04/13/25 Living in the margins of four days

My life is filled with regrets. It’s filled with the realisation (oh, too conscious a realisation) of just how deeply regrets permeate it. And then those thoughts are followed by the onslaught of knowing how many more regrets I must still carry before I finally fall into the sweet embrace of death.

I try to escape these thoughts. I try to keep myself busy with work. But weekends always get the best of me. People wait for weekends to take time off their busy schedules and enjoy life. For me, it seems as though my thoughts are the only ones waiting. They get their moment to roam freely in my mind, undoing all the progress I gaslight myself into believing I made during the week.

Don’t get me wrong; I achieve a lot in my professional life by staying busy. But what good are those achievements when the motivation behind them is not the pursuit itself? Flight has always been a stronger motivator for me than the chase. I’m a coward, running away. The achievements are just a byproduct of that. An afterthought. Reaching milestones and completing projects doesn’t bring a sense of accomplishment; just a sigh of relief that it’s over and I can move on to the next thing.

I can’t remember when I was last okay. That’s not true. I was okay for a total of four days. But beyond that, I only remember being confused, sad, depressed, or anxious. The question then arises: if I can’t remember being okay, why am I not used to not being okay? I often think about that. And the answer always brings me back to those four days. Seems like those days gave me a taste of how it feels like to be okay. To not be confused. To stay in eternal moment. They made me see the other side and it was Oh so beautiful. I can’t skip the thought of those days and what a complete opposite they were as compared to my life. Those days have made me conscious of how pathetic my life journey has been and how much more useless is it still going to be.

“My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?”

— Dostoyevsky