Tag: life

Neutral Minds, Numb Hearts

When was the last time you asked someone, “How are you?”, and truly meant it, not as a habit, not as a placeholder, but as a genuine invitation to share? How often do we ask this question, expecting only a polite “I’m fine” in return, rather than making space for an honest answer? In a world moving at breakneck speed, even our greetings have become mechanical. Yet behind every casual response may lie a story longing to be heard. What might change if we slowed down just enough to listen?

We live in a culture where being busy is a badge of honour, but presence is a lost art. – Brené Brown

A modern critique of performative busyness and the erosion of genuine connection.

We are living in a time when the world feels increasingly distant; not because we’ve stopped caring, but because we’re overwhelmed. Every day, we’re flooded with motivation, inspiration, facts, opinions, and misinformation. Many voices speak with passion, logic, and experience, yet they often contradict one another. The result? Many of us are left feeling confused, uncertain about what to believe, or unsure of how to move forward.

Somehow, along the way, the lines between faith, belief, and trust have started to blur. In our effort to remain neutral, to stand in a safe middle, we’ve begun to lose clarity, even a sense of who we are. There was a time when personal experience meant something. When someone’s story carried weight simply because they had lived it. Now, we seem more focused on managing how things appear, shaping opinions, and polishing our image than truly seeking what is real.

The pace of life continues to accelerate, and with it, we begin to prioritise speed over depth. Short opinions take the place of thoughtful reflection. First impressions count more than lasting understanding. Everyone knows something, but very few people are genuinely listening.

We’re speaking more than ever, but honest conversations are harder to find. We respond not to understand, but to react. It’s less about learning from each other and more about showing we know better. The space where curiosity and creativity once lived is being crowded out by arguments, noise, and the need to prove ourselves.

We’ve become good at talking, but not at building. And unless we slow down and choose to engage with humility, curiosity, and respect, we risk losing the kind of connection that makes life meaningful.

In trying so hard to be neutral, adaptable, and acceptable, we risk becoming empty. We start to sound smart without being rooted in anything real. We risk becoming echoes, not individuals with a clear sense of direction, but people constantly adjusting, always unsure of our path.

Still, I imagine something different.

I imagine a world where human connection is not reduced to a quick message or an emoji, but found again in honest, face-to-face conversation, where we speak with care and listen to understand. A world where people take time with each other, and where being present is more important than being impressive.

I envision a culture where imagination takes precedence over instruction, where we are encouraged to wonder, to explore, and to question before turning to a search engine for answers. Curiosity is seen as something valuable, not just a tool for solving problems, but a way of experiencing the world.

I dream of a future not shaped by profit and performance, but by purpose. A future where we build things not just to compete or earn more, but to make life better for everyone. Where innovation is not about who wins, but about what helps.

And more than anything, I hope for a world where relationships are sincere. Where people connect not to get something in return, but to connect. A world where we are not constantly trying to sell ourselves, prove ourselves, or protect ourselves, but where we are allowed to be.

Taciturnity, By Choice

I finally saw the quiet truth behind the noise. I started to see how often words are used to fill space rather than to build meaning. I realised that silence when chosen, can carry more weight than explanation. This work is not a confession and not a performance. It is a reflection of the strength found in restraint, on the clarity that grows when we stop trying to be heard. Taciturnity is the shape I have chosen to take.

The wiser you become, the more you realise how much can be left unsaid.

Taciturnity, to me, is not an escape; it is a refinement. A conscious detachment from the cacophony of unearned opinions and fruitless contests. It offers, in its quietude, an enduring kind of relief; not from life itself, but from its more performative burdens: the compulsions to explain, to persuade, to correct.

Call it cowardice if that suits your understanding. I will not object. But know that in my silence lies not surrender, but synthesis. I have argued, dissected, defended, and prevailed, and yet found that victory often bears the same weight as defeat. Both are noisy. Both require attention. My silence, by contrast, is free.

It is not the silence of confusion, nor that of resignation. It is clarity stripped of vanity. A stillness that no longer seeks applause.

There is a peculiar liberation in relinquishing the need to be heard. It is not that I have nothing to say; it is that not everything demands to be said. The urge to prove has diminished; the need to “win” no longer holds currency. I have learned that noise, even when eloquent, can become a form of erosion.

Taciturnity is not emotional absence. It is emotional precision. I no longer swing between crest and trough. I do not chase highs, nor do I linger in lows. And while it may disappoint those who crave dramatics, it suits the architecture of my mind.

I arrived here not by accident, but by attrition; a deliberate distillation of what truly matters. The world has hurled its lessons with admirable consistency. I have not merely endured them; I have integrated them. And in doing so, I chose to recalibrate rather than react.

