Skip to main content

Hidden Patterns

It is always fascinating to distinguish between what we do on a whim, without much thought, and what we do repeatedly, often without realising it. Many of our actions are not deliberate choices but secondary reactions, shaped by patterns we seldom notice.

Take, for instance, a simple decision to try an ice lolly with an unusual flavour — nothing remarkable in itself. But if you find yourself needing to consult Google, your pet, and a set of divination beads before making such a choice, then it’s worth asking whether this is part of a deeper behavioural pattern.

The truth is, we rarely recognise our own habits. They are often glaringly obvious yet invisible to us. This is because our attention is drawn to what is in the foreground of our awareness, while the forces at work in the background remain elusive, shaping our actions in ways we do not fully understand.

Consider insomnia as rebellion. You may feel powerless over your daily life, as if time is slipping through your fingers. Even when exhaustion sets in, you delay sleep until the last possible moment — not out of necessity, but as an unconscious act of defiance.

Or take the person who spends the entire day biting their tongue, suppressing frustration, enduring rudeness. When they finally return home, they release all that pent-up tension in a storm of irritation. This is the phenomenon of the domestic tyrant — a displacement of unexpressed emotions onto those closest to them.

Some of these patterns align with clinical syndromes, but not all are so neatly classified. Most people go through life, repeating the same cycles day after day, without ever questioning the deeper motivations behind their actions. Unfortunately, much of this unconscious behaviour manifests as pain, frustration, and unresolved trauma — not only for the individual but for those around them as well.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

On Loyalty and the Quiet Companionship of Pippen

I have a cosmopolitan friend who, by the mercy of chance — that discreet and impartial arbiter of destinies — was born in Serbia. Industrious beyond measure, he treats work not merely as obligation but as a quiet philosophy, a means of aligning oneself with the silent order of things. And he is a companion of a rare kind: steadfast, discerning, and, above all, loyal. His name is Pippen. We first crossed paths in the now-vanished days of Google+ — that fleeting agora where, for a moment, the world’s geeks entertained the gentle delusion that they might, in time, inherit the Earth. It was an age of bright aspiration, tinged with naïveté, yet marked by a peculiar fellowship that transcended all borders and conventions. Among Pippen’s many virtues, loyalty stands pre-eminent. Not the clamorous, performative loyalty so fashionable in this restless age, but the quieter, unwavering kind — the loyalty of one who stays. It is revealed not in grand gestures but in small, consistent a...

Subtle Daily Happiness

Happiness is a landscape hidden in the details. It does not arrive with trumpets, but in whispers: a ray of sunlight slipping through the window, the scent of morning coffee, the hush before a burst of laughter. We live in an age that mistakes happiness for grandeur, as if it depended on spectacular achievements or material possessions. Yet, its essence lies in the opposite—in the ability to notice what is already there, nearly invisible, yet full of meaning. There is an irony in this. While we chase ambitious goals—promotions, travels, recognition—we overlook what the philosopher Epicurus called “simple pleasures”: a conversation with a friend, the joy of an unhurried meal, the quiet sense of belonging when watching the sunset. Neuroscience reinforces this idea: small moments of connection or contemplation trigger neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine, responsible for our sense of well-being. Happiness, then, is not a destination, but a way of walking. Part of its subtlety l...

Ten Voices, One Silence

There were ten of them — though at times they spoke as one murmuring voice, and at others, like ten distinct silences, each fractured differently by the strain of being. They were not chosen as idols for a shelf, nor as exhibits in some canonical museum. Rather, they happened to me — each arriving, unbidden, during the long, luminous solitude of study. They were not so much read as endured, not so much admired as absorbed. What they gave me was not knowledge, but permission — to question, to unravel, to dwell within the unsayable. Sophocles carved fate into stone. He gave suffering a chorus and lent blindness a voice. In his tragedies, destiny is not an event but a law — impersonal, inescapable. His characters do not fall because they err, but because they exist. He was the architect of inevitability. Through him, I grasped that form can contain anguish without flinching. Dante Alighieri descended, and rose again. His Divine Comedy traced the arc of the soul with a pilgrim’...