Desolating Destiny

As I rot in this AirBnb from the last two days, I realise how time flies when you’re not intentionally constructive towards something. It’s the same reason why I don’t remember much from my holidays at home. And why time just vanishes over there.

When you don’t understand the urgency and the gravity of the fact that your time in this world is limited, it’s really easy to waste away your prime years. To put to perspective, they say the perceived midpoint of one’s life is at eighteen, considering they live till eighty-one. That means you’ve basically lived half your life when you’re eighteen. And you have even less time from eighteen to forty, which is where the peak of your life lies.

If we don’t put our minds to something worthwhile, it’s easy to lose track of time and wonder where’d all the time go.

It’s not even about the money, the accolades, or the recognition.
It is about the life that dies inside you when you waste away, doomscrolling.
The loss of conscientiousness.
The shallowing of the soul.
It’s about the drive, the ambition, and the fire that smothers every time you choose to waste mindlessly, finding escapism. But from what? Our destinies? Desolating them into mere fates?

It’s absurd how seldom people let themselves be bored these days, making us unimaginative, uncreative, and numb. Sucking away the soul from our lives. What’s the point of even existing then?

We must rise above our vices.
We must fixate our minds to what we truly enjoy (or start and stick to it even if we don’t, or else we’d never know), and create.
We must rise to the occasion of our era, and seize this opportunity we call life.
Or else, our very privilege and comfort might be the reason of our demise.