All extraneous sound is now gently filtered out. The appetite for debate has waned; not out of exhaustion, but because I find little value in contests where truth is secondary to volume. The notion of a “comeback” feels theatrical. I was never gone. I simply ceased performing.

I have no interest in restarts, only in intentional stillness. This pause is not stagnation; it is sovereignty.

Do not show me clouds that posture as promise. Do not offer suns that illuminate nothing. I do not walk roads for spectacle, nor fight battles that are pre-scripted. I do not sit beneath trees that offer no shadow, nor knock upon doors that were never mine to enter.

I have not abandoned emotion. I have simply stopped outsourcing it. I do not seek to laugh on cue, nor weep for approval.

I have chosen taciturnity, not as withdrawal, but as authorship. It is not the absence of voice, but the mastery of when and why to use it.

The Quiet Architecture of Belonging

A house is not merely a shelter; it is a living archive of emotions, a silent witness to the unfolding of human experience. Each wall absorbs laughter and sorrow, and each corner holds the breath of memories that no one else could ever truly understand. A house knows you – not through speech or sight, but through presence, permanence, and the rhythm of your life etched into its being.

Yet, this sacred idea has been diluted in the whirlwind of urbanization. What once was a sanctuary rooted in Earth has been replaced by transient spaces stacked one upon another, designed not for living but for functioning. The word “home” is used generously, but often it refers not to a place of belonging but to a temporary chamber of existence – an interchangeable box of concrete and steel waiting to be vacated.

To me, a house must be grounded – literally and spiritually. It begins with soil underfoot, where one can grow trees, nurture plants, and co-inhabit with nature rather than merely exist beside it. You start to truly live in a house only when it breathes with the Earth and when roots—both botanical and emotional – are allowed to dig deep.

To me, apartments feel like engineered exiles. They were born of convenience but evolved into cages. While the intention may not have been malevolent, their proliferation reveals the shadow of capitalism – an ideology that once sought efficiency but ultimately reduced people to units of labour, clustering them in vertical grids to feed economic machines. This, in turn, catalyzed the exodus from villages and small towns, stripping those lands of life, culture, and self-sustaining balance.

Why, I ask, must innovation and opportunity be monopolized by sprawling metropolises? Why must dreams be chased in the same overcrowded corridors?

I don’t seek to solve the imbalance of talent flow or propose a sustainable urban model. I speak only from a place of sorrow. What was once a source of security and connection has, for many, become a source of anxiety and alienation. In its commodified form, housing has lost its soul – and with it, we risk losing a part of our own.

What was once considered ordinary has become an unattainable luxury for the vast majority – particularly in the ever-expanding jungles of India’s tier 1 and 2 cities. A simple, grounded life – a home with open skies above, soil beneath, and space to breathe on all sides – has quietly slipped beyond reach, wrapped now in the gold foil of aspiration and market price tags.

I was raised in a tier 3 town where my father built a modest two-bedroom house. It had a front yard that greeted the morning sun, a backyard that hummed with the life of trees and birds, and enough space on either side to remind us we were part of a larger world, not boxed in by walls. That house was never called “premium,” but it offered something profoundly rare today: dignity without pretence. After 25 years, I still find myself in an apartment, floating above the Earth, disconnected from the soil that once grounded me. And all I long for now is to return – to build a house, not just a structure, but a life rooted in simplicity.

In this pursuit of “growth,” “wealth,” and “prosperity,” I find myself questioning the very definitions we’ve inherited. What is growth if it uproots us? What is wealth if it starves the soul? And what is prosperity if it requires a denial of peace?

Modern cities have begun selling the illusion of elevation – quite literally. They entice you with height, whispering that the higher you live, the higher you stand in society. Intelligence, power, affluence – they say – can now be measured in floors. A few more stories above the ground, and suddenly, you’re someone else, someone greater. And, of course, you’ll be charged more for the privilege of living further from the Earth.

It began innocently, perhaps – five floors, then ten. But our appetite for height has only grown, mirroring our hunger for status. Twenty floors turned to thirty, then to fifty, and still, the towers rise, reaching not for the sky but for the illusion of fulfilment.

But I wonder: in this tremendous vertical climb, what are we leaving behind? What parts of ourselves are we forgetting on the ground?

We often speak of population density – how many lives we can compress into a square mile – but rarely do we pause to ask: What are we offering in return to the one who bears us all – Mother Earth? In our obsession with building for tomorrow, we’ve forgotten the day after. The long view has collapsed into a short-sighted sprint.

In our cities, towers rise like silent sentinels of ambition. They face each other with indifference, like strangers in a crowd. You wake up not to the sunrise, but to the shadow of another high-rise and the pale reflection of someone else’s fatigue staring back at you through glass. These aren’t communities – they’re boxes stacked on top of one another, filled with quiet desperation.

