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Teachers Day


Ohh well, it’s a teacher’s day. When does it fall? I am neither thankful nor unfeeling that a special day
has been dedicated for teachers, to thank them and to honor them for what they do. That too, the
day falls on the birthday of a very special person, Dr. Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan. No, I am not good at
remembering dates and events (and that is clear from the first line itself), it’s just that I loved his name
and went on to remember this.
My faintest memory of a teacher’s day is us going to school only to find our seniors dressed up as
teachers and taking charge of their duties for the day. All the teachers were sent on a trip to someplace, giving them a break from their schedule, a day to enjoy and have fun. Growing up and
changing schools, I witnessed a change. The teachers were no longer sent to trips, rather we wished
them a “Happy Teacher’s Day” in a monotonous sing-song every time the periods changed and a new
teacher entered the class. And yes, I was one of those enthusiastic kids who would make cards for my
favorite ones, expressing how much I loved them and what their presence meant to me. Our
relations with them kept changing, from us talking about fighting with friends or getting a scolding
from mom to us getting periods and assumed mental breakdowns that we thought we experienced,
to talking about what we dreamt of a university and how we would enjoy the freedom we would be
entitled to (although we didn’t get any freedom, thanks to the pandemic). Every phase began with a
new face, a new personality, but all of them were equally understanding and equally supportive. I can
closely relate to the quote, “We are who we are, because of who they are”.
From scolding us for laughing and talking in class because they thought we were wasting time, to
allowing us to cry silently even when sitting on the first bench because they somehow knew that the
tears were uncontrollable and that it was the only way to let things out. From arguing with them for
giving us fewer marks in tests, to thanking them after a meritorious result on the boards, we all grew up
and so grew the respect for a sometimes-motherly-sometimes-fatherly-and-sometimes-friendly figure
called teacher.
Now, now, I don’t have all the sweet memories of school and teachers. We all have faced some form
of punishment, be it not bringing a notebook or cheating on a test, or not doing homework, and I am
no exception. I have had strong, well-conveyed disagreements. But just one teacher not behaving
properly cannot overshadow the love of all the others, the well-deserving-worth-mentioning ones.
And now I have a change of mind, I am so grateful that they have a special day dedicated for them.
And why just a day? Why not a year, an entire lifetime of thanking those who shaped our lives and
thoughts and to whom excellence and brilliance meant much more than an A+ grade.

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A Tale Of Two Nights


14th August 1947

Loud noises of the Gypsy Jeeps were echoing in every alleyway. Alleyways stuffed with people as far as the eye could see. While most of them were rushing to listen to The Man in White speak, a few seemed to be making their way out of the crowd, almost as if they were looking for something precious that they had just lost. Pandemonium. This was the only possible way to describe the night, right in the middle of which was a young girl. Orphaned at birth, she had never known a life of certainty. While many had tried to foster her through the years, none of them ended well. Yet again, she was back on the streets. Although this wasn’t unusual for her, she could sense something very different this time.

She looked weary of her journey. She lost count of the days for which she had been on the road in search of a home. At one point when she thought that she’d found one, she was told that they could only take her brother in. A brother whose existence she didn’t even know about till that moment, but the loss of whom felt as if she had lost a part of herself. Many miles and several horrifying visuals later, she had finally reached where she was now. She didn’t really know if she could call this place home, but she was too tired to go any further. 

The people here looked no different from what she’d seen. What was different about them was that they seemed to have a strange sense of hope. The kind which could be easily mistaken for unrest. She heard someone yell that all their troubles had come to an end. She scoffed at them. Although still a child, she knew not to fall for this illusion; she could see with her own eyes that nothing had changed. Buildings were being swallowed by flames and people were being slaughtered for fictitious reasons. What was funny was that everyone knew this, yet their desperation for hope superseded their ability to sense the horrors of reality.

Suddenly, everything went silent. People stopped right where they were and the Jeeps turned their engines off. The only thing that the girl could hear was the faint voice echoing from the loudspeakers. Someone said that The Man in White had started speaking. Everyone was listening to him as though he were instructing a new way of life. Though she had never believed in hope, the fact that everyone else did, comforted her in a way. Reassured by this, she shut her eyes with a feeling that things would change for her this time, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. 

