SAFA

Alarm off, still in bed, Brain on snooze, thoughts half-dead. Phone in hand, scroll and scroll, Memes hit different, filling the hole. Coffee cold, playlist on shuffle, Time’s moving like a broken kerfuffle. Chats ping, but replies take a while, Mood: 0%, still kinda in denial. Sun creeping in, slow and lazy, World outside looks kinda hazy. Snacks on deck, hoodie game strong, Hours pass, like “was that a day or a song?” No plans, no stress, just vibin’ low, Weekend energy: slo-mo flow. Maybe nap, maybe Netflix binge, Life’s a blur on this weekend hinge.

We live in a world where people romanticize “giving your all.” They glorify the idea of fighting for someone, holding on, and pouring every drop of love and effort into a bond. But here’s the harsh truth: effort only matters when it lands in the right heart.Otherwise, it’s just noise in someone else’s background. If you’ve ever felt like your love, care, or loyalty didn’t matter to someone, then you’ve already walked a little in the shoes of Jay Gatsby the dazzling dreamer of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Gatsby: The Man Who Tried Too Hard Jay Gatsby was the guy who gave everything his time, his dreams, his entire identity  for one woman: Daisy Buchanan. He built empires not for power, but for love. He threw the most glamorous parties, not because he loved the crowd, but because he was waiting for one face to walk through the door. Every move he made was stitched with hope. Every night was painted with the same dream. Every star, he thought, would lead back to Daisy. But ...

Some novels you read. But some… swallow you whole. László Krasznahorkai ’s stories belong to that second kind  the kind that don’t knock politely but drag you into their storm. With the world celebrating his Nobel Prize in Literature 2025 , the buzz isn’t just about the man it’s about the magic (and madness) of his novels. And honestly? There’s something deeply special about the way his words breathe. 1. He doesn’t just write stories… he builds storms. Most novels have chapters, pauses, clean breaks  a safe rhythm. Krasznahorkai? He throws that rulebook out. His sentences are long, winding, breathless like thoughts that refuse to end. When you read him, you don’t just turn pages; you walk through fog. His language feels like time stretching, pulling you deeper into the world he’s created. Take Satantango for instance. The entire story unfolds like a slow, dark dance in a dying Hungarian village . There’s no rush. No neat arcs. Just people drifting through decay and yet, the b...