And do not delude yourself; that time flows through you. For in reality, you flow through time. The ocean is never dependent upon the travellers that pass through it. There were millions before you, and there will be millions after.

Time always was and always will be. You are the one born and you will be the one to die. Time has no end or beginning. You in fact are mortal. So do not equate your mortality with time’s immortality. And do not mistake the time period you are aware of by measurement, for eternity.

In this knowledge, you must learn to never surrender to the giant tide of time in front of you. If your boat has swam towards it, it will swim away; but not before time is done with you. So be patient.

And when you come upon a kind wave, do not walk with pride and think yourself to be lord of the sea. You might feel in control of your boat but even so you shall never challenge time’s might; he is the proud one so let him be.

Your place is among the needy. And they do not run out of humility in times of ease; and gratefulness in times of hardships.

And never forget that even time is God’s slave. So submit in love to God and He will love you. And when He loves you, time will love you. Only then, will you become the one time treats with care. In the words of Iqbal:


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“BRICKS AND BREATHS” (A Philosophical Phenomenon)

I have always been fascinated with old buildings.

(Old meaning either abandoned buildings or buildings that were built long ago but are not abandoned or buildings whose oldness does not not depend on the age of their bricks but the fact that I, personally have grown out of them, making them feel old to me.)

Now, as I was saying, old buildings somehow have a way of captivating me. They seem to be calling me in. As if singing a haunting song with my name, but inaudible; I only know about it because I feel in underneath my skin. Whenever I happen to pass by one, I get this sensation as if I am being watched by it. Not by ghosts or anything but by it. It is a look of longing- not necessarily the bad kind- just the kind one may see on a little lost child’s face. I do not yet know the exact reason why this happens, neither am I aware of whether it happens with you too, or not. All I have been able to think of are mere assumptions.

Perhaps I find it related to my belief that the stories that happen inside a building are not just words or tales of days but instead they are living. In another dimension, they replay themselves, over and over. So if I was a part of a building that I have now left, the version of me that lived in those moments still lives there, and replays my time spent breathing inside those premises. It never dies.

So you see, an old building has millions of these stories; all breathing, all happening; so how can it just be made of bricks and cement when each grain of dust in there has been inhaled and exhaled by the people in those stories?

And now that, those old versions of us are old stories, trapped inside an old building, they only want to be seen, heard and felt again. That is why they call my name in their songs, and maybe yours too, because they are alive but not the same way they once were, the way we are right at this moment.

They are immortal and that has sucked all the life out of them that comes from being someone who has to die.


Now, when you come upon an old building, stare at it. Observe until your vision enters the other dimension and the stories begin playing in front of you. Watch closely. I am sure that will leave them smiling.


Hi people! I’m sorry I haven’t posted much lately. I’ve got my final exams in 12 days AHHH! Here’s a poem that I wrote about the huge changes in life that one is sort of forced to adjust to, as time passes. It’s callled “RUST”. I hope you like it! 😀

The metal on this door has started to rust
Now resembles our present, and all things we trust
It will be fixed though, we’ll change it, just,
With nails and some wood, and a hammer’s thrust

But corroding days, why, that is a first!
Afraid of the ticking time, we’ve fussed and we’ve cursed
Sometimes our dreams, into flames they do burst
And however the clock works, we’re compelled to adjust

So it will take over soon, this red brown dust
Then endure we shall do, and endure we must.