Today, it’s about curiosity, but why curiosity? Because last night, as I was reading my book, a sentence stuck in my head, and I couldn’t help but think and rethink and write about it.
But before I reveal this thought‐provoking sentence, I’m just wondering what you think about curiosity? Is it a useful gift or a bad trait?
By the way, the verb wondering is usually used when we are curious about something, right?
Honeslty, until this very moment, I’m wondering— if useful gift and bad trait were measured on a scale, which one would weigh heavier? Surely, the heaviest would be the winning characteristic of curiosity.
Now, bear with me as I investigate the case of Mr. Curiosity—the one who killed Ms. Cat.
‘What an awful, tragic ending!’ A witness, shedding earnest tears, reported the incident to the police officer.
‘I was at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that seemed to never come. Delays, delays, delays— I read while checking the time on the screen. I was exasperated. I had shopping to do, food to cook, and a football game to watch … but hey, Officer, who do you think is going to win the cup—Spain or Portugal?
‘I don’t care—just tell me about the cat?
‘Oh, poor Ms. Cat. She was wandering around before hiding behind that tree.’ The witness pointed to one of the trees.
The officer huffed and puffed, couldn’t wait to jump into his air‐conditioned car, and flew back home.
‘Then, all of a sudden, she ran across the road and joined me at the bus stop—at this exact spot where you’re standing, Officer?
The officer looked down and wiped his face, his patience almost worn out.
‘She did not meow or purr like normal cats. No— she moved quietly and stealthily, sniffing the hard ground and the grass around. I thought she was poorly or hungry and whispered,”I wish I had some some food to give you.”
‘ “you’re so kind, but I’m not hungr,” she replied, Officer. I almost fainted from shock. Cats don’t talk…do they Officer?’
The officer pressed his lips together, wanting so much to slap the man’s face, to wake him from what seemed like a long nightmare.
‘They can, Officer. That poor Ms. Cat told me so, and that’s why I call her Ms. Cat. But then she told me that Mr. Curiosity had sent her on a certain mission. Do you know Mr. Curiosity, Officer?
The officer shook his head.
“Neither do I. But I asked her who he was, and she said he was her best friend. Then, I asked her about the mission— in case it was a conspiracy or something dangerous. Wasn’t it right to ask her, Officer?
The officer gave a slight nod, holding his tongue— didn’t wish to explode.
‘She told me that, weeks ago, a stray dog had been sneaking around her beautiful house. Oh, the poor thing— she lived in a beautiful house with a massive garden and a swimming pool, which she hated so much. But she loved the garden, where she chased birds, squirrels, and butterflies. Do you have a house with a big or small garden, Officer?
The officer inhaled deeply, then exhaled, shaking his head.
‘I wish I had one. Ms. Cat would have invited me to her house if she had lived longer.’ He burst into tears.
The officer’s face was buring, but he turned and paced a few steps back and forth.
‘But then, that beastly dog came in—uninvited— and settled in the garden while her human family was on holiday. He jumped into the pool, made a big mess in her beautiful outdoor wooden house, devoured her food and snackes, and licked up all her milk. They had a big row, but she won, and he ran away. Wasn’t she so brave, Officer? Officer? …Officer? …Officer?
The officer blinked— he couldn’t believe he had dozed off. He nodded, wishing with all his heart that the report was finally done.
‘I asked her why she was looking for that beastly dog after all that had happened. She said her friends had heard that a family had adopted him and that he was living in luxury. She couldn’t believe them, so Mr. Curiosity advised her to investigate. She asked me if I had seen a dog with a golden chain around his neck. I said no. Have you seen any, Officer?
The Officier bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood, then shook his head.
‘Then, all of a sudden, I saw her eyes widen. Looking so attentive, her body tense and ready, she told me the dog was near and coming closer. I looked around, Officer, but there were no dogs. The only thing I could see was my bus rolling down the road as slow as a slug. But then, I glanced up and saw a car racing madly from far away. As it overtook the bus, I saw a dog inside with a golden chain around his neck. I turned to tell Ms. Cat, but she had already run into the road. I saw her flying through the air before landing with a heavy thud on the hard gravel.’ He burst out wailing.
