The Second Chance We Want

 

Sitting alone, contemplating how life has and is treating me, I remembered an old story. A person facing what we often call a “midlife crisis” went to a monk. He complained about all the decisions he felt he had failed to take, about how miserable his life had become. He wished he could wake up at 22 and start all over.

The perspective the monk offered made a huge impact on me.

He said:

"If you’re 41 and feeling sad that you can’t wake up as a 22-year-old again, try this instead."

Close your eyes. Take a few deep breaths. Feel your lungs expand, feel the air entering your nose. Now, imagine — just for a few moments — that you are 85.

Feel the weight of those years — the slower body, the absence of people you once loved, the conversations you never had, the apologies you never made, the love you didn’t express enough. Let the regrets rise: the chances you didn’t take, the relationships you let fade, the moments you were too distracted to notice.

Sit with that version of yourself for a while — you will soon feel the 85-year-old you wishing for one more ordinary day at 41.

And then, in this little thought experiment, you go to sleep with all those feelings.

Then you wake up… you are 41 again.
Not older.
Not drained.
Not running out of time.

You suddenly, miraculously, have the next 44 years back in your hands- maybe little less, or little more.

So you ask yourself:

• What would I do differently?

• What would matter more?

• Whom would I call?

• What would I finally stop postponing?

The monk’s point was simple:

You may never be 22 again, but you can absolutely be someone your 85-year-old self would be grateful for.

We keep longing for a second chance — without realizing we already have one.

It just begins at 41, not at 22.

The Strength Lies in Accepting

 

Time is unforgiving. Life doesn’t let us rewind a moment, step back into an old version of ourselves, or undo the accident we never saw coming. It doesn’t offer a second attempt at the same crossroads — no matter how much remorse we carry or how deeply we wish we could fix what we once did wrong.

What it does offer — quietly, consistently — is the chance to learn. To reshape. To live each day a little better than the last.

I once heard an older musician speak about losing hearing in one ear early in his career. He said something I’ve never forgotten:
“I spent five years trying to get back to who I was before the accident. I wasted that time trying to heal the unhealable.”

For half a decade, he wasn’t fighting the condition — he was fighting the past, fighting the idea of the life he believed he was supposed to have. Only when he finally accepted that this particular loss was permanent did something shift. Acceptance didn’t restore his hearing, but it restored his direction.

He reworked his technique, retrained his sense of balance, and found a new creative rhythm that didn’t betray what he had lost but built upon what he still had. And from that place, a different kind of joy emerged.

There is a quiet strength in acknowledging a changed reality. Acceptance isn’t defeat. It isn’t surrender. It is simply recognising life’s randomness and moving with it instead of against it.

The ability to integrate the wound and still move through life — not perfectly, not painlessly, but purposefully — is its own form of victory.

In the end, the true virtue is this:
stop trying to return to the person you once were,
and start becoming the person you are meant to be next.

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Today’s Overwhelming World and Me

 

Photo by Anna Tarazevich

On one side, there is another human eagerly waiting to replace us, and on the other, there is AI trying to take over our tasks. Working in today’s world is not for the faint-hearted. We’ve lived through this reality for years — long schedules, impossible timelines, constant firefighting, shifting expectations, and pressure that rarely lets up.

The construction industry may traditionally stand at the top when it comes to burnout rates, but I have a doubt that software professionals are under extra stress these days.

Every profession now demands emotional endurance, mental resilience, and stress management. Burnout is no longer an exception — it must be managed actively, and whenever possible, proactively.

A simple exercise can help relieve stress:
Close your eyes. Take a few deep breaths. Feel your lungs expand, feel the air entering your nose. Now, watch your thoughts. See where they go.

Within moments, the mind drifts into the past or the future. It latches onto a memory, a worry, a plan — anything but the present moment. Keep bringing the wandering mind back to the present. Make it sit and accept the present, with the quiet understanding that the universe has plans for everyone.

There is a second — and far more reliable — path to contentment: learning to want and appreciate what we already have. Situations, materials, experiences — anything and everything. The world will always give us reasons to feel inadequate. Our work will always demand more.

But peace… peace comes only from one place: a mind trained to return to presence, and understand that nothing is permanent — good times, bad times, and for that matter, life itself.

When a Childhood Prophecy Starts to Feel Real

 

Sniped from a diary page

I remember when we were growing up, there was a pseudo-scientific prediction about the future of the human species. I never figured out the original source — it might have been part imagination, part street folklore, part schoolyard “research.”

It was during the time we were being introduced to evolution, natural selection, adaptation — so these predictions slipped easily and convincingly into our young minds.

The prophecy was that someday human bodies would turn spherical from inactivity, while our heads would grow bigger because the brain would be working harder than ever.

The idea was simple: as technology advanced, humans wouldn’t need to work. Machines would do everything. Physical effort would vanish, and as a result, the limbs would slowly lose their purpose and shape. The new human would look like two spheres.

Strangely, it all sounded perfectly logical back then.

Fast forward to November 2025 — Elon Musk, at the US–Saudi Business Forum, predicted that in just 10–20 years, work might become optional. A hobby, he said. Something you’d do the way you grow tomatoes on your balcony — because you want to, not because you have to.

So yes, a part of that childhood prophecy seems to be inching toward reality. “Optional work” doesn’t sound like fiction anymore.

But unfortunately, the other half of the prophecy seems to be drifting in the opposite direction. Instead of thinking more, we’re slowly outsourcing thinking.

We have been drifting away from simple, brain-engaging activities as basic as writing letters. Half the fun was lost when emails replaced handwritten letters, and now my Gmail wants me to reply with emojis. Not sentences. Not thoughts. Not even words.

Just… symbols.

And when I insist on writing a few words, it tries to finish them too — almost nudging: “Leave it to me.”

Meanwhile, AI is drafting reports, taking minutes, generating action items, telling stories, solving math problems, translating languages — almost thinking on our behalf.

It’s strange. We once imagined a future where our brains expanded and became more powerful. Instead, our expressions are shrinking — and so is the brain’s engagement.

So when Gmail offers me an emoji as a reply, I pause.
Not because I dislike emojis, but because I wonder what we slowly lose when we stop forming thoughts… and slip toward symbol-based communication, almost like walking backwards into a pre-language era.

If work becomes optional someday, that’s fine.
But thinking — that should remain non-negotiable.

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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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