Skip to main content

The Quiet Battle of Becoming

Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters.

Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit.

There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but those who know why they walk — ah, they move with gravity, with weight, with something unbreakable inside them.

But wanting is not enough. One must learn, and keep learning, for knowledge is not a trophy but a movement. The mind must stay awake, alert, like a bird that knows the shape of the sky. Work hard, yes, but not just with your hands — work with the soul, with that secret part of you no one sees but you know is there.

And even then, life will test you. Doubt will seep through the cracks, failure will knock at your door with familiar hands. Do not fear them. Perseverance is not about being strong — it is about continuing even when you are weak. It is about knowing that the path is yours alone, and no one will walk it for you.

So go on. Go on despite everything. The world will try to mould you, tame you, but you are not here to be tamed. You are here to carve your name into time, to reach the greatness that has always been waiting for you.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Fallacy of Self‑Sufficiency

Some people will tell you — quite loudly, usually — that they are enough. They need no one, thank you very much. Entirely self‑made. A closed circuit. I, too, fancied myself an island at one time. A small, sturdy principality of one. I paid my own bills. Made my own tea. I even spoke aloud to myself in the supermarket queue, which was meant to prove something. But late at night, when all the heroic independence had been done for the day, there it was — a sort of homesickness without a forwarding address. You know the feeling. You’re supposedly sovereign, but you still wish someone would knock. Self‑sufficiency is a word that weighs a bit too much. It sounds like an insurance policy or a piece of camping equipment. It promises freedom, but only the kind you can fit in a box. Like eating an entire birthday cake alone — which, I confess, I’ve done. Because the truth (and it arrives, as truths tend to, when you’ve just burned your toast) is that we are made of others. We are es...

On Loyalty and the Quiet Companionship of Pippen

I have a cosmopolitan friend who, by the mercy of chance — that discreet and impartial arbiter of destinies — was born in Serbia. Industrious beyond measure, he treats work not merely as obligation but as a quiet philosophy, a means of aligning oneself with the silent order of things. And he is a companion of a rare kind: steadfast, discerning, and, above all, loyal. His name is Pippen. We first crossed paths in the now-vanished days of Google+ — that fleeting agora where, for a moment, the world’s geeks entertained the gentle delusion that they might, in time, inherit the Earth. It was an age of bright aspiration, tinged with naïveté, yet marked by a peculiar fellowship that transcended all borders and conventions. Among Pippen’s many virtues, loyalty stands pre-eminent. Not the clamorous, performative loyalty so fashionable in this restless age, but the quieter, unwavering kind — the loyalty of one who stays. It is revealed not in grand gestures but in small, consistent a...

A Pause Between Heartbeats

Time doesn’t tick. It breathes — unevenly, almost nervously. Sometimes it opens itself like a window you didn’t know was there. And inside that window, someone waits. Not with urgency, not with despair. Just a subtle weight: Will you come? Will you listen? You don’t need to prepare. You don’t need a speech. You only need to stop — to let the world stumble for a moment while you say, Yes, I’m here. That small pause, almost nothing, can be everything. Not everything in the dramatic sense. Everything in the sense of air when it was almost not enough. It’s not about how many minutes. Time has never obeyed clocks. What matters is the shift — leaving the room, the page, the self — to enter someone else’s trembling. Someone asks, not out loud but between words: Can you see me? And if you do — even for a beat — something sacred happens. Not salvation, no. Just a flicker of light that says, You are not alone. And that flicker, believe me, can change a day, a night, sometimes a life....