what makes you wonder?

  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...

While listening to   Clair de Lune — Debussy 1:40 a.m. The 26th of December was unlike any other day. It shook me from within. My soul felt wrecked; my body trembled; my mind fractured into pieces I could not immediately gather. Flames, smoke, and a panic-stricken voice closed in on me, swallowing all sense of time. There was only numbness. As seconds passed, a single thought surfaced with terrifying clarity:  this could be the end. The past decade, however, has taught me something invaluable—composure in moments of high risk. Somewhere beneath the fear, that discipline surfaced. I stepped out, pulling myself back from the edge of a black hole I did not yet understand. Only later did I realize the magnitude of what had just occurred. As time passed, my mind turned against itself. Questions began to provoke my thoughts relentlessly.  What if I had been electrocuted? What if I had reacted a few seconds later—would I have survived? What if I had not been at home? What if no ...