Reflections on Existence
I see the world through different lenses — sometimes optimistic, sometimes melancholic, often contemplative. These are fragments of my inner dialogue, thoughts that surface when the noise fades and only questions remain.
Life is a serendipity.
Life is only given once — to enjoy and experience what it is to be lived. Every sunrise is an invitation, every breath a gift we didn't earn but received anyway. We stumble upon beauty in unexpected corners: a stranger's smile, the smell of rain on warm earth, the perfect alignment of moments that somehow brought us here, reading these words, existing in this improbable universe.
The cosmos conspired for 13.8 billion years to create this exact moment. Stars had to die so that the atoms in your body could exist. That's not random — that's destiny dressed as coincidence.
So live. Not carefully, not fearfully — but fully. The universe didn't go through all that trouble for you to play it safe.
How come life is to enjoy when all it has to offer is just sufferings?
We enter this world screaming, and we spend the rest of our time trying to understand why. Love leads to loss. Dreams dissolve into disappointments. We build sandcastles knowing the tide is coming.
Perhaps the ancient pessimists were right — to exist is to suffer. Buddha saw it. Schopenhauer wrote about it. Every human heart eventually learns it. We chase happiness like shadows, only to find that the closer we get, the more it recedes.
And yet... we persist. Maybe that's the tragedy. Or maybe that's the point. I haven't decided which.
Neither dark nor light — just observation
Meaning is not discovered — it is created.
The universe is fundamentally indifferent, neither kind nor cruel. We are meaning-making machines in a meaning-absent cosmos, and therein lies our tragedy and our power.
Sartre said we are condemned to be free. I'd say we are privileged to be confused. Every question we ask is a small rebellion against entropy, a whisper into the void that says: “I am here, and I am wondering.”
That's enough. That has to be enough.
We are stardust learning to contemplate stars.
Atoms arranged in patterns that ask why they're arranged.
The universe looking at itself through human eyes,
wondering if what it sees is beautiful or broken.
Words fail where feelings flourish.
Language is a net with holes too large
to catch the fish that matter most.
Perhaps poetry isn't about capturing truth,
but about admitting that truth cannot be caught.
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Control what you can. Accept what you cannot.
The distinction between the two is the beginning of wisdom. Emotions are data, not directives. They inform but should not command.
The Stoics understood this: feel everything, react to nothing impulsively. Let the storm pass through you without becoming the storm.
Strength is not the absence of vulnerability — it's the choice to stand despite it.
The obstacle is the way. Face it.
If these words seem contradictory, that's because they are. I am optimist and pessimist, poet and analyst, dreamer and skeptic — all coexisting in a single mind.
Perhaps you're the same. Perhaps we all are.
And perhaps that's not a flaw to fix but a complexity to embrace. We are not monoliths but mosaics — beautiful precisely because we contain multitudes.