The Sunday after

 I sit here today as I try to ponder on the inner workings of my mind on this silent afternoon, the Sunday after my escapades. It is something I often do after a long bout of extroverted-ness, my chronic condition of expanding more energy than I would care to on various musings of life. So much has happened in the past three weeks, but most of it too private to tell-tale on a public blog.  But know this: there's a bitter coffee to my right, just within reach, and then the ever pervasive sound of the ceiling fan running as my mind tries to count its rotations with accuracy. I sit donning a jade shalwar kameez, buttons of the sleeves in place, back straight as it soothes the pain, I am back in the confines of sunny equatorial Lahore, the city of gardens, home to guardrails of the Punjab.  I am reminded, suddenly and somberly of my grandfather, typing as I typed, with both hands on his keyboard, fingers pushing buttons, the learnings of his typewriter days being translated to the memo
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Internal Convolution

Taking out time to understand myself has been a rather convoluted journey

Im reminded - as I pen this - of how my grandfather would sit on his computer and type away, his neurons firing, his muscles contracting, mitochondria powering his every move as he brought his books into existence - yet today he is no more. I buried him.

The stillness of his grave is tattooed under my eyelids, the dampness of wet soil does not leave my nostrils and no matter how many times I wipe my hands, they still bleed the color of the Earth

To think that someone so powerless, so motionless, could have felt the emotions I feel, or have gone through the same thoughts as mine, is to believe that I too, despite all my current vigor, will one day end up an exponentially faint memory

And I don’t know how that makes me feel yet.

Life is a constant struggle. We give too much importance to work and yet in a longing for purpose, I find myself wishing I could dedicate myself to one thing as purely as Cristiano has dedicated himself to Football, Torvalds to Linux, or Musk to the musings of his mind.

Then and only then is success not only possible, but inevitable. But if we are to end, what is the meaning of that success, I wonder. 

“To know thyself is to know existence”

It seems I am still unfamiliar with existence.

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