Tag: Experiences

before the world teaches him the lines

Posted on by Ajmal

Ehan is drawing a boat.

At least, that is what the page seems to say: a mast, a dark sail, a body floating in an impossible blue, small circles of colour gathered around it like buoys, planets, or things for which he has not yet learned the correct name.

But I keep looking at this photograph and thinking that the drawing is not really the thing being made here.

Something else is.

A way of seeing.

There is an age when the world has not yet been divided completely into what is right and what is wrong. The sea does not have to be a particular shade of blue. A sail can carry black across half a page without anyone worrying about balance or perspective. The sun may appear where it wishes. Proportion is negotiable. The laws of physics are, for a little while longer, merely suggestions.

And perhaps this is one of the quiet tragedies of growing up: we become increasingly skilled at drawing inside the world as it already exists.

We learn where the lines are.

We learn that boats must look like boats, that skies have acceptable colours, that houses have sensible roofs, that success has certain shapes, that adulthood should proceed in a particular sequence. We become very good at correcting ourselves before anyone else has the chance.

Children have not yet acquired this habit.

Look at the hand holding the brush.

There is no hesitation in it.

He is not wondering whether the picture deserves to exist. He is not comparing it with another child’s boat. He is not imagining an audience somewhere deciding whether the sail is technically convincing.

There is only the remarkable seriousness of making.

A brush goes down.

A world appears.

And I wonder when exactly we lose that kind of courage.

Not the heroic courage we celebrate publicly, but the smaller, rarer courage of putting something into the world before knowing whether it will be admired.

Perhaps creativity begins there.

Perhaps life does too.

One day, Ehan will learn perspective. He will learn that shadows fall in particular directions and that boats obey engineering and oceans obey gravity. He will discover rubrics, examinations, deadlines, expectations, professions, mortgages, traffic, calendars, and all the invisible rulers with which adulthood measures a human life.

He will become better at many things.

I hope he never becomes entirely better at this.

I hope some part of him continues to believe that an empty sheet of paper is not an absence but a possibility. That when the prescribed colours run out, another colour can be invented. That something does not have to be perfect before it can be loved. That sometimes the most important question is not “Am I doing this correctly?” but simply:

“What do I see?”

There are wooden sticks scattered on the table. Tiny cups of paint. A toy car waiting in the background. The ordinary debris of childhood.

Nothing monumental is happening.

And yet, perhaps these are the moments from which a life is actually assembled.

Not the photographs we deliberately pose for, but these unnoticed afternoons when a child is absorbed in becoming himself.

Years from now, this little painting may disappear into a cupboard, a box, a forgotten folder. The paper may yellow. The colours may fade.

He may not remember making it at all.

But I think I will remember the hand.

That small hand suspended above an unfinished world, completely certain that there was still something worth adding to it.

And perhaps that is what I want childhood to leave with him:

not the belief that the world is perfect,

but the belief that it is unfinished.

And that he is allowed to pick up a brush.

peace in repetition

Posted on by Ajmal

There is a quiet kind of peace in repetition, the way we return to the same songs, the same meals, the same small rituals that make life feel steady. The way we rewatch old movies, even when we know every line. The way we walk the same paths, sit in the same spots, seek out the same comforts. It is not boredom that pulls us back to these things, but something deeper, a need for grounding, for familiarity, for moments where the world feels predictable. In a life that is constantly shifting, there is relief in the things that stay the same, in the patterns we can count on when everything else feels uncertain. Some might say we should always seek the new, the exciting, the unfamiliar. But there is nothing wrong with loving the known. A well-worn book still has magic in its pages. A song that once meant something still holds the echoes of who we were when we first heard it. A favorite meal tastes just as comforting, no matter how many times we’ve had it before. Repetition is not stagnation. It is a return, a reminder, a quiet reassurance that in a world full of change, some things remain. And sometimes, it is in the familiar that we find exactly what we need.

