Adulting

We tell ourselves such elaborate lies at times—some to keep our spirits alive, most to keep ourselves from falling apart. When do we call bluff on those? We see lies in everyone's eyes but our own. Our true potential might be much lower than we choose to believe, our aspirations much higher than what we can ever achieve. Yet, we persist, convincing ourselves that we are meant for greatness, that the universe is merely waiting for the right moment to grant us our due. Wishful thinking, manifestations—these work for the deserving, for the doer. They don’t work for the talker, the dreamer who never moves beyond their imagination, the one who waits for fate to intervene instead of carving their own path. The world doesn’t reward intention; it rewards action. So, at what point do we stop telling ourselves these tales? At what point do we strip away the illusion and see ourselves for who we truly are? Perhaps, the greatest tragedy is not in failing to achieve our dreams, but in never ...

Love—so grand, so elusive, so deeply misunderstood. It sneaks in like a quiet storm, turning certainty into chaos. The problem isn’t just love itself, but the way we define it—vaguely, personally, selfishly. One person loves deeply, while the other stays for companionship—the comfort of having someone around, not the intense passion. But love always wants more. It wants to be returned, felt just as strongly. But what happens when it isn’t? When one confuses attachment with love, or responsibility with desire? Love, or what we believe it to be, sets expectations. And expectations, unfulfilled, breed resentment. Someone always wants more. Someone always gives less. The balance tilts, and suddenly, what once felt like magic begins to feel like a burden. Yet, we chase it. We fall into it. We swear by it, even when we don't understand it. And in the end, love, or the illusion of it, ruins everything.

This morning, I saw a wasp in my bathroom. It had been there for two days, buzzing frantically, trying to escape. The source of its hope was the window—light streamed through, promising freedom—but the glass was firmly shut. The wasp kept ramming against the barrier, convinced that the light it saw was the way out. I suspect it came through the exhaust fan, unknowingly trapping itself in an unfamiliar world. It had entered in search of something—perhaps warmth, perhaps sustenance—but now found itself in an unrelenting struggle. Its movements grew weaker, its flight patterns erratic. I wondered if it would find its way back or if exhaustion would claim it first. This tiny creature, in its futile effort, reminded me of ambitious individuals caught in a rut. Just like the wasp, they see the light of success shining in the distance. They dream of breaking free, reaching new heights, achieving what they set out to do. Yet, despite their relentless effort, they remain trapped, unable to brid...