The officer let out a long sigh— finally, it was all over, and he could go home.
‘Are you going to arrest the dog?’ asked the witness, and the officier nodded.
‘Where are you going to bury Ms. Cat?’
‘But you forgot something— Ms. Cat has six more lives to enjoy. So perhaps you’ll see her again.’
The officer smiled and took the drunk man back to his house.
So, curiosity killed the cat— and the witness’s curiosity stretched the story to what felt like forever for the officer. But thanks to the officer’s lack of curiosity, the story ended just in time.
So, now, it seems that too much curiosity makes you nosy, prying, and meddlesome. None at all, and you become indifferent, apathetic, and ordinary. But a bit of curiosity is acceptable— just like salt in life. Right?
Now, here’s the quote:
“Curiosity is one of the lowest of the human faculties. You will have noticed in daily life that when people are inquisitive, they nearly always have bad memories and are usually stupid at bottom.”
We repeat this sentence quite often. Most of us are even willing to volunteer advice, recommend ideas, and suggest plans to help others be productive and overcome laziness. Right?
But have you ever consifered that people are different? What you see as a waste of time might be the greatest success someone else can achieve in their life.
Fame, money and power are not the ultimate proof that we are making the best use of our time. In fact, these glimmering idols are some of the most dangerous thieves of time. They glow with sparkling lights on the horizon, and you follow them—day after day, month after month, and year after year.
Through your journey, you achieve things—perhaps great things—yet you still chase the dazzling lights. You keep walking, oblivious to how time has slipped through your fingers, like soft sands. Suddenly, exhausted and drained, you blink and look back. Stupified, you gaze near and far, wondering about the many things, moments, and people you’ve missed, ignored, or—worse —belittled while chasing a mirage that never ends.
Do you agree with whoever said, “Lost time ticks in hell”? Isn’t it actually so right? I believe it is, and I’m also convinced that it applies both to those who chase the distant, dazzling mirage and to those who do nothing but watch, dreaming of following the same path. In the end, both cry over spilled milk—though they could have simply enjoyed it while they had the chance.
Our lives are not the same. You have certain chores, commitments, and deams to fullfil and I have mine— which might not seem so different. We waste time when we either achieve too much or nothing at all. Time is life, and life is not about gaining more or less. It is about what, how, and why you gain.
Only then will you know that you are not wasting your time.
Two weeks ago, or three, during the weekend, we found an unopened board game, a forgotten gift my daughter had received two years ago. So, we decided to play and have some fun without technology.
After dinner, we gathered around the dining table, and started reading the instructions. The rules were a bit complicated with unnecessary details. Rather than wasting time squinting at the tiny print in the catalogue, that needs a magnifier, we decided to make our own rules, instead.
Basically, it’s a word game where players have to describe a certain word aloud—without using any of its most familiar describitive terms.
So, if school, for example, is the word on your card, it will come with a list of some restircted terms—like primary, secondary, education, and teachers. Then, you give a brief description of the word. Other players can ask questions and you answer, avoiding any from the restricted list. The quickest to correctly guess the word, wins the round and gets the card. In the end, the player with the most cards is the winer.
Now, pretend I’m picking a card, reading the word, and having a quick glance at its not-allowed-to use list .
Would you like to play?
Here’s my description;
It’s a divine concept that humans believe and seek, yet most of the time, struggle to apply and fulfill.
List three books that have had an impact on you. Why?
I love fiction, and I love it more when its prose is poetic, rich with colourful imagery, and infused with moral significance. That’s why I never hesitate to read classic novels from the early or late 19th century, every now and then, whenever they cross my path.
I read non-fiction as well; religious, philosophical, scientific, biographies, and others. However, with non- fiction, my enjoyment depends on the author’s writing style to conclude my reading with yes I like it or not
But science fiction and comics are not for me. I might watch some movies in these genres, though.
Many of the books I have read were recommendations—directly or indirectly. Some I discovered while reading other books, some while scrolling online, some through references, some by other readers, and some during my studies.