14th August 2021 

It’s dinner time and everyone is glued to the television. With a plate in their hand, they’re listening to the interview of The Man in Blue, Olympian Neeraj Chopra talking about his historic win. As the interview finishes, everyone is forced to get off their seats by a lady, who just seventy-four years ago was a scared little girl. 

The same girl who once feared for her life now runs a proud household. She has children, friends and family whom she can confidently call her own. Truth be told, not much has changed for her. It’s just that the years have given her the strength to keep a straight face while dealing with troubles. One of her sons succumbed to Covid while gasping for breath. She listens to her friends talk about the way they are subjected to mental and physical trauma at their homes. A few years after that night of 1947, someone once told her that the brother whom she was separated from was actually two people… or something like that, she can’t recollect exactly. Every day she helplessly witnesses her children quarrel with each other for the same reasons that she had seen seventy-four years back. The only difference is that now they pin it on her honour rather than the other person’s cowardice. 

She feels the hope which people once shared is now transformed into something different. It has now changed into arrogance. The arrogance that breaks off a friendship. The arrogance that threatens others to prove its supremacy over them. What hurts her the most is when one of her own children is labeled an outsider. As someone who toiled for years to build this family from the ground up, she feels she let down that little girl who for once came close to believing in the concept of hope. 

Everyone in the household is excited for tomorrow. It’s one of the only days where all of her kids spend time at home together. She personally has mixed feelings about the day. On one hand, it reminds her of the story of a little girl who grew into a beautiful person against all odds. On the other, it reminds her of hope. The same hope which is now synonymous with unrest. She fears for the lives of her own. She wonders if the Man In White lied to the people that night. 

There is one thing that she is certain about. People are not evil, they are simply misguided and afraid. In 1947, her house didn’t have a head. Now, there are far too many, with all of them tugging about the roof in a separate direction. She knows the cost at which her freedom came. The tears, the bloodshed, the unbridled sacrifice that she had to witness to even think of a probable future, let alone a prosperous one. She only hopes that people realise the struggles of those who gave her and many others the chance to have a place to call home, rather than glorifying them mindlessly. But then again, she never fully believed in hope.

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Oh, family mine!


Your small fingers used to close around mine

Clutch them in a nervous grip

We would waddle along side by side

Braving the world, time and tide

That time you flew off the swing

My heart stopped dead

I fell down right next to you

Wishing I could share your pain

I was proud, so proud

To have you by my side

And now you’re a stranger

Oh blood of mine!

I know I hurt you so

When I told you I wanted a brother

I know I hurt you, by word and deed 

When all you ever did was look up to me

I know I loved you so

Still do, still do, so much it hurts

Only I forgot that I was acting quite contrary

I wasn’t there when you needed me

Oh! I should have been

It hurts,hurts so much when you turn away 

I wronged you, kicked you when you were down

Fought you for our parents’ love

Only, someday it crossed a line

A line I failed to see

Now you have not the will nor the patience 

To hear my pleas, my apologies

Now I’m left all alone

Wondering if you would forgive my follies

But Why should you

You are younger and I was cruel

Oh brother, my brother!

Oh blood of mine!

That day when I realised

That all life must one day end

I did not panic, did not cry

Only wished that you would live and I die

You used to call me cutie pie

Like I was all that mattered

Every time you berated me

You  left my heart in pieces

I gave u all the trouble I could

I used to drive you to anger

But I never once cried

For I knew you loved me still

Oh mother mine!

That day I heard you were hurt

I knew unadulterated fear

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think

I wished it was me instead

You were my rudder in the storm

My fount of unconditional love

Be it a good day or a bad one

I could always count on you

Oh father mine!

I knew then, as surely as I do now

Nothing keeps me this side of the veil

No dream, no goal, no glory

But your love

Oh family mine!

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World Press Freedom Day


It is World Press Freedom Day and what better country to talk about it than India? Instead of how we usually talk about what Indian journalism is (and the degrading quality), let’s talk about what Indian journalism is allowed to be. India has managed to remain at the 142nd position out of 180 countries in terms of the Press Index by being one of the highest scorers in terms of press abuse. It reflects the degree of freedom that Indian journalists, print media and news channels, and netizens on social media have. This rhetoric compels me to imagine the rank of India if the index accounted for human rights violations and the quality of our journalism. I’d rather refrain from thinking anymore. 

Not that it concerns anyone anymore but let’s talk about the Indian Press and freedom of speech and expression. 

