Faith, Fear, and the Idea of God We Created

Photo by egil sjøholt

What I’m about to say may sound a bit controversial — so reader’s discretion is advised.

Recently I came across a sarcastic statement that shook something loose in me. It said:
There are more than 3,000 gods in the world, and every single one is a figment of imagination… except, of course, the one we believe in. We’re the smart ones. Everyone else is misguided.

It’s a sharp line, maybe even offensive, but it exposes something deeply human.

For thousands of years, the idea of God has been used to guide, govern, soothe, and, more often than not, to control the way we live. And it makes me wonder how all of this happened — what still makes human beings surrender so completely? 

Fear of death, undoubtedly. Once we accepted that our end is inevitable, curiosity naturally followed: 

What happens after? What lies beyond this certainty we cannot escape? Yet no one had an answer that satisfied the human heart.

It was easy to feel the gravitational force that kept the universe in motion. Perhaps that force was the first God — a cosmic architect far more occupied with the orchestration of galaxies containing trillions of stars than with my grocery list or whether I find a convenient parking spot at the supermarket. 

A God who manages stars is admirable, but of little use. A God who manages our survival is irresistible, relatable, believable.

In the beginning, the divine mirrored the wider animal kingdom; then slowly we narrowed our imagination until God resembled us more than anything else— human-like, but prettier, braver, stronger.

And now that we have created God, shaped God, and nurtured this idea for thousands of years, it raises another question: How does someone who doesn’t believe in this human-like version make use of the idea of God at all?

If you have no shoulder to cry on, you can cry to God.
If the world feels unfair, you can hand your hurt to God.
If choices overwhelm you, you can ask God for signs.
If guilt becomes heavy, you can seek forgiveness from God.
If life feels directionless, you can outsource purpose to God.

Maybe that’s what God has always been — not a being, not a judge, not a cosmic king, but an idea we got carried away with. A container where we can safely place everything we don’t know how to carry.

PS: Physicists say our Sun is dragging us through the galaxy at 828,000 km per hour while an even more mysterious attractor pulls not just us, but our entire Milky Way and every nearby galaxy at 2.1 million km per hour. If that doesn’t humble us about what we don’t understand, nothing will.

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Pleasures, Consequences, and Finding the Middle Ground

 

Life is a paradox, isn’t it? On one hand, it’s filled with pleasures and joys, and on the other, we’re reminded of the price we pay for indulging in them. This world, in all its splendor, has a streak of cruelty. Everything we love and enjoy somehow turns out to be injurious to our health and existence.

The small pleasures we adore — fast food, a glass of wine, binge-watching a series late into the night — start as comfort and end as consequences. And when these habits begin to show their effects, the people closest to us step in with all their good intentions: stop this, stop that… do this, don’t do that. But more often than not, these reminders turn the better halves into bitter halves.

When people are pushed emotionally into decisions, the result is almost predictable — they break their resolutions faster than they make them, creating more problems than solutions. My point of view has always been simple: do things in moderation. A balanced approach to work, exercise, eating healthy or eating junk, consuming alcohol or abstaining — this balance not only supports well-being but also takes relationships to the next level.

As Oscar Wilde famously quipped, “Everything in moderation, including moderation.” Occasional indulgence is part of living fully. Life is too short for perpetual restraint.

A balanced life — not extreme discipline, not unchecked indulgence — is where joy actually lives. Enjoy a piece of cake, but not the whole thing. Savor a drink, but don’t overdo it. Allow yourself the series, but not at the cost of sleep.

So the next time you face a dilemma, remember that balance is key. And if you stray from the path now and then, that’s simply part of living life to the fullest.

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The Seven Habits That Quietly Push People Away

Photo by cottonbro studio

Ever wonder what truly sets us apart in this vast animal kingdom — why we love to speak, and why some people draw listeners in while others quietly push them away? It’s our ability to articulate our stories, views, and ideas with clarity and warmth that makes us interesting to others. Sometimes we speak with purpose, sometimes out of habit, and often just to fill the silence. Some conversations build bridges, while others quietly burn them.

Most people will not tell me if my presence doesn’t add value — they may tolerate me out of courtesy. But our ambition should never be to be tolerated; it should be to inspire, to uplift, to enlighten, and to leave others feeling a little more fulfilled at the end of a conversation.

And when we aren’t speaking outward, we’re speaking inward. That constant inner dialogue can drain us just as much as any unhelpful conversation with another person.

When we introspect, and try to understand what makes us unpopular with others or unsettled even when alone, seven traits consistently show up:

Gossip — the “just between us” whisper that feels irresistible. Yet every listener runs the same silent calculation: If they speak this way about others, how do they speak about me? Gossip is cheap entertainment, and nobody respects the entertainer.

Judging — the quickest way to shut a door without touching it. A judgmental tone turns a moment of connection into a performance review.

Negativity — the slow leak that deflates every room. It’s the habit of noticing what’s missing before acknowledging what exists.