Last year, I started my quotes and book reviews blog. Honestly, this wasn’t about recommending books, but … you could say I was developing another skill related to reading and writing.
Strange, I have rarely thought about recommending books. If anyone asks me for a recommendation, I feel like my entire reading list is lost in the labyrinth of my mind’s many chambers, making it impossible to pick just one book. So, I pause and ask what they read instead. Sometimes, they give a name or two— books that, to my relief, I’ve read as well. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve read this one, and others by the same author,’ I would say. Perhaps that, in itself, could be considered a recommendation?
I can’t really think of a specific book that has had a major impact on my life. This is simply because every book I read adds something to my reading journey—even those where I skipped some sections. It’s something like I remain the same me, but with more reading, more knowledge, more lives, and, of course a better writing craft. And all of that makes a great impact on my life.
“You can tell a lady, because nobody knows she’s there.”
How would you interpret this quote?
Negative or postive?
Please don’t fight over it. An arabic adage says: if you offer a person a hundred brains to pick one, they pick their own.
According to the context in which this quote was mentioned, a lady doesn’t show off, doesn’t flirt, and, of course, doesn’t forget she’s a woman. And, this was believed to be a positive and respectful image of a lady.
Over the time, things changed, and the positive became negative, and the negative became positive.
And then, things changed again, introducing new criteria: no positive, no negative— all possible, all the same.
Now, can you just move your eyes, perhaps your glasse, to the first line and re-read the quote—carefully this time.
Did you notice anything beyond positive or negative?
What if ‘lady’ is not used as a title or compliment, but as a presence? Did you notice that the ‘Nobody knows’ might also mean ‘they know,’ but with their third eye? And finally, could ‘She’s there’ be anyone and everywhere—yet unlike anyone and not available everywhere.
Have you ever chosen to remain silent instead of speaking?
I do—most of the time.
Should I begin with critical moments or casual ones? Hmm, I think it would be better to start with the annoying moments then climb step by step toward the pleasant—or perhaps even funny—ones.
It happens when someone asks you for a favour or makes a request, but you have your reasons for not getting involoved. You explain things once, yet they hear nothing but their own voice. Not to mention the blame they put on you, as if you were part of their problem.
Just tell me—what’s the point of arguing with someone who will never be convinced, never change their mind? By the way this isn’t about stubbornness but egotism—the I’m always right mindset. Isn’t silence better than arguing back in such cases? But, of course, you can enclose some genuine prayers, hoping things will be fine soon.
Are you still climbing the long staircase?
Sure, by now, you must feel heavy and exhaused. I imagine you’ve already climbed most of the steps—apparently we experience lots of these critical situations in our lives— each one adding to a heavy load of annoying momories.
Now it’s time to switch to some pleasant moments. I guess there’re only a few steps before you reach the top step.
Sometimes, as you’re hurrying down the road, someone looks, smiles, and waves at you with a bundle of flyers and brochures in their hands. They step into your path and ask for a a few spare moments of your time. Silence becomes your escape, and a nod with a smile— along with a quick gesture to your watch—is your way of communicating apologies, if you, like me, are not interested.
And sometimes, as part of socialising, you find youself among people talking about things you’ve never read about or even heard of—like dog food and breeds. Doesn’t it make sense to remain silent? To listen, but not really listen while thinking of cute cats.
And then there’s silence—a warm gesture of respect for elders. How many times did the younger you remain silent while your grandparents or parents talk about things you could neither understand nor follow? But, they always knew you were not listening. And that’s when your sudden, genuine laughter broke the silence.
Last but not least, there’s is silence and shyness— not only do they rhyme but they are also born together. Yet, that’s not as bad as you might think, because it’s neither a birthmark nor a curse. Can we simply call it a special personal trait?
Some talk loudly and nonstop, and some listen, whisper, and weave stories in their minds.
I think by now you’ve arrived safe and sound , and hopefully happy at the top step.
They say whoever invented the window was either a thief or a lover.
What do you think?
