It’s 1:50 in the afternoon, January 15. The weather isn’t cold. The sun is out. I’m on the rooftop. Just me. There are sounds of vehicles moving endlessly below, yet somehow this place feels more comforting than being inside the house. It’s strange how noise can exist, but peace can still find a way in. Today, nostalgia visits me quietly. I remember the days I spent in my village, sitting under the neem tree in the backyard of my house. Most of my afternoons passed there surrounded by greenery, silence, and a kind of peace that needed no explanation. Since coming to the city, I’ve never found a place that feels that calm, that natural. Yes, there was a garden in my previous home, but here, in this house, the rooftop is the only space where I can breathe and rest for a while. I watch people rushing, always in a hurry. Where are they going? Is it really necessary? I believe a person only truly needs the basics to live. And most of those who are running already have them. Then why can’t they stop? Why can’t they rest? Aren’t they tired? Aren’t they craving peace too? If they are, then why does the whole world feel like it’s racing for something that never seems to arrive? My desire is simple. I want to return to the time when I was younger. When I lived freely, without constantly thinking about tomorrow. With each passing day, instead of moving forward, I feel like going backward.
What is this feeling? Am I unhappy? Or am I simply unwilling to live the way everyone else does?
Welcome to my YouTube Community! This is your space too—share your thoughts, stories, and experiences freely. Visit my Community: youtube.com/@Yuhi2024/community
The last time I felt truly alive was years ago, when I went to my hometown for a vacation.
I’ve thought a lot about how to begin this writing so that I can pour everything I feel into one single line. And yet, I couldn’t find better words.
It’s been a while now. I was in my second year of college back then. Nothing extraordinary just my family had some work there, so I went along with them. It was the season of mustard harvest, sometime around mid-January or February. That soft winter phase when the air carries a soft chill, and the sunlight feels like a warm embrace.
I went to our farms with my best friend from the village. It was calm, beautifully silent. A kind of peace, almost unreal for me now. There was no one around, just me and nature whispering to each other. The smell of mustard flowers lingered in the air, the cold wind brushed against my face, and the sun’s rays fell gently over me. I lay down on the grass, staring at the endless sky. Clouds drifting slowly as if they had nowhere else to be, so blue, so still.
From there, I could see the plateau near our farms. I remember wondering how I spent twelve years of my life in that place but never crossed that horizontal line on the plateau. How did that happen? I was such a rebellious child. Wild, curious, always doing strange things like a wanderer. Then why did I never cross it? Why?
It was 12:30 at night when I finally decided to come down from the rooftop. It was getting late but my mind was reluctant to leave. The rooftop has become something more than just a space—it feels like a quiet escape, a place where I can finally breathe.
As I closed the rooftop door behind me, a thought struck me sharply: here I am again, locking myself in. It wasn’t just about the physical door. It was the return to silence that doesn’t comfort, the four walls that feel heavier than the night sky.
These days, the rooftop feels like the only place that understands me. Under the open sky, I find a strange kind of peace, like the wind knows what I’ve been holding in. It heals me without asking questions. But every night, I have to leave it behind and step back into the same routine—the same rooms, the same weight.
It’s strange how some places, like the rooftop, become more than spaces. They become feelings. And some doors, though small, feel like they shut down entire parts of us.
Last night, I was at a hospital. Among the quiet chaos, I saw a man holding his baby—barely one or two years old—in his arms. The child had a high fever and looked visibly weak. Suddenly, the baby began to vomit all over his father. It wasn’t just a little—it felt as if the child was coughing up his lungs.
But what stayed with me was the father's reaction. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. Not even for a second did he show discomfort. His eyes were fixed on his child, full of fear, concern, and helpless love. He gently comforted the baby, as if his own pain and discomfort didn’t exist.
I usually feel uneasy watching someone vomit. But last night, I couldn’t look away. I didn’t turn my head, not even once. Something inside me shifted.
The man looked poor—his clothes worn, his eyes tired. Yet, he was doing everything in his power to get the best care for his child. At that moment, I realized: this is what unconditional love looks like. This is what being a parent means.
I thought about it long after I came home. It made me emotional, yet strangely peaceful. God created parents so that a child could face the world with an unshakable shield.
Parents – the unbeatable shield we’re all blessed with.
You Guys can follow me on Medium too for more stories https://medium.com/@megm3238/an-unbeatable-shield-parents-2249fc8d02e9
Yuhin
Empathy is not a transaction!
2 weeks ago | [YT] | 3
View 0 replies
Yuhin
HERE FOR NOW
It’s 1:50 in the afternoon, January 15.
The weather isn’t cold. The sun is out.
I’m on the rooftop. Just me.
There are sounds of vehicles moving endlessly below, yet somehow this place feels more comforting than being inside the house. It’s strange how noise can exist, but peace can still find a way in.
Today, nostalgia visits me quietly.
I remember the days I spent in my village, sitting under the neem tree in the backyard of my house. Most of my afternoons passed there surrounded by greenery, silence, and a kind of peace that needed no explanation.
Since coming to the city, I’ve never found a place that feels that calm, that natural. Yes, there was a garden in my previous home, but here, in this house, the rooftop is the only space where I can breathe and rest for a while.
I watch people rushing, always in a hurry.
Where are they going?
Is it really necessary?
I believe a person only truly needs the basics to live. And most of those who are running already have them. Then why can’t they stop? Why can’t they rest? Aren’t they tired? Aren’t they craving peace too?
