grown insensible to suffering. Savagery intensifies when kindness is bestowed solely within the bounds of safety. A virtue practiced only by choice is no virtue at all. Kindness is not intended to procure advantage but to maintain integrity and is the refusal to allow injustice to dictate identity.
A year does not improve by proclamation since time itself stands aloof from aspiration. What alters its texture is the behaviour of those who inhabit it. The atmosphere of living changes almost imperceptibly yet irrevocably, when patience is chosen over impulse, when judgment is subordinated to understanding and when respect is offered without a guarantee of return. These acts appear modest but they shape the moral tenor within which all greater affairs arise.
Let the year ahead be known by how one treats others when there is no good in doing so. Choose kindness when it costs time, is met with apathy, earns no courtesy in return, is mistaken for weakness or when the heart feels entitled to close itself instead. The world will continue as it always has, unfair and cold. What must not be relinquished is character.
If this year is to have any meaning, choose kindness in every word, in every moment, and in every action, even when it goes unnoticed. Because in the end kindness makes us human to one another.
Happy New Year.
There are genres designed to soften life, to console, to restore balance by offering emotional closure and humour as answers to human difficulty, and for many people these genres serve an important purpose. Most importantly they provide ease, familiarity and emotional safety. But for some viewers these same genres fail to register at all because they no longer feel anything from them.
The problem is not with feel good cinema, romantic comedies or light hearted films themselves. These genres are built on emotions. They assume humour will heal and affection will correct what is broken. They operate within a framework where suffering is allowed only briefly and joy is positioned as the natural conclusion. These experiences become distant for or a viewer whose inner world no longer responds to these emotions.
This distance is not a rejection. It is a form of numbness that develops over time. It may come from personal history or from prolonged exposure to stories, or from living too long in emotional states that do not resolve. Genres that rely on emotional comfort begin to feel ineffective when the numbness begins to settle in. Humour becomes something observed rather than felt and Romance becomes a structure rather than an experience. The intended release never comes.
Genres like romance, comedy and feel good depend heavily on emotions. They require the viewer to step into optimism and to accept emotional outcomes as satisfying conclusions. The genre collapses when emotions within the person fails. The issue is not happiness but the failure to feel it when it is offered.
This is why darker genres often hold more power for such viewers since they do not insist on emotions or closure. Crime, horror and psychological thrillers lets discomfort to remain unresolved. They accept fear, violence, obsession and moral ambiguity as valid states rather than problems to be fixed. This honesty feels closer to reality for someone who no longer feels soothed by emotional dramas.
It is important to understand that this preference is not about taste alone. It is about emotional alignment. Genres are emotional languages, and when a language no longer matches the inner reality of a person, fluency is lost. Feel good genres speak in the language of ease and for some viewers that language no longer registers.
This does not make one genre superior to another. It shows that emotional engagement is not universal and cannot be forced. What comforts one person may leave another untouched and what unsettles one person may be the only thing that reaches another. Genres exist to offer different emotional truths instead of competing for moral ground.
The refusal to engage with emotion driven genres is not cynicism. It is an honest response to an internal state that no longer connects with comfort driven narratives. This is not a failure but a recognition. The responsibility is not to force oneself into what should be felt but to acknowledge what is actually felt. Sometimes that means accepting that consolation no longer resonates while violence still does.
I think of her as a semblance that holds my gaze
An abstract that lets desire exist without haste.
Curves that need no divine to be sanctified
Made not to tempt. Held in awe.
She is not envisioned in fragments
The thought takes in her whole.
Ken stays longer than it should
And learns the grace of staying.
Even touch feels subdued in her presence
The form understands before the caress does.
What dwells before me stands complete
There is a discomfort people exhibit when someone says they enjoy crime, horror, and thrillers. The immediate assumption is fear, morality or psychology, as if enjoying violence on screen must be justified by depth or trauma. But sometimes the truth is simpler. Some people are enjoy violence on screen for the act of watching itself, where brutality exists as image and idea rather than intent.
Crime and horror do not pretend to be gentle. They do not offer reassurance or comfort. They expose the body, the mind and society at their most fragile and destructive. Bloodshed in these films is not an accident or a background element. It is the point. It takes away politeness and forces the viewer to sit with chaos, power and fear. Feel good films promise safety but violent cinema offers honesty.
Violence on screen serves a different appetite. It does not soothe. It allows the viewer to experience extremes without control. The killings are not metaphors waiting to be decoded. They are just moments of rupture. They break the illusion that life is orderly or fair. There is a clarity in that, A brutal clarity. In watching destruction happen on screen, the mind stops pretending and simply reacts.
Crime thrillers understand this better than most genres. They remove the fantasy of justice as something clean or satisfying. They show greed, obsession, cruelty and desperation without filtering them through moral comfort. Horror goes further. It does not ask to be liked. It dares the viewer to endure. The violence is excessive because excess itself is the statement. It overwhelms the senses.
Enjoying this does not make someone broken or heartless. It means they have found a form of engagement that speaks to parts of the self. Some people settle into gentleness and warmth while others find release in intensity and rupture. Cinema has room for both. Violence on screen becomes a controlled space where rage, fear and fascination can exist without entering into life.
There is also something honest about admitting this without dressing it up. Not every preference needs redemption through philosophy. Not every taste needs to be explained as therapy. Sometimes violence is enjoyed because it is visceral, because it shocks the system awake, because it pulls the mind out os passivity. In a world saturated with safe narratives, brutality stands out.
Crime and horror respect the intelligence of discomfort. They do not beg the viewer to feel good about what they are watching. They allow contradiction. Enjoyment and revulsion can coexist. Loving violent cinema does not mean loving violence itself. It means recognising that art is one of the few places where darkness is allowed to exist openly.
These genres endure because they speak to something ancient. Long before cinema, stories were filled with murder, blood and terror. Humanity has always been drawn to its edge. Crime and horror simply continue that tradition with cameras and sound design.
Violence on screen is not meant for universal acceptance. Some viewers turn away while others lean in. There is no obligation to soften taste or justify attraction when cinema itself was born to explore the extremes of human experience. Comfort has its place, but so does conflict. To know what disturbs you and still choosing to watch is not indulgence, it is awareness. Film is vast enough to hold feel good and brutality side by side, and there is no hierarchy between those who seek comfort and those who seek violence. Both are simply responding to different truths within themselves.
