30th December — 11:32 p.m. Another year has passed. Was it worth the pain it carried? Or if one thinks of a year as broken or lost, does that loss still leave something behind—something that makes us stronger in ways we do not immediately recognize? This year began with a fracture. I lost my grandfather—my old blood. I have not been able to return to my ancestral home even once since February. Somewhere along the way, my emotions stopped moving freely; they now travel with baggage, heavier than before. Grief does that—it does not announce itself loudly, but it settles quietly, altering how one feels everything else. Challenges followed. My father-in-law went through a serious health crisis, casting a long shadow across the year. It became a season of constant worry, a prolonged state of uncertainty that demanded resilience even on days when strength felt absent. My wife, too, bore her own loss. She lost her grandmother—a woman I see as the flag-bearer of courage, one of the stron...
Reading Dostoevsky 28 December, 2025 — 11:42 p.m. After dinner, I watched Seven Years in Tibet . Perhaps it was inevitable that the film would find me now—after inward turbulence, after a season of questioning. The story follows Heinrich Harrer, a mountaineer driven by conquest, and his unlikely friendship with the Dalai Lama. Yet beneath the historical narrative lies a quieter inquiry: what truly impoverishes a human being—solitude, or attachment mistaken for fulfillment? Heinrich begins as a man obsessed with ascent. Mountains are not merely landscapes to him; they are proofs of worth. His journey from Austria to conquer Nanga Parbat mirrors a deeper hunger—to rise above others, above limitation, above consequence. War interrupts this ambition. Captured by the British during World War II, Heinrich escapes imprisonment and wanders into Tibet, a land untouched by the vocabulary of conquest he carries within himself. In Tibet, something unravels. Heinrich comes close to a culture t...