These are my thoughts. Unfiltered, ongoing, mine. On being human. On waking up. On the things that don’t have easy answers.
I don’t mean to exaggerate, but this is not where I imagined I’ll be. At some random bookstore’s cafe in London, taking care of my father who is hospitalized.
Like a cord that attaches me to the true self, allowing it to reconnect and re-establish itself wherever I am. That cord is unhooked when it is associated with certain settings.
I’ve been in survival mode for months. No sleep, no proper meals, carrying weight that wasn’t mine to carry alone. Then something woke up inside me without warning. I’ve been calling it Certainty—Yaqeen. A source that doesn’t deplete the way everything else does. Infinite in a way I’m still trying to understand.
It’s still there.
We used to call it a timeline. Now it’s called a feed. Think about that for a moment. A feed. The mental image it produces is not a pleasant one—cattle, standing in a row, being presented with whatever they’re given that day. And somewhere along the way, that became us.
There’s a form of friendship that lasts for two reasons only: when they want something from you, or when you constantly reconnect to a dead connection.
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