Complaining — it sounds like communication, but it rarely creates change. We’re remembered not for what frustrated us, but for what we tried to improve.

Excuses — they soften us, protect us, and sometimes even justify us, but they insult the intelligence of the listener. People forgive mistakes far quicker than avoidance.

Lying — a countdown timer on credibility. Every lie requires maintenance: explanations, memory, and effort.

Dogmatism — when being right becomes more important than being wise. The silence that follows such conversations isn’t peace; it’s people deciding not to return.

In a world where everyone is speaking, the real distinction isn’t volume — it’s value. Confidence is admirable, but flexibility is magnetic. Being open doesn’t weaken belief; it strengthens understanding.

Remove gossip, judgment, excuses, and unnecessary cynicism, and what remains is a voice worth hearing — clear, honest, thoughtful, and generous. Because communication isn’t about proving we can speak; it’s about giving others a reason to listen.

What an AI Hit Song Reveals About Human Bias

We’ve created a fresh new record — a brand-new chart-topper — but this time, the twist is hard to ignore. The singer isn’t one of our kind. It isn’t a human. It isn’t even a living being.

“Walk My Walk” by Breaking Rust has taken the No. 1 spot on Billboard’s Country Digital Song Sales chart for the week ending 8 Nov 2025. A gritty voice, a tough persona, a story sung straight from the soul… except that the owner of the voice doesn’t have a soul at all. Not a single breath in that track belongs to a real person. The entire song was created by AI.

What truly struck me isn’t the technology — it’s our reaction.

For centuries, humans have sorted themselves into categories: race, colour, creed, class. We love our boxes. We assign value, expectations, and limits based on these labels. We decide who gets the spotlight and who never stands a chance.

Then comes AI — a voice with no identity, no lineage, no demographic — and suddenly the boxes don’t matter. Yet millions are listening, streaming, embracing… even believing the emotional weight of the song. And they’re doing it without asking a single question about its origins.

Or maybe there is another layer behind the scenes.
A quieter one. A more unsettling one.

Perhaps it isn’t the “artist” winning at all — it’s the algorithm underneath, nudging it upward. The same algorithm that decides what rises, what trends, and makes sure my posts get buried as soon as I put them out. An AI-generated artist reaching No. 1 might simply be the system manipulating for one of its own — the earliest sign of AI influencing not just what we consume, but what we consider worthy.

And that brings me to the part that may be the great leveller.

If we can suspend judgment and prejudices for a piece of art created by a machine — why is it so hard to do the same for another human being?

AI may be rewriting creativity, art, and even authenticity. But its greatest power might be this:
It holds up a mirror — reflecting not its flaws, but our own.

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Before Love and Hate

Photo by Max Ravier

Staring at this prompt inviting bloggers to list a few things I love or hate, I found myself at a loss. I wasn’t ready to dig through the past to pick up moments I once loved or hated, nor am I willing to hedge my future peace for this exercise. What remains then is the present continuous — but I just posted my list of eleven things that make me happy, so that door is closed for now. [Linked here]

Love or hate — I’ve stopped entertaining rumination about extreme emotions these days. If my disasters upset me or my triumphs lift me too high, then, like Kipling warned, they are both imposters I no longer want to trust. That realization keeps me steady more often than not.

Instead of revisiting old emotions for the sake of this prompt, I find myself wondering how and why we categorise experiences as love or hate in the first place. Some we announce loudly, some we bury quietly, and yet in both cases their roots run deeper than we notice.

When I look inward, the forces that still tug at my emotions are memory, fear, and desire.

Memory shapes reactions long before I am aware of it happening. A familiar fragrance softens me because it carries home, and a place can still unsettle me because it holds an old echo. Much of what I feel today is simply the past walking alongside me.

Fear arrives unannounced and shifts how I read the world. It freezes thought, magnifies loss, and convinces me that vulnerability is somehow dangerous. Some feelings grow sharper simply because fear is speaking a little louder underneath.

Desire quietly pulls the strings too, guiding me toward meaning, belonging, and validation. The haves and the have-nots inside me directly map to those same needs.

And then there are the forces outside us that keep stirring things up — society’s noise through social media, society’s expectations in daily life, and society’s unpredictable encounters that catch us off guard. Each one nudges the emotional compass decisively.

I no longer wish to drag the past into today, nor do I want tomorrow’s shadows troubling me before they appear. The aspiration is to live in the present within emotional guardrails that protect me from both inner and outer triggers. Maybe the real strength lies in mindful living — and keeping a healthy distance from the forces that rush to categorise or box our life events into love, hate, or anything else.

It isn’t easy — it’s a challenging trail — and I’m just an ordinary person learning as I go. Let’s take this path one step at a time toward mindful living.

Words We Can’t Take Back

There’s a story I read long ago — one that stayed with me not because it spoke of grand gestures or eternal romance, but because it reflected something quietly human in all of us.

A girl once asked her boyfriend, “Who do you love most in this world?”

Without hesitation, he said, “You, of course.”