Isn’t it facinating to imagine the story behind the invention of windows for houses? A story not related to construction or decoration, but to a person who, once upon a time, was dreaming—seeking something or someone.
Would you like to hear his story? Just keep reading.
Once upon a time, a thief sneaked into an old merchant’s house. He grabbed every piece of gold and silver from each room. The treasure was not much, but enough. As he turned and grasped the handle of the big metal door, he discovered, to his shock and misfortune, that the door was locked—utterly locked—as if it were a secret, magical guradian of the house
The thief knew the merchant was on a short trip to bring his family back home. But, perhaps, someone would come and check on the house, he thought, glancing around, trying to find a way out.
He noticed deep cracks and dampness spreading across the walls. He drew near to the wall next to the door, and pressed his hand against it—it was mushy, like wet mud. The thief laughed, relieved to find his excape. Without hesitation or much toil, he broke a hole in the wall and jumped out of the old house.
He raced against the wind under the starless sky, heading toward the dark woods where no other human dared to live. Panting, he reached a gigantic tree—his camouflage home. He dug a deep hole and hid the treasure beneath it. Breathless and sweating, he threw his weight onto the hard earth and fell asleep for the rest of the night.
With the first light of dawn, as the birds chirped and left their nests, the thief jumped to his feet and hurried to the nearest pond. He washed and put on a clean garment. Laughing, he picked some berries from the trees, devoured them, and headed back to the city. From now on, he would live a new life as an honourable man.
The market was buzzing with one story—the robbery of the merchant’s house. The thief drew closer to a group of men and introduced himself as another victim of the same thief.
‘But I can fix the wall. I am a builder, and I need money to go back to my city.’ He had woven a good story, hadn’the?
The men took him to the old merchant, who—without a second thought, agreed to the poor builder’s deal.
Over the following days, the thief transformed the hole in the wall into a beautiful, wooden window. The merchant’s oldest daughter loved the new creation and often sneaked behind it to catch a glimpse of the builder as he made windows for other houses.
The builder became well-acquainted with most of the people in the city. His window-making business flourished, and he earned a lot of money. He was aware of the merchant’s daughter’s long waits behind the window, watching him working around. He also knew of her father’s abundant wealth. The girl was beautiful—so beautiful— but he had robbed her father. What if the merchant discovered the truth one day? He fell asleep with that thought echoing in his ears.
That night, he had a dream—a strange dream.
He was in a different land, among different people, surrounded by beautiful houses with so many windows. As he walked along, he heard people talking about the two lovers who had just died. Curious, he moved closer to two men sitting on a bench by a fountain in the middle of the road. They didn’t seem to notice him. Was he invisible? A ghost? His heart pounded hard in his chest as he dropped onto the other end of the bench.
‘Romeo killed himself, and Juliet followed suit. Or was it the other way round? One of the two men broke the news. The other gasped, and the thief felt his heart in his throat.
‘I used to see them every day, laughing and singing to each other. She shone like a blooming rose in the big window, and he stood below in the garden, full of pride, crowing day and night like a young rooster.’ The first man said, the other sighed, and the thief nearly fainted.
‘But of course, her father would’ve never let her marry one of his family’s enemies— someone who was only after his wealth and money,’ the first man explained, the second nodded, and the thief died
‘Oh no, oh no, I don’t want to marry her,’ the thief screamed and woke up.
The next day, he packed, thanked his host, dug up his treasure, and fled for his life.
Years later, the wise said that true love comes from front doors, not windows. If only those wise ones had known more, they would have added and neither does it come from social media!
I once heard that laugher can relieve panic attacks. You may wonder, as I do, how someone in a panic attack could think of anything funny. Some say a person can force themselves to laugh. Perhaps this advice is based on scientific studies, or maybe it’s just an old folk remedy.
But, based on my own humble experience, I can also say that many cases of panic attacks end up being hilarious incidents.
One day before last Christmas, things went a bit spooky—just like a halloween night. December is known for its freezing weather, short days, and long nights—not to mention its violent storms. That evening, my daughter was invited to her friend’s birthday party at some restaurant in town.