the imagined future

Posted on by Ajmal

There are futures we once saw so clearly, paths we were certain we would take, lives we thought were waiting for us. At some point, we spoke of them as if they were inevitable. One day, I will live there. One day, I will become that person. One day, this will be my life. But not every imagined future comes to pass. Some dreams fade, not because we failed, but because we changed. The things we once longed for no longer fit who we are. The paths we once chased no longer lead where we want to go. And so, quietly, without ceremony, we leave behind the futures we once thought belonged to us. There is grief in this, in saying goodbye to the person we thought we would become. But there is also freedom. Because for every future we let go of, we make space for something new, something we may not have imagined, something better suited to who we are now. Letting go of an old dream is not failure. It is growth. It is understanding that life is not a straight path but a shifting landscape. And sometimes, the future we never planned is the one that was always meant for us.

coordinates of memory

Posted on by Ajmal

Each of us carries a map in our mind, a deeply personal landscape of places, memories, and moments that no one else can fully understand. A random street corner that reminds us of a life-changing decision. A stretch of coastline tied to a feeling we can’t quite name. A song that doesn’t just play, it returns us to a specific version of ourselves. To others, these details are unremarkable. Just another house. Just another date. Just another scent. But to us, they are markers. Coordinates of memory. Emotional landmarks drawn not with ink, but with experience. This map is invisible to everyone else. Even those closest to us cannot trace it exactly. They can listen, they can walk beside us, but they will never feel the same pull in the same places. And that’s okay. Some parts of us are meant to remain quietly ours. We are all navigating different terrains filled with detours we didn’t expect, shortcuts that only made sense later, and sacred spots we return to when we need to remember who we are. And maybe the most beautiful part is this: every day, we’re still adding to the map. Still charting new memories, new meanings, new moments that will one day become part of the terrain we know by heart even if no one else ever sees it.

being watched by the past self

Posted on by Ajmal

We often think of growth as moving forward, but sometimes it feels more like being observed, by the younger versions of ourselves. The child who once dreamed freely. The teenager who made promises about the kind of adult they’d become. The past self who hoped we’d be somewhere else by now. These inner observers don’t speak out loud, but their presence is felt. In the moments we hesitate, they quietly ask, Is this what we were aiming for? In the decisions we make, they linger just enough to make us wonder if we’ve honored who we used to be, or if we’ve quietly abandoned them. It’s a strange kind of accountability not from others, but from ourselves. And sometimes, it’s not judgment we feel, but grief. For the dreams we outgrew. For the versions of us we had to let go of. For the expectations we no longer carry, even though we remember how much they once mattered. But there’s another way to see it. Maybe we are not being watched with disappointment but with curiosity. Maybe those past selves aren’t asking why didn’t you become what I imagined? but what have you discovered that I couldn’t yet know? And perhaps, if we listen gently, we can walk beside them, not as someone who failed their vision, but as someone who kept going, and made something real from the pieces they once dared to imagine.

patterns and loops

Posted on by Ajmal

There are patterns in our lives that we rarely stop to see, the quiet rhythms that guide us, the habits we repeat without thinking, the invisible routines that shape who we are. The way we always reach for our phone first thing in the morning. The particular route we take home, even when there’s a shorter one. The way we respond to kindness, to frustration, to silence. These small, repeated choices seem insignificant, yet they weave together to form the fabric of our days. Some patterns serve us, bringing comfort and structure. Others keep us stuck, old fears disguised as habits, outdated beliefs buried in routine. We tell ourselves we are just this way, without realizing that we are simply repeating what is familiar. But patterns can be changed. A different choice, even a small one, can shift the rhythm. A new response, a new habit, a new way of seeing can turn an unconscious cycle into something intentional. Maybe we don’t have to be trapped in the same loops forever. Maybe we can step back, see the patterns for what they are, and decide which ones are worth keeping, and which ones we are finally ready to break.