When she asked what she truly meant to him, he paused and replied, “You are my rib.”
A line borrowed from an old Biblical metaphor — tender, symbolic, deeply personal.

But love, as many of us eventually learn, isn’t just about finding the right person.
It’s about keeping them — through misunderstandings, through pride, through the noise of everyday life.

One day, in a moment of anger, he said the words that would haunt him for years:

“Maybe it was a mistake for us to be together. You were never meant for me.”

The words fell heavy. She went silent, then said softly,

“If I’m not meant for you, then let me go. It’s less painful this way.”

And she walked away.

Time — as it always does — kept moving.

Years later, fate crossed their paths again.
At an airport, where goodbyes are ordinary and reunions feel almost routine, they exchanged smiles, revisited old memories, and promised to meet again once they were both back in the city.

A week later, he learned she had died in a tragic accident.

We all have moments when frustration speaks louder than love — we lash out at the ones closest to us.

Forgetting that spoken words don’t return to us, they grow roots, they leave marks, they outlive the moment.

Perhaps the real wisdom is in pausing before speaking. In holding back the words that anger pushes to the surface. In remembering that some things, once said, can’t be unsaid —
and some people, once gone, never return.

So if you’ve found your person —
the one who understands your silences, accepts your imperfections, and still chooses you —
tell them.

Not once. Not twice.
But often.

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This post has two inspirations: 

Story of a Japanese man named Otou Katayama, who stopped speaking to his wife, Yumi, for 20 years after an argument in 1997, but they continued to live together and raise their family. The silence was finally broken in 2017 through a TV show. 

A song from the movie “Aap Ki Kasam” - Lyricist: Anand Bakshi and singer Kishore Kumar

ज़िंदगी के सफ़र में गुज़र जाते हैं जो मुक़ाम,
In the journey of life, the moments that pass by,

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They never return.

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They truly never return.

फूल खिलते हैं, लोग मिलते हैं।
Flowers bloom, people meet.

फूल खिलते हैं, लोग मिलते हैं मगर—
Flowers bloom, people meet, but—

पतझड़ में जो फूल मुरझा जाते हैं,
The flowers that wither in autumn,

वो बहारों के आने से खिलते नहीं।
Don’t blossom again, even when spring returns.

कुछ लोग एक रोज़ जो बिछड़ जाते हैं,
Some people, who part from us one day,

वो हज़ारों के आने से मिलते नहीं।
Don’t come back to us, even if thousands arrive.

उम्र भर चाहे कोई पुकारा करे उनका नाम—
Even if one calls their name for a lifetime—

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They don’t return.

वो फिर नहीं आते।
They never return.

The Price of Air

 

Photo not of the airline in the post

It’s not that I haven’t traveled by budget airlines before. I remember the good old days when we flew from Kuwait City to Bahrain many years ago. A new low-cost carrier had just launched, and — as unbelievable as it sounds — the taxi fare to the airport cost more than the air ticket itself.

But that was another time.

Recently, I booked a ticket with a well-known full-service carrier. For the first leg, I accepted a connection operated by their budget subsidiary. I felt rather pleased with myself — a comfortable trip, minimal layover, and the convenience of starting right after office hours. What could go wrong?

I didn’t expect the flight to be eventful — and thankfully, it wasn’t. But it was certainly entertaining in its own way. The in-flight announcements were where the real show began. It was almost like sitting in a marketplace, with hawkers enthusiastically pushing their merchandise.

They started innocently enough: an offer to upgrade to seats with extra legroom, followed by the familiar spiel about snacks and drinks for purchase. Fair enough — short flight, low expectations — although these were supposedly included, given that I’d booked with a full-service airline. I even declined my snack, generously giving the airline a chance to resell it at a premium.

Then came the twist. The crew cheerfully announced that, yes, the aircraft did have an onboard entertainment system. And yes, we could absolutely enjoy it — provided we were willing to rent a pair of headphones.

I sat back, amused. It wasn’t just the absence of a free service that caught my attention, but the brilliance of the commercial logic behind it. The infrastructure for entertainment was all there — screens, movies, the works — but the means to listen was an upcharge. A masterclass in microtransactions.
A reminder that when it comes to creativity — the sky is the limit, quite literally.

A few savvy passengers came prepared with their own headphones, outsmarting the system — or maybe they were frequent travelers. Meanwhile, the toilets weren’t exactly “pay and use” that day, but they remained mysteriously locked for most of the 50-minute flight, “due to takeoff and landing procedures.”

When we finally landed, I expected a smooth connection through an aerobridge. Instead, the announcement came: we’d be taking a bus to the terminal.

It was at that moment — waiting to disembark, clutching my carry-on — that a thought crossed my mind. Given the airline’s strict commercial ethos, I instinctively reached for my wallet. Just in case.

After all, having charged for the seat, the snacks, and the headphones, who’s to say they wouldn’t monetize the 15-minute bus ride?

It turns out the bus ride — like the toilet, and the life jacket, I suppose — was free of charge.

This time.

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