With the insurmountable Covid-19 crisis in India, the Indian government has been widely criticized for its desperate attempts in trying to filter India’s global image. It is more concerned about what the world hears about the Covid-19 outbreak anywhere across the 7 continents than actually looking out for its citizens. Well, people shall come and go, the government remains stable!?

Last week, the Modi government sent notices to take down around 100 “misleading” posts and block the accounts of people who were discussing the second outbreak of the pandemic and the mismanagement from Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. On April 23, at the behest of the Indian government, Twitter acted on the protocol and blocked over 50 tweets from celebrities, MPs, MLAs of opposition parties, journalists, and others criticizing the mishandling of the pandemic by the government. The tweets that were taken down simply mentioned the upsurge in cases and deaths, the shortage of medicines and medical equipment, accompanied by photos of Modi’s election rallies even as the Covid wave became uncontrollable. The posts also mentioned undercounting of cases, images of mass funeral pyres, patients struggling outside hospitals, and basically criticized Mr. Prime Minister. And one cannot deny that all these claims are accurate (speaking from personal experience).

Facebook restored the  #ResignModi hashtag after blocking it for several hours and stated that it was a “slip-up and “not because the Indian government asked to block it.” The error was apparently caused by an algorithm or a human. It is only fair for people to not buy the story. 

While the possibility of such slip-ups cannot be entirely ruled out, the Modi government has a history of shutting down critics. In my opinion, this is truly worrisome. 

The government’s explanation for removing these posts is that it is controlling the spread of misinformation to curb panic while in the eyes of people it seems to be suppression and intimidation.

In the face of failures and criticism, a leader can deal with them in two ways- either by taking down the failure or taking down the criticism. Modi government is adept at doing the latter. Instructing Twitter to remove tweets that are against the government is easier than ensuring oxygen supply throughout the country, right?

Even in the past, the government was seen tightening its grips on social media by clamping down on criticism about the farmers’ protest, the Citizen Amendment Act, the abrogation of Article 370 in Kashmir, and more. Not to forget, the internet was down in Kashmir for several months to contain information which also made ground reporting extremely difficult. It has also threatened social media platforms by stating the IT laws and policies, leaving no options for them.

Although Twitter has given certain clarification, a glance at Twitter’s relationship with the Modi government proves the two are constantly in a tug of war.

In February, Twitter’s officials faced the threat of jail time for not taking down specific tweets and handles related to the farmer’s protest. Several prominent leaders endorsed Koo app—India’s Parler— in protest. Perhaps fearing loss of business, Twitter later restricted the visibility of some hashtags and penalized 500 accounts. Similarly, In 2019, Twitter faced similar threats for objectionable content but the definition of this “objectionable” content….who knows?

Facebook has earlier been accused of pandering to the Modi government, followed by the stepping down of the public policy head Ankhi Das and the allegations of being biased for BJP. Forget Press freedom, do we even have the freedom of speech?

The goal here, I suppose, is to take control of the public narrative, and consequentially, the quality of Indian journalism is dying because it is scared of being advertised as anti-national. 

Indian Press has failed/ is scared to report other observations too.

For instance, in the US, the Biden government set targets, met the targets, and still stated that it is not enough. In India, the message has always been that we have constrained the virus, be it the second wave or be it the shortage of medical equipment, medical and paramedical staff, drugs, hospital beds, oxygen cylinders, or vaccines. Earlier this year, the Indian government spread the message that it had beaten the virus. New cases dropped to 11,000 by mid-February, vaccines were being exported and in March the health minister said India was “in the endgame” of the pandemic. How are you contradicting yourself so audaciously, dear sir?

Opinion-based tweets are being withheld. As a matter of fact, BJP Government’s grip on the mainstream media has always been this tight. Social media was acting like a boon in these times of crisis where individuals and volunteers were putting up their needs and available items for those in need, to access info and express their opinions and concerns which is dead in the mainstream mass media. When it couldn’t get any worse, UP CM Yogi Adityanath went on to say that hospitals are spreading fake info about the unavailability of hospital beds and cylinders and action must be taken against them. In an interview, Home Minister Amit Shah said that we have produced enough medical equipment, completely ignoring the shortages.  It is important to know that Mr. Shah dodged the question of Kumbh Mela and election rallies running in a full-fledged manner despite skyrocketing cases.

