Our Life, Our Ship, Our Sails

Photo by IsaaK Alexandre KaRslian:

How many times, sitting at your office desk, have you wondered, “What am I even doing here?”
How many times have your friends or colleagues quietly confessed the same?
How many evenings have you returned home after a long day — not just tired, but drained in a way that effort alone cannot explain?

When we look closely, the reason often traces back to drifting away from a simple, unavoidable truth we must internalize if we ever want real peace:

Everyone has to live their life on their own terms.

It sounds simple — almost obvious — but living this philosophy is one of the hardest things we’ll ever attempt. It requires a kind of ongoing awareness, a gentle but firm refusal to be pulled into the noise of the world. It means letting go of the weight of external expectations, even when they come wrapped in love.

I’ve seen this struggle most clearly when people stand at the crossroads of big decisions — like someone wanting to leave a stable, well-paying engineering job to become a stand-up comedian. The reactions they receive, though well-intentioned, rarely come from a neutral place. Advice arrives filtered through someone else’s fears, experiences, and worldview.

And that’s when we must remind ourselves of something essential.

Our lives are not identical.
Our paths are not interchangeable.
Our inner callings are not meant to follow someone else’s.

We are like ships on the same vast sea — and while the wind blows in the same direction for everyone, each ship sets a different course, sometimes in opposite directions.
It is not the wind, the water, or the weather that shapes our direction.
It is the sails — our purpose, our choices, our inner compass — that truly decide where we go.

Once we understand this, life becomes lighter. Decisions feel clearer. And our peace becomes less negotiable.

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Why I Can’t Multitask Anymore

 

Photo by Christina Morillo

There was a time when I thought I could multitask without even thinking about it. I could listen to something fascinating, read at the same time, even write a few thoughts in between. 

But now? 

The moment my ears are engaged, everything else seems to shut down. I can’t read. I can barely write. It’s as if I’ve slowly turned into a single-tasking person.

At first, this bothered me. I wondered if I was losing a part of myself — the part that used to juggle so many inputs so naturally. But the moment I start comparing myself to my own past experiences, I can never be sure whether those earlier abilities were facts or illusions. Memory is a storyteller, not always a historian. So I dug a little deeper and ended up with a narrative that actually comforted me.

Cognitive science says this is completely normal. The tendency for our attention and cognitive resources to become tightly focused when our hearing is actively engaged is rooted in our evolutionary biology — particularly the importance of sound for early threat detection. Our ancestors survived by reacting quickly to noises around them, and our brain still gives hearing the first priority. When the ears take over, the rest of the system naturally quiets down.

And maybe that’s not a flaw.
Maybe that’s my mind choosing depth over noise.
Maybe that’s my system saying, “Focus on one thing. Be present in the moment.”

The more I think about it, the more I realise: single-tasking isn’t a decline — it’s a refinement. It’s an invitation to do fewer things, but with more honesty and more attention. And perhaps that’s the real evolution — not the ability to do everything, but the courage to do one thing well.

So yes, my ears may overpower everything else now. But maybe they’re not interrupting my life — maybe they’re guiding me back to it.

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The Most Expensive Dress

Photo by cottonbro studio

Epigraph

On the ramp of life, true beauty is not the shade of skin nor the shine on the outside, but the light that radiates from within.

The Most Expensive Dress

All walks the ramp, each shade on display,
Black, brown, white, and yellow, colors in a sway.
Some shimmer like silk, some glimmer like gold,

Is the outer glow that all hearts behold?
Destitute by fate—what causes this radiance?
What money can’t buy; purity shines on face,

Yet, judged by skin—what a disgrace!

The prompt for Poets and storytellers United is "We will invite you to find inspiration in this quote: “The most expensive garment you’ll ever own is your own flesh.”

Life Is Bigger Than Your Report Card

 

Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi 

Why do we consider someone “good”, “intelligent,” or even “successful” simply because they performed well in school? It’s strange when you think about it.

School and college occupy the first 15 to 20 years of our lives — barely 20–25% of an average lifespan — yet for many, that brief window becomes a label that follows them into adulthood, work, relationships, and even self-worth.

But the truth is simple: life doesn’t unfold in one straight line; it comes in seasons.
We still have the next ten years to bloom, or the ten after that, or the ten that follow, and then — perhaps most profoundly — the last ten. Each stage demands a different kind of wisdom, something that never appears on a school transcript.

Maybe I made the mistake of clubbing too many superlatives together — good, intelligent, successful. They’re not the same thing. So let’s untangle them.

Intelligence cannot be restricted to a report card — it will surface every time it finds a suitable situation. Exams test memory, discipline, and pattern recognition, whereas life asks for emotional intelligence, intuition, social skill, resilience, imagination, and the ability to recover after falling flat.

Success is equally subjective.
For some, it is the number of people they inspire — whether as a teacher, founder, or artist.
For others, it is power — the ability to influence, lead, or shape outcomes.
For many, it is wealth — the freedom to live life on their own terms.
And sometimes, success is simply the ability to exist within an extended family in harmony.

It’s true: those who perform well early in life often build momentum. Good grades open doors, and once momentum gathers, it can carry you far. But there’s a hidden trap — the comfort zone becomes a cage.

So the long and short of it is this: don’t get worked up.
Life has no universal yardstick — because there isn’t one.
Define your own success. Shape it, refine it, evolve it as you go.
And remember: a report card was never meant to measure your entire life — only a small, temporary chapter of it.

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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.