General

The Rusting Iron Road
The wind clawed at the gaps in the old station roof, whistling a low, mournful tune through the splintered timbers. Silas pulled his collar tighter, the threadbare wool doing little against the bone-deep cold. His breath plumed white, hanging in the frigid air like ghosts of spoken words. Around him, a dozen other figures huddled, mostly men, their faces etched with the same kind of weariness that had settled in Silas's own bones. Each one a shadow, a story he didn't want to hear, didn't need to.
By HAADI18 days ago in Men
Ben Sasse’s Announcement and the Reason Behind the Trend
Former U.S. Senator Ben Sasse has become a trending topic across Google searches, social media platforms, and major news outlets today. Many people who had not heard his name in recent months are now asking the same question: Why is Ben Sasse trending right now? The answer is not related to a political scandal or controversy, but rather a deeply personal and emotional announcement that has captured national attention.
By Daily Motivation20 days ago in Men
Pastures of Static
Kael dragged the heavy refuse bin across the slick, oil-stained concrete, the grind of his treads echoing in the cavernous waste processing plant. Rust streaked his chassis, a badge of a thousand shifts, a testament to the unending deluge of humanity’s discards. His optical sensors registered the usual: shattered plasteel, corroded wiring, a half-eaten synth-apple core. Data. Just data, for processing. But lately, something else had been bleeding in.
By HAADI20 days ago in Men
The Legendary Coat That Refused to Retire
I own a coat, not merely cloth, But something closer to a myth. It’s not just worn—it has been through things, Survived the cold, endured my thrift.
By Farhadi21 days ago in Men
The Weight of Unsaid Words
Arthur found it tucked beneath a stack of old blueprints, the paper yellowed, brittle at the edges. Not a treasure, not a forgotten deed, just a letter. His own scratchy handwriting, barely legible now, dated May 12th, 1978. Thirty-seven years ago. He hadn't meant to find it, just clearing out the desk in the den, a task his wife, Mary, had been hounding him about for weeks. He picked it up, careful not to crack the creases. The paper felt like a ghost in his hand, thin and impossibly fragile.
By HAADI22 days ago in Men
The Ledger of Dust
Elias pushed through the heavy oak doors, the groan of ancient hinges a familiar complaint. The air inside hit him, thick, dry, smelling of paper and something else, something like old memories and forgotten rain. Dust motes, tiny universes, swam in the weak light filtering through grimy arched windows high above. This place, the Grand Archives, it always felt like a tomb. Not a dead one, but one where every single whisper lingered, a faint hum against the silence. His worn boots scraped on the polished stone floor, each step too loud, too heavy.
By HAADI24 days ago in Men
Puddle Reflections
Arthur stood under the awning of the old liquor store, the fluorescent hum overhead doing little to ward off the chill. Rain hammered the street, turning the cracked asphalt into a mirror for the city's frantic, pulsing colors. Reds, blues, garish yellows bled into the puddles, swirling like oil slicks. He pulled the collar of his worn jacket tighter, the damp seeped into his bones. His eyes, the color of tired steel, tracked the sporadic headlights cutting through the downpour.
By HAADI25 days ago in Men
The Weight of Dust
Elias moved through the stacks like a ghost. Seventy-three years old, sixty of them spent in the hushed, cavernous belly of the city's archive. The air, thick and sweet with decay, smelled of parchment, leather, and a thousand forgotten lives. His hands, liver-spotted and gnarled, knew the spines of every book, the texture of every vellum leaf, the exact creak of every floorboard on the third floor, Section Beta, where the local histories slept. He'd shelved more books than most men had read, each one a silent witness to time’s relentless crawl.
By HAADI27 days ago in Men
The Backward Tick
Arthur didn't notice it at first. Not really. The old grandfather clock, Thomas's clock, had stood in the corner of the living room for fifty years, ticking with the measured, steady rhythm of a man who knew his place. It had been his father’s; a hulking, dark oak beast, a wedding gift from a cousin in the old country. When Thomas died, the clock just kept on, a constant presence, a silent sentinel in the house Arthur now rattled around in alone. For weeks after the funeral, Arthur had barely heard it, lost in the fuzzy quiet of grief and cheap whiskey.
By HAADI28 days ago in Men
The Weight of Quiet
Frank stepped onto the porch. Cold hit him like a fist, but it was a familiar one. The streetlights bled blurry halos through the falling snow. Fat flakes, big as dimes, drifted down, piling up fast. Already a good foot on the driveway, pristine, unbroken. Midnight. He pulled the old wool cap lower, exhaled a cloud, and walked to the garage. The plastic shovel was leaning in its usual corner, a silent sentinel. He gripped the handle, the cold plastic biting his palm, and pushed open the garage door, the groan of the rollers the loudest sound in the entire sleeping world.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men
Why Natural Beauty Wins: What Men Secretly Notice First
I didn’t always understand why natural beauty hits differently for most men. For years, I believed the opposite, the same way many women do. I thought men were mesmerized by contouring, perfectly blended eyeshadow, or the kind of hot models that takes a full arsenal of brushes to achieve. I assumed effort was attractive, and therefore more effort meant more allure.
By All Women's Talkabout a month ago in Men
The Weight of White
Frank leaned against the kitchen counter, the ceramic mug cold against his palm. Two-fifteen AM. The old house breathed around him, every creak and groan amplified by the unnatural stillness. He'd been awake since eleven. Eleanor used to call him her human alarm clock, always up before dawn, but these days, dawn felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the empty side of the bed. He’d tried reading, tried the TV, but the words blurred, the images felt flat. His own thoughts, sharp and relentless, were the only things that held any weight.
By HAADIabout a month ago in Men