Bunny's Burrow: Hopping into Life

There are certain things in this world that shouldn’t exist, things too grotesque to be real, too monstrous to comprehend. But there I was, standing in the middle of the rubble, staring at something that should never be. A boy. Barely 7 or 8 years old. He wasn’t even old enough to grow into the kind of man who would ever make a real choice, but he was standing there in front of me—shaking, his body wrapped in the vest of his impending doom. You’d think I would’ve seen it coming. I should’ve known, right? We’d been through enough of this godforsaken war to recognize the signs, the whispers in the wind, the quiet before the storm. But this time, it hit me harder than anything ever had. He was just a kid. His face was smudged with dirt, eyes wide, mouth trembling like he couldn’t even process what was happening to him. And there he stood, in the middle of that dusty hellhole, the one thing I never thought I’d see— child soldiers —but this one… this one was different. He wasn’t armed. No...

Alright, kiddos, buckle up, because today we’re diving into one of the coolest ideas in physics: the principle of least action. Sounds fancy, right? But trust me, it’s not that complicated. Basically, it’s like nature is a lazy genius—things always happen in the most efficient way possible. This idea ties together everything from how light moves to how planets orbit the sun and even how tiny particles behave in quantum mechanics. Let’s break it down step by step and see how some of the greatest minds in history figured this out. Fermat’s Principle of Least Time Imagine you’re a lifeguard at the beach, and you see someone drowning. You need to run across the sand and then swim to save them. What’s the fastest route? If you just ran straight toward them, you’d spend too much time swimming, which is slower than running. If you ran too far before swimming, you’d waste time covering extra distance. The best route is somewhere in between—minimizing the total time taken. That’s basically what...

  Oh, sweeties, history loves its villains, but it also has a habit of rewriting them. Saddam Hussein—dictator, reformer, butcher, protector? Depends on who you ask. The truth? He was all of the above. A Ruthless Rise to Power Coming from humble Bedouin roots, Saddam clawed his way up through the Ba'ath Party, turning Iraq into a modernized, yet fear-driven, powerhouse. Schools, hospitals, and infrastructure flourished under him. But so did mass executions, ethnic purges, and state-sponsored terror. Progress at the price of freedom? Classic authoritarian trade-off. The West’s Favorite Monster (Until He Wasn’t) Ah, the irony—Saddam was once the golden boy of the U.S. when they needed a strongman against Iran in the ‘80s. They armed him, shook his hand, and ignored his brutality—until Kuwait happened. Then suddenly, he was the next Hitler. Funny how quickly the narrative changes when oil is involved. The War That Broke Iraq The 2003 invasion, based on lies about WMDs, didn’t just top...

  Mathematics has always been about discovering the rules of the universe, and sometimes, a single line in an ancient book can lead to revolutionary ideas. One such line, buried in the oldest known math book, puzzled mathematicians for centuries. This line, Euclid’s fifth postulate, seemed almost unnecessary so much so that for hundreds of years, experts tried to prove it using simpler principles. But when they stopped trying to prove it and instead questioned it, they uncovered entire new universes. Euclid’s Controversial Fifth Postulate Euclid, the father of geometry, wrote a book called Elements over 2,300 years ago. In it, he outlined five basic rules, or postulates, for geometry. The first four postulates were simple and intuitive, like “A straight line can be drawn between any two points.” But the fifth postulate, also known as the parallel postulate, was different. It stated: “If a straight line falls on two straight lines in such a manner that the interior angles on one si...

There’s a peculiar agony in knowing your brilliance can also destroy. I built something remarkable—technology meant to protect, to defend, to save. And yet, every report I see, every shattered life, whispers the same haunting truth: it kills. And it does so exceptionally well . I should be proud, shouldn’t I? Instead, I feel like Baba Yaga watching her enchanted hut trample through a village—powerful, yes, but stomping on souls I never meant to harm. Every algorithm, every precision strike... they told me it would save lives. What they didn’t say is how many of those lives wouldn’t belong to soldiers. There’s a cruel irony in it. They say tech is neutral, but when did it become so eager to follow orders without asking why? And why is it that civilian blood—mothers, children, the ones caught between—always ends up being part of the equation? I’m no saint—don’t get me wrong. I knew what I was making, knew the contracts, the buyers, the promises. But somehow, I let myself believe the lie ...

Today, I woke up to a silence that didn’t just fill the room—it clung to me, wrapped itself around my ribs, and whispered in that hollow space where my heart used to feel full. It wasn’t the soft kind of quiet. It was sharp, brutal, and unrelenting, the kind that sinks into your bones and makes you ache in places you forgot existed. I thought I’d learned how to live with it, how to bury it under routine and motion, but no. It crept back in like it always does, uninvited and heavy, dragging memories behind it like chains. It gnawed at scars I thought had long since healed, and I hated how easy it was for them to tear open again. So I sat in the dark. Crying, like I always do when it becomes too much. The halls stretched on endlessly, their stillness mocking me, and yet I wandered them like I might stumble across something—anything—that would make this emptiness feel less consuming. My fingertips brushed against the walls, the rough texture grounding me, a painful reminder of how far I...

 For too long, I carried the weight of my struggles in silence, believing that strength meant facing everything alone. My grandfather—bless him—taught me that real Russian women don’t ask for help, they just endure. I thought that was my path. But it’s a lie. A damn heavy one. Years of trauma, burnout, anxiety, and a body that’s screaming for mercy pushed me to the edge. I’ve ignored my limits, clung to my pride, and let fear keep me from reaching out. Now, as the weight threatens to crush me, I wonder if it's too late to ask for help. Can I still heal when I’ve spent so long thinking I had to handle it all alone? I don’t know. But maybe this is where the real strength lies—finally breaking free from the past, from the expectations, and letting myself be vulnerable enough to ask for the support I’ve always deserved.