What happens when the journalists questioning the central government leaders remind them that they are not only contesting for power in the states but also represent the centre? They are dumbed down or tagged anti-national.

Let me take a moment to put forward my rant about the government here.  Let me exercise my right to speech in the face of dying media and journalism. The central government has had a series of distractions that a normal or rather a sensible government would not have had while they were facing multiple warnings of such a major calamity possibility in the country. From January last year, they were warned about the pandemic coming in, and even by the end of January and mid-February, they were too concerned about Delhi elections and riots. Where Mr. Prime Minister was busy in Namaste Trump rallies welcoming Trump and toppling the Madhya Pradesh government, the government also delayed the lockdowns without preparing for the consequences or impacts on the migrant labourers. Despite this, they had enough time after the first wave but the farmers’ bill proved to be a better distraction instead of preparing for the much expected second wave and improving the healthcare. Holding onto power has always been more important than their primary duty of protecting citizens’ lives. The first mutant was first discovered in October 2020. Britain set up genome sequencing labs in April 2020 while India set up these labs in January 2021 and the funding came in March 2021. This is not a scientifically rational response and we are paying a really cruel price for this. The response seems like an Ostrich’s head in the sand with no respect for science. A majority of statistical models predict that the peak would arrive during mid-May but we cannot even trust the data that is being allegedly underreported by at least 15 times in terms of cases and deaths. Is this the failure of democratic institutions or the populism or knee-jerk reactions?

The Election commission is equally to be blamed for this outbreak. EC is supposed to be neutral but was seen siding with BJP this time. All the parties except BJP pleaded to scrunch the elections in 1 day instead of 7 days and multiple phases and to stop campaigning but it refused to do so.  Even Madras High Court last week remarked that the EC should be “booked for murder” for continuing with the political rallies during the Covid emergency. 

I can still go on if allowed to. But the crux of the matter is that the media has every right to report the facts in the public interest. We need criticism in good faith, opinions, true data, contents of court hearings and to stop dramatizing and politicizing social issues.

It is the fourth pillar of democracy. A morally obligated free-flowing dialogue is what India needs. The media is responsible for formulating and expressing a collective opinion of the public and so restricting it simply means not caring about the public at all.

This world press freedom day, we don’t need anything more than FREEDOM.

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A dream on line


I will let you know in the starting itself that this piece isn’t going to be a professional writing about the World Press Day, neither is it well researched. It’s just going to be about what I think the press is and how it affected me. 

Not being much of a newspaper enthusiast, I’ve never watched or read about politics. But the idea of journalism always piqued me. Even when I was little, sometimes glancing accidentally at the TV when news was on, I very much stared at the people who were in the scene, holding a camera or a microphone. But later on, I knew what drew me were their words. The actual journalists who were behind the picture. 

I used to make up scenarios of accidents or robberies and used to report those incidents to my family. My Dad seemed very impressed, just like any other father. But I did not know that he would take it for real and ask me to take up journalism in later years. I didn’t hash out the idea, nope. I started reading much about how the press works and what exactly journalism meant. 

It wasn’t that complicated, at least to me. But is the job difficult? Incredibly. I didn’t know that before. Being emotionally stable and summoning all your strength not to be shook because of the events you would be reporting, or clicking pictures of, is physically and mentally challenging and tiring. It isn’t as simple as we think it is. Mustering up words uses up a lot of brain juice. 

Is the press all about talking on TV? Not at all. From reaching the scene of coverage on time to be able to portray everything perfectly to the public, there is sweat and blood. But I was unsure. Still am. Because fame doesn’t fuel me, respect does. And the press members, taken from the directors to the people who cover the scene of crime nowadays are very rarely respected or in fact, are acutely safe. 

I’ve read so many times that any member from the whole of the press family who has taken up a serious issue and has written/covered/reported about it, their story hasn’t ended well. I hated the fact that they’re asked to mask the specifics most of the time. If the press is about showing the truth, then what’s happening? I hoped that what I’d read about the murders, killings, kidnappings, holding ransom, and whatnot of the journalists, reporters who’ve exposed the truth and nothing else to be my nightmares, but life was cruel. My interest in the press area descended into fear and I tried to stop giving a second, third or even the thousandth thought about it.

