On exhaustion, surrender, and the quiet limits of being human.
But even this sentence feels contradictory to the man I believed myself to be.
For years, I walked through life with fearless activism, meeting hardships head-on, refusing to bow.
I have lived more life than my parents and grandparents combined.
And yet, here I am — facing life with scars, not shame.
I have been holding myself together for almost twenty-five years.
Done many things, travelled many places, worn many versions of myself.
And still, I find my rest only in the place I call home.
After countless attempts at escaping my own gravity, I have realised a simple, profound truth:
Everything that goes up comes down.
The sorrow that rises in me eventually flushes itself out in the garden.
The failures that stack up over months get erased by one unexpected small victory.
The misery that ascends over us always descends into vision.
Maturity arrives when we see that this truth applies not only to the so-called negative things —
but also to the positive ones.
Even birds can only take flight to a certain height.
The sky may be the limit, but there is still a limit.
And the realisation of this — the admission that I am not lost but worn out —
has placed me on an entirely different path.
I cannot walk anymore; my body is exhausted.
I cannot speak; my emotions are exhausted.
I cannot laugh or cry.
I cannot sleep or wake.
I sleep awake.
When the extremes fail you, the only remaining path is the middle one.
So I let go of the body’s demands and the mind’s obligations.
I surrender — not to defeat, but to spirit.