illuminating spaces

Posted on by Ajmal

Light has a quiet way of transforming a space. The golden slant of the afternoon sun spilling across a wooden floor. The flicker of candlelight making shadows dance on the walls. The way city lights reflect on rain-soaked streets, turning the ordinary into something almost magical. The same room feels different at dawn than it does at dusk. In the morning, light is sharp, filling every corner with possibility. By evening, it softens, wrapping the space in a quiet kind of warmth. Even the harsh glow of a fluorescent bulb or the dim flicker of a dying lamp shifts how a place feels, how we feel within it. Perhaps that is why we are drawn to certain kinds of light. The way fairy lights make a room feel like a memory. The way firelight makes us feel safe. The way sunlight through lace curtains can make even an ordinary afternoon feel like something sacred. Light does not change what a place is, but it changes how we see it. Maybe that is true for more than just rooms. Maybe our lives, too, can feel different simply by shifting what we let in, what we focus on, what we allow to illuminate the spaces within us.

what fades before we’re ready

Posted on by Ajmal

Not everything ends when we expect it to. Some things slip away before we have the chance to hold on. A conversation that was supposed to last longer. A friendship that fades without a goodbye. A moment so perfect, we assume there will be more, until there aren’t. We tell ourselves we’ll have more time. That we’ll call them next week. That we’ll say what we meant to say another day. But life does not always wait for the right moment. Some things end mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-heartbeat, leaving us with the quiet ache of almost. It is hard to accept that some endings come without closure. That some doors shut before we even realize we were walking through them. That we cannot always go back, no matter how much we wish we could. But maybe the lesson is not in trying to prevent endings, but in learning to cherish things while they are here. To say the words now. To be fully present in the moments we might later wish we had held onto. Because the truth is, we don’t always get to decide when something ends. But we do get to decide how deeply we experience it while it lasts.

the life beneath our days.

Posted on by Ajmal
Somewhere between the mountains of Ascona and the horizons only children can see, Ehan paused briefly, as if listening for a future calling his name.

“Do not disturb yourself by imagining your whole life at once.”

There is a terror hidden in the full picture.

A whole life, seen at once, would not look like a story. It would look like a debt. All the mornings already lost. All the rooms entered and abandoned. All the versions of ourselves we wore for survival and later mistook for identity. All the people we loved before we understood that love does not suspend time, it only makes time more visible.

Perhaps this is why life refuses to arrive as a whole.

It comes in fragments. A breakfast. A phone call. A meeting. A child asking the same question again. A parent walking more slowly than last year. A face in the mirror that has not changed suddenly, yet has somehow changed entirely.

We are spared the totality because we could not bear it.

But even in fragments, the exchange is always happening.

Thoreau’s sentence is merciless because it cannot be softened. The price of anything is the amount of life exchanged for it. Not the money. Money is only the symbol we use because it is less frightening. The real payment is attention. The real payment is the afternoon. The real payment is the tenderness we did not have left when we came home. The real payment is the inner life quietly thinned by years of wanting what everyone else wanted.

We say something was expensive when it cost too much money.

We rarely say it when it cost too much of the soul.

A man can lose himself in perfectly respectable ways. He can become efficient, admired, responsible, promoted, insured, well-dressed, reachable at all times, and still discover that some essential room inside him has been left unfurnished. Not destroyed. Not dramatically ruined. Simply unused. A room where wonder once lived. A room where he could hear himself before the world became loud enough to call that silence laziness.

This is one of the cruelties of adulthood. It does not always wound us through catastrophe. Often, it wounds us through repetition. Through usefulness. Through the slow training of the mind to value what can be measured. We learn to answer quickly, decide practically, buy conveniently, speak acceptably. Little by little, the wildness of being alive is replaced by the management of being alive.

Then one day aging begins to speak.

Not in philosophy. In the body.

The knee. The back. The tiredness after a day that once would have been ordinary. The photograph in which we recognize ourselves only after a delay. The first time a child sees us as old. The first time we realize our parents were not always parents. The first time we understand that memory is not a museum, but a house with lights failing in certain rooms.

And yet Bowie’s line carries a strange, difficult mercy.

“Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been.”

Not because aging makes us wiser by default. Many people age only into harder versions of their fear. But aging has a way of stripping the decorations from the false self. It weakens our appetite for performance. It makes certain ambitions look theatrical. It asks, with increasing directness, whether we have been loyal to our own life or merely obedient to the shape expected of it.

The tragedy is not that life is short.

The tragedy is that we often spend it before knowing its value.

We give years to anxieties that had no body. We rehearse disasters that never arrive. We carry insults longer than love. We postpone tenderness as if the heart were a bank account accumulating interest. We imagine that someday, after the work, after the pressure, after the next settlement of life, we will return to ourselves.

But the self we keep postponing is not waiting untouched.

It is aging too.

This is why Marcus Aurelius matters. In his work Meditations, he advises himself not to be overwhelmed by the thought of an entire lifetime, but to focus on the present task and the present moment. He is not telling us to avoid thinking about life. He is warning against thinking about it in a way that makes us incapable of living it. To imagine the whole life at once is to stand outside time like a judge. To live one day honestly is to stand inside time like a human being.

Maybe peace is not the absence of burden.

Maybe it is the refusal to carry the entire horizon in one pair of hands.

Today has enough weight. Not because it is small, but because it is real. The cup on the table is real. The person beside you is real. The work in front of you is real. The breath entering and leaving without asking permission is real. A life is not lived in the grand summary we keep preparing for some invisible audience. It is lived in the unnoticed transactions of attention.

And so the question is not: What do I want to achieve before I die?

That question is too easily corrupted by applause.

The harder question is: What is worthy of my disappearing life?

What deserves the only currency I truly possess?

Some things do. Most things do not.

To know the difference is perhaps the beginning of wisdom. Not a loud wisdom. Not the kind that announces itself in quotes and declarations. A quieter wisdom. The kind that changes how long you look at your child’s face. The kind that makes you call your mother without needing a reason. The kind that makes you stop mistaking urgency for importance. The kind that lets an old dream die without bitterness because you have finally recognized the life that is actually yours.

We do not get to keep our days.

We only get to decide what they become before they leave us.

And perhaps aging, at its deepest, is not the enemy standing at the end of the road. Perhaps it is the slow removal of everything we used to hide behind. The borrowed desires. The rehearsed identities. The needless shame. The hunger to be seen by people who never truly looked.

What remains after that removal may be smaller than what we imagined.

But it may also be truer.

A face without performance.

A love without display.

A day not sacrificed to the wrong altar.

A life no longer imagined all at once, but received, with trembling attention, in the only form it ever agreed to come.

One breath.

One hour.

One vanishing, immeasurable exchange.

By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here. I’ve written a small book as well if you’re into that. If you like listening to stuff, do scroll through the selection of podcasts. If you’ve time, have a look at the visuals I’ve made. Grateful for your moment here. Keep coming back here : )

places we visit in dreams

Posted on by Ajmal

There are places we visit that exist nowhere on a map, strange houses we’ve never seen, endless hallways, sunlit streets that feel both new and familiar. They come to us in dreams, vivid and detailed, built from fragments of memory, imagination, and something we can’t quite name. We wake with a feeling—not always the memory of the dream itself, but of the space it held. A certain light. A staircase that led somewhere we didn’t reach. A room we somehow knew, though we had never been there before. These dream spaces vanish quickly, slipping through our fingers even as we try to remember. And yet, some of them stay. We revisit the same dream landscapes years apart, recognizing them without understanding why. A recurring hill, a city that doesn’t exist, a coastline we’ve never touched. Our sleeping mind constructs entire worlds that feel, in the moment, more real than waking life. What are these places? Memory reorganized? Symbol? Or a hidden part of our consciousness building something just for us? We may never know. But maybe not everything needs explanation. Maybe it’s enough to know that part of us continues wandering while we sleep, through imagined streets, unknown rooms, silent forests that vanish with the morning light, but leave behind a trace of wonder that lingers long after we open our eyes.