The 54th Post — Closing the Daily Chapter

 

I have been on a writing marathon for the past seven weeks — and today, on 30 November 2025, I’m closing this chapter with the 54th post of my series. It has been a ritual: sometimes demanding, often unexpected, but always real fun.

Over the previous 53 posts, I wrote about many things — curiosity, doubts, discoveries, ideas. I experimented with different styles: sometimes essay-like, sometimes personal, sometimes informative, sometimes conversational, and once I even tried a poem. I wandered between memories and questions, theories and observations, hopes and uncertainties, including a few thoughts on AI.

What I wrote:

Moments of wondering — small questions I had about life, culture, and the things I see and feel around me.

Thoughts on learning, on change, on growing.

Pieces of honesty — moments where I tried to share what I truly thought rather than what I “should” think.

A mix of genres — essays, musings, and snapshots of ideas. I pushed myself not to follow a fixed formula but to trust where my pen (or keyboard) led.

Once I shared an old Tagore song my daughter used to sing as a child, and once I tried my hands at a poem.

Some days the words came easily, like they had been waiting for me. On other days, I had to sit quietly and coax them out one by one.

What I learned — and how I changed:

The first lesson for me is that writing consistently taught me how to think more clearly. Even when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, the act of writing teased out hidden thoughts — ideas that were living inside me without my awareness.

I learned that motivation does not need external stimuli — I wrote whether or not anyone was reading, reacting, or appreciating the effort.

A big lesson was that you don’t need to write anything negative, hateful, or hurtful to keep going — even though social media often allows exactly that to thrive.

I also learned that discipline beats inspiration. Not every day was inspiring; some days I wrote simply because I promised myself I would. And often those pieces surprised me — with clarity, with emotion, with something I didn’t expect at the start.

And along the way, I connected with many like-minded bloggers — people I would never have met otherwise — you being one of them.

What this marathon means — and what are the take aways:

This series was a commitment: a way to prove to myself that I could keep going. A way to give shape to my inner questions, to trust my own voice, and to build a habit of creation and exploration.

If you read even one post and felt a spark — a thought, a question, a moment of recognition — then this marathon was worth it. And if you’re reading this now and thinking, “Maybe I could try that too,” then take this as a quiet invitation: start. Write something. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It may feel confusing. It may matter only to you. But keep going.

To you, dear reader — known or unknown — thank you for being here. I'm not going away; I’m simply closing this daily ritual. Keep thinking, keep questioning, keep writing your own story.

— End of the daily series, not the writing.

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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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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🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice

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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🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice

The AI and Washing My Clothes

 

Photo Courtesy

Recently, our washing machine broke down — a minor domestic setback, but one that demanded immediate attention. So, I went to a large electronics store — the kind that sells everything from toasters to 90-inch TVs. It says something about our economy, but that’s not the point here.

The salesman appeared promptly — well-trained, eager — and began my guided tour through what I can only describe as the washing machine district. After a few minutes of polite nodding, I narrowed my choices down to two models — both of suitable capacity, both from brands I trusted.

One, however, was about 20% more expensive.

“That one has AI,” the salesman said, tapping the sticker as if revealing a divine truth.

Not being entirely naïve about AI, I was both suspicious and curious about this supposedly groundbreaking feature I’d somehow missed.

“What exactly does the AI do?” I asked.

He brightened. “Sir, it checks the weight of your clothes…” — I nodded — “then it analyzes how dirty they are, and decides how much detergent is needed.”

I paused. “Wait a minute. It checks how dirty the clothes are?”

He nodded earnestly. “Yes, sir. It has sensors.”

I couldn’t help picturing a boardroom of tiny robots inside the drum, holding a meeting:
“Gentlemen, we have a stubborn curry stain on the sleeve — increase detergent by 7%.”

AI and sensors have become the modern salesperson’s magic words — covering any gap between imagination and reality.

I asked to see the brochure. Unsurprisingly, there was no mention of this revolutionary dirt-detection technology. The salesman quickly added, “Not everything is written in the brochure, sir,” and suggested I check the online specifications.

I didn’t.

Instead, I chose the simpler model — the one without AI, without self-awareness, and without ambitions to optimize my laundry experience.

On the way home, I thought about how easily the word AI now slips into every sales pitch — as if intelligence, artificial or otherwise, can be sprinkled on anything to make it desirable.
Maybe the real test isn’t whether machines can think — but whether we still can, before we swipe our cards.

Thank you for taking a moment to read my reflection today. If this piece brought a smile or a thought worth keeping, I hope you’ll return for more.
Until next time — think gently, live simply, and keep your mind switched on. ✨

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#readreflectrejoice