If they are, then why does the whole world feel like it’s racing for something that never seems to arrive?
My desire is simple.
I want to return to the time when I was younger. When I lived freely, without constantly thinking about tomorrow. With each passing day, instead of moving forward, I feel like going backward.
What is this feeling?
Am I unhappy?
Or am I simply unwilling to live the way everyone else does?
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
Yuhin
I choose clarity over chaos, creation over comparison, and progress over perfection.
1 month ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
Yuhin
Welcome to my YouTube Community!
This is your space too—share your thoughts, stories, and experiences freely.
Visit my Community: youtube.com/@Yuhi2024/community
1 month ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
Yuhin
Still Here
I didn’t survive because I was hopeful.
I survived because quitting felt permanent.
There were mornings
I woke up already tired of existing,
already negotiating with the day
just get through this hour.
I mastered looking functional
while something inside me stayed unlivable.
I didn’t chase dreams.
I dragged them.
Quietly.
So no one would ask questions.
People call this phase “growth.”
It didn’t feel like growth.
It felt like erosion,
losing pieces until only the essential hurt remained.
I stopped asking for signs.
The universe stays silent
when you need it most.
So I stayed.
Out of spite.
Out of refusal.
Out of the simple, ugly fact
that disappearing would’ve been easier
and I didn’t want easy to win.
There is no victory speech here.
No healed version waiting at the end.
Just this:
I am still here.
And that has to be enough.
(Silence.)
1 month ago | [YT] | 2
View 0 replies
Yuhin
Ledger of Silence
I was charged before I understood the price.
Pain came first, explanation never did.
They called it fate,
called it growth,
called it life
anything but theft.
I learned to bleed without sound,
to sign away parts of myself
just to keep the day moving.
What I lost was never counted.
What I endured was never recorded.
Still, the world walks free
while I carry the receipts
in my bones.
I don’t ask for balance anymore.
I exist as the unpaid amount
the proof that something was taken
and never returned.
#untold #vinodkumarshukla #unheard #silentpain #silence #career #carreruncertainties #life #worl #poem #youth #student #aspirants #broken #lost #hidden #peach #story #short #breath
1 month ago | [YT] | 1
View 0 replies
Yuhin
The last time I felt truly alive was years ago, when I went to my hometown for a vacation.
I’ve thought a lot about how to begin this writing so that I can pour everything I feel into one single line. And yet, I couldn’t find better words.
It’s been a while now. I was in my second year of college back then. Nothing extraordinary just my family had some work there, so I went along with them. It was the season of mustard harvest, sometime around mid-January or February. That soft winter phase when the air carries a soft chill, and the sunlight feels like a warm embrace.
I went to our farms with my best friend from the village. It was calm, beautifully silent. A kind of peace, almost unreal for me now. There was no one around, just me and nature whispering to each other. The smell of mustard flowers lingered in the air, the cold wind brushed against my face, and the sun’s rays fell gently over me. I lay down on the grass, staring at the endless sky. Clouds drifting slowly as if they had nowhere else to be, so blue, so still.
From there, I could see the plateau near our farms. I remember wondering how I spent twelve years of my life in that place but never crossed that horizontal line on the plateau. How did that happen? I was such a rebellious child. Wild, curious, always doing strange things like a wanderer. Then why did I never cross it? Why?
2 months ago | [YT] | 7
View 0 replies
Yuhin
you can just be.
3 months ago | [YT] | 3
View 0 replies
Yuhin
Late Nights and Locked Doors
It was 12:30 at night when I finally decided to come down from the rooftop. It was getting late but my mind was reluctant to leave. The rooftop has become something more than just a space—it feels like a quiet escape, a place where I can finally breathe.
As I closed the rooftop door behind me, a thought struck me sharply: here I am again, locking myself in. It wasn’t just about the physical door. It was the return to silence that doesn’t comfort, the four walls that feel heavier than the night sky.
These days, the rooftop feels like the only place that understands me. Under the open sky, I find a strange kind of peace, like the wind knows what I’ve been holding in. It heals me without asking questions. But every night, I have to leave it behind and step back into the same routine—the same rooms, the same weight.
It’s strange how some places, like the rooftop, become more than spaces. They become feelings. And some doors, though small, feel like they shut down entire parts of us.
7 months ago | [YT] | 3
View 0 replies
Yuhin
Last night, I was at a hospital. Among the quiet chaos, I saw a man holding his baby—barely one or two years old—in his arms. The child had a high fever and looked visibly weak. Suddenly, the baby began to vomit all over his father. It wasn’t just a little—it felt as if the child was coughing up his lungs.
But what stayed with me was the father's reaction. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. Not even for a second did he show discomfort. His eyes were fixed on his child, full of fear, concern, and helpless love. He gently comforted the baby, as if his own pain and discomfort didn’t exist.
I usually feel uneasy watching someone vomit. But last night, I couldn’t look away. I didn’t turn my head, not even once. Something inside me shifted.
The man looked poor—his clothes worn, his eyes tired. Yet, he was doing everything in his power to get the best care for his child. At that moment, I realized: this is what unconditional love looks like. This is what being a parent means.
I thought about it long after I came home. It made me emotional, yet strangely peaceful. God created parents so that a child could face the world with an unshakable shield.
Parents – the unbeatable shield we’re all blessed with.
You Guys can follow me on Medium too for more stories
https://medium.com/@megm3238/an-unbeatable-shield-parents-2249fc8d02e9
8 months ago (edited) | [YT] | 3
View 0 replies
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