Darkness fell early that evening, and strong wind began to pick up. My plan was to take the bus, stop by my husband’s workplace, and then we go together to pick up my daughter.
The moment I stepped onto the bus and scanned my ticket, I felt as if I were in the wrong time or on the wrong bus. The bus was almost full, but not of the usual passengers. Instead, it was packed with people who looked as though they were going to a party. Men and women with different ages were dressed in shiny, glittering outfits.
Slowly, I made my way to the nearest available seat and sat next to a woman who was deep in slumber. I checked the time and it was just past five pm, and I was sure I was on the right bus.
As the bus pulled away, the party started—not with singing or dancing but with loud, chaotic conversations. It was as if they were on separate buses, shouting across the road. They were planning and arguing what food or drinks to order. It was such a noisy and amusing gathering that I didn’t know whether to frown or smile.
We arrived early in town and decided to have a hot drink until it was time to pick up my daughter. The wind pushed and pulled at us as we hurried downhill toward the nearest café. The streets were almost empty— no one was around. If it wasn’t for the Christmas lights, the town would have looked like a haunted place.
We arrived home safe and sound, but not without a few surprises. My husband hurried to the nearest convenience store to buy a few things as weather warnings announced severe conditions.
For the first time since our move, the wooden front gate was locked. (It’s the type with a metal latch that you push up to open or down to lock.) That night, it was fully down and stuck. It became so dark as if it was midnight rather than just past seven pm.
I tried to unlock the gate, but my attemps didn’t work. When I asked my daughter to jump over to try from the inside, she looked shocked as if I had asked her to climb a tree. I tried and tried until the metal moved up— not completely, but enough to be pushed open.
My daughter hurried upstairs to her room to charge her phone while I heated our dinner. Then, all of a sudden, a loud alarming sound echoed all over the house. I ran back and forth, checking everything, trying to find where this sound came from. Then, my daughter started screaming from upstairs, and I ran up to her room.
‘Mama, it’s my phone. It’s making a horrible noise and it’s so hot.’ My daughter was shaking, her face pale as a white sheet. ‘Turn it off,’ I shouted, snatching it from her hands. It burned in my hand, but the alarming sound had stopped.
We both ran downstairs and left the phone on the kitchen counter, and watching it as if it might explode. The only thought popping into my mind was to throw it away into the garden. Just before taking this action, my phone rang. One of my sons was calling, and I poured out everything that had happened, except my idea to throw the phone away.
‘Are you sure the sound was coming from the phone?’ My son asked. ‘Yes,’ my daughter and I answered at the same time. ‘Was there anything else strange about it? ‘Yes, the screen turned all yellow with a warning message.’ My daughter explained.
My son burst out laughing, just as my husband walked in. ‘Did you get the storm warning message?’ he asked
‘And you were going to throw my phone, Mama,’ my daughter said, the colour returning to her face. ‘And you didn’t even try to read the message!’ I said, and breathed in relief
My daughter and I fell onto the nearest sofa, shaking with laughter, tears rolling down our faces.
What a day! But see? Sometimes, to panic is also to laugh.
We’ve had a wonderful, sunny, warm weather over the last three or four weeks? Can you believe it in the UK? It really did happen! Miraculous isn’t it? That was so encouraging to get out and enjoy long walks under the blue, shining sky.
May always brings special, unique surprises, which relate so much to the auxiliary verb ‘may.’ Both are full of possibilities, wishes, and sometimes permissions. Was the month named after the verb? I don’t know—Do you?
Do you like May? It’s okay if you may not.
I love May because it’s usually warm, colourful, and bright, but it may suprise you with heavy showers— just as the forecast expects next week.
Trees and flowers smile at May. They bloom and blossom, sing and dance, and pray: May our winter be far away!
Insects, too welcome the warmth of May. They explore freely around, but they never use ‘may‘ to sneak or rush into one’s house.
Time flies not at a airplane’s speed but like that of space rocket. And here’s May, almost gone. And you, just like me, still hoping … thinking … praying that good news may come in abundance.
May the rest of May be kind and reassuring to all of us.
Pure and Simple 