But one choice which I so strongly loved didn’t fade away that easily. I’ve always known that the press is very powerful. That it’s the thing which keeps us on par and in tune with the world. But when the society can’t support their freedom, I hadn’t wanted to be a part of that community where I have to worry about death with every article I’ve written, with every crime I’ve covered, with every report I’ve ead out to the public, and with any work I’d contributed to the world of press. My dream ultimately shattered. I didn’t fight with my parents that I’d still wanted to do some good through the camera. BBut what defense did I have to prove my point? 

I rested my case because the one question that ate at me is that: Is my passion worth my life? 

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World Press Freedom Day


I open all my pieces with a disclaimer. Here’s the disclaimer for this one: I am livid. Grammarly will probably have a seizure trying to correct the tone of my sentences and my grammar as I write this, but I have no patience for tuning my language. I am living in a part fascist dystopia, I am exhausted, I am livid. 

Media narratives have existed for a long time. Before we had newspapers, televisions, and a more defined idea of journalism, we had the art of storytelling. Kings hired scribes to tell the history of their empire in the most flattering light possible. Scholars erased facts, dates, and numbers that might put them on the wrong side of history. We created wars that were never fought and forgot genocides that wiped out generations. All narratives are stories – the real question is, how much room do we have for truth within them?

A lot of the national publications that we read today started in the pre-independence era. These newspapers were a medium of communication, a shared consciousness of the pro-independence pulse running through the country. Journalists wrote in English, Hindi, Marathi, Bengali, Telugu, Tamil, Gujarati, Urdu – wrote the story of oppression, slavery, of colonization – they called for volunteers and spearheaded the revolution. The history of independence is a lot more complicated, but the fact remains that most of the leaders of the time served as journalists first before they took on any other role. History has never been kind to journalists. They have been beaten, jailed, shot, and killed for telling the truth. How much room do stories offer for the truth? A lot of room, a f**k ton of room, and that is precisely why the media is always diametrically opposed to those in power (whosoever it may be) – because journalists excavate the truth from fiction, and no reasonable democracy can stand without a strong body of press.

That is the simple difference between storytellers and journalists. We write fiction inspired by the social consciousness, and journalists define our society for us. If an angry and pathetic man suits up and screams on television every night that the ruling government is the best thing that has ever happened to the country, that’s what our stories reflect. If a docile and pathetic intellectual suits up and lulls us to sleep every night on television with the news that the ruling government is the worst thing to have ever happened to us, that’s what our stories reflect. We are the narratives that we are fed. In essence, a news article, or an op-ed, or a panel debate, is the story that defines all the stories to come.

So when a journalist is censored for writing a piece or speaking their mind, when they are shot on the doorstep for expressing anti-establishment sentiments, when they are jailed , or fired, or stripped of their dignity – we are erasing all the people whose stories they are here to tell. It is not just one news article that doesn’t get published, it is thousands of, millions of stories that go unheard. 

History has not been kind to our journalists, and we are not being kind to them either. Trump called the news “fake media”, Bolsonaro had journalists thrown in jail, MBS cooly allowed the murder of a foreign journalist in his embassy, and we in India have maintained an excellent track record of erasing journalism that we find problematic. 

I started this piece with a disclaimer of my anger. I’m sure my colleague will also write about this, but if you need to source my anger, go online. Open any social media platform and watch the anguish flow. Watch the deaths increase, and watch people beg and scream for oxygen and beds and Remdesivir. Read the news of social media accounts that criticize the government getting taken down, google the journalists who have gotten death threats, and read the narratives being pushed by some newspapers and channels that live in abject denial of the situation. Watch it burn. Watch your country burn. 

If our journalists, the people we have charged with being the fourth pillar of our democracy cannot stand free in this world, what are we? If they get plucked and thrown out, then where do you and I stand? If media houses can be bought and sold, if storytellers replace journalists, then where do we stand?

If those who spin fiction are awarded by those in power, and those who tried to rectify the narrative are now buried in their graves, where does that leave us?

Our journalists are not free. We are not free.

Happy World Press Freedom Day. And may the odds be ever in your favor. 

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International Day for Multilateralism and Peace


“It is not enough to proclaim the virtues of multilateralism and diplomacy; we must continue to show its added value. International cooperation must adapt to changing times.

Let us strive as one to realize the founders’ vision of a healthy, equitable, peaceful and more sustainable future for all.”- Antonio Guterres, Secretary-General of the United Nations

Throughout history, mankind has always been broiled in conflict. Numerous cultures and societies, constantly battling for a plethora of reasons. From the Romans to the Mongols, the Mughals, and the British Empire- has there ever been a moment of peace? Empires rise and fall, cities are sacked, societies are burned, people are enslaved, and there is bloodshed.

Reflecting on our history matters, because when we look into the past, we can see just how far we’ve come, and how much more we need to progress.

The times we are living in right now are globally one of the most peaceful- held up by the pillars of modern-day diplomacy and multilateralism.

Has there ever been a time where we’ve been more united, and on such an enormous scale?

April 24th is the International Day of Multilateralism and Diplomacy, established by the United Nations in 2018.  It is meant to acknowledge the use of diplomatic and peaceful means to resolve conflicts between countries- even if it doesn’t always work.

Gone are the days where we siege nations for spices or silk- but now we fight for oil, labor, and more. The world is most certainly not perfect right now, there are so many ongoing issues- The Syrian War and the Israeli- Palestine conflict to name a few.

So how could we have a day celebrating diplomacy and multilateralism when it seems so superficial? When there is so much more to resolve?

But the purpose of the “International Day of Multilateralism and Peace” isn’t simply patting ourselves on the back for a job well done and dusting our hands of any more work.

 We may have achieved a level of peace and diplomacy of historically unprecedented levels- but that doesn’t mean all our work is over. It’s not only about recognizing how far we’ve come- but realizing how much further we have to go.

So much blood was shed to reach this point in history- where the world can unite; where we can stand together; where we can accept each other, and where we can work together.

April 24th is about celebrating a day that is a marker of progress, and a symbol of hope for the future. 

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The Tales of My Daydreams

It happened just a few weeks ago. I was lying awake in bed at 11 am in the morning, thinking about my life (happens too often). I had exams coming up, so I was extra reluctant to get out of bed.

Naturally, it was at this time that I faded into a daydream thinking about how much I’ve wasted my life doing absolutely zilch, just like me right at that moment, on my bed.

Now I have these weird thoughts that play like movies in my mind on a regular basis. So, I’m going to assume that the people reading this are saner than I am.

So, as I’m lying down, suddenly the thought of death pops into my mind. Naturally.

But for some reason, this time it was different. It wasn’t a normal daydream, where I just thought about it for like five minutes before forgetting what I was thinking about. This time it was serious.

Death was inescapable. It was coming for me and for the people I love. This hit me really hard. At that time, I could even accept that I was going to die one day. But my parents, my brother, my whole family, my friends… I couldn’t bear to think about that.

So, I went on to have a very somber and uneventful day. I was in a pretty bad mood, and the fear that my life could end at any second was stuck in the back of my head.

That night my family and I played a game of cards. It’s pretty standard, and we do it almost every day.

I was in the middle of playing with my family and listening to songs when I realized something. I looked at my family with their beautiful smiles and their uncontrollable laughter. My heart was instantly filled with so many beautiful emotions of love, thankfulness, and happiness.

Now, I went back into another daydream of all the happiest memories I could remember. Going on vacations with my family, these game nights, having fun with my friends in class, going to my home town to spend time with my grandparents, and celebrating festivals.

There were so many happy moments, and remembering them just filled me up with love. That’s when I realized that death was not necessarily a bad thing.

It’s a bitter part of life, and it only brings sadness and sorrow. But that isn’t the only role it plays. It gives life meaning. It’s a lesson, which teaches us to cherish our loved ones and live our lives to the fullest.

We have a limited amount of time in our lives before we expire. So, use every second of that life to do something incredible.

I absolutely love writing, and every time I write something like this and share it with my family and the world, the responses I get gives me a feeling of joy unparalleled to anything else.

So, never ever refrain from doing something that you love to do.

I’m sorry if I’ve brought down your feelings or, in some way, make you feel sad. My goal wasn’t to make you feel bad about life, but the exact opposite.

Life is beautiful, and death, though it brings pain, is necessary and is what makes life so wonderful. I got all of this from a single daydream, so I might just be blabbering. but I don’t think I am.

I’d like to end this off with a few words from a very wise musician,

“I see skies so blue and clouds so white.

The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night.

And I think to myself… what a wonderful world.”

– Louis Armstrong