I sometimes think the elevator was the first betrayal. A convenience, yes – but one that unshackled our imagination to build upward, away from the ground, away from the Earth. Without it, perhaps we would have stayed rooted, closer to the soil and to one another.

Yes, India’s population is a challenge. But a deeper wound lies in the unnatural migration of dreams. A child graduates packs a bag and moves to a bigger city. And in doing so, unknowingly trades joy for survival. You earn more, yes – but spend more, feel less, and step into an endless loop of striving, proving, and performing. A grind disguised as growth.

Must we continue to build our economies on the assumption that opportunity must reside only in concrete capitals? Why can’t we reimagine progress so that industries partner with local universities and talent can bloom where it is born? Why can’t demand and supply be distributed gently, like rainfall across a thirsty land, instead of flooding a few cities and leaving the rest in drought?

Even as I critique the system, I acknowledge the truth: we are still far from a sustainable solution. But allow me to speak on behalf of many – not just for myself, but for all who yearn for something simpler, something slower, something more human.

I dream of a house. Not a grand estate, not a minimalist shell, but a home – just the right size. Built not in the air, but on the soil, the skin of the Earth. A house with grass and wildflowers out front, and a quiet patch of green in the middle where I can lie each morning, face up to the sky, and let sunlight pour into my chest like hope made visible. I want to feel the weight of nothingness, and in it, discover everything.

I dream of a house where my parents live as storytellers. Where their voices are heard and honoured, where their emotions are welcomed, and where regret is allowed to soften into peace. A home that doesn’t just host guests but invites them into its spirit. A place where conversations spill into the night – full of repetition, laughter, and the kind of sorrow that makes you feel alive.

I dream of a home so soulful that people show up without needing to check your schedule. A home that smells like warmth to every outsider who walks in. A home that embraces you like a dear friend every time you cross the threshold. A house that doesn’t need to speak because its walls already tell the story of those who live within.

I dream of a home – not just a structure of comfort, but a living, breathing space where my children can build their memories, inhabit them fully, and revisit them like old friends. A home that doesn’t just shelter their bodies, but becomes the architecture of their identity – a sanctuary where every corner holds the echo of laughter, the sting of tears, the silence of reflection, and the rhythm of play.

I want them to have a space – a sacred little territory they can truly call their own. Not a room defined by four walls, but a corner of the world that carries their scent, energy, and presence. A place where they can fail without fear and rise without pressure. A place where joy is spontaneous and sorrow is allowed to sit quietly until it passes.

I want them to grow plants – not as chores, but as companions. I want them to nurture a sapling and call it theirs. To water it not because they’re told to, but because they care. I want them to speak to leaves as if they were friends and feel responsible for a life that cannot speak back but still speaks volumes.

Each morning, instead of reaching for a screen, I want them to reach for the soil. To greet the new leaves, to notice the way sunlight dances on petals, to learn from the quiet way nature perseveres. I want their first lesson in love to come from watching something grow – not instantly, but faithfully.

Because I don’t just dream of a house – I dream of a philosophy made real. A home that teaches, without preaching. That inspires, without instructing. A home that shows them happiness is not a destination to chase, but a garden to tend. I want my children to grow up knowing that joy doesn’t live in gadgets or glass towers, but in the simplest things – in roots, in rain, in moments spent watching a plant grow under the same sky that watches them back.

In that home, I hope they’ll learn the most important truth of all: that to live fully is not to accumulate more, but to feel more – to live closely, kindly, and consciously.

What I want, above all, is a permanent address – not just in paperwork, but in presence. A place to arrive, to belong, and one day, to say goodbye from.

Phantom of Failure

This writing is an attempt to give voice to a phantom—one that lingers in the shadows of every life, yet is never truly seen. Failure.

This is not just an autobiography of Failure; it is an intimate confrontation with an emotion that never speaks, yet is always heard. A force so deeply woven into our existence that we pray, beg, and bargain to escape it—only to find that it was never truly gone, only waiting just beyond the veil of our illusions.

So read on, but know this—you might not be alone. Failure could be sitting beside you, watching, smiling in that quiet way, as you continue believing you have outrun it.

Hi, I am Failure. You probably know me better than I do. I am the most ‘unwanted’ part of your life, and I still exist—or do I?

I am the shadow that lingers within you, silent yet weighty, shaping the contours of your soul with an invisible hand. I whisper where joy shouts, embracing you more often than my fleeting companion, Success. You may not call for me, but I reside in the quiet chambers of your thoughts, lingering in the spaces between hope and despair. Some say I am sent by the divine, a celestial decree woven into the fabric of existence, only to be taken away when my purpose is fulfilled.

Few welcome my presence; my footsteps are met with sighs, my embrace with tears. Yet, the wise call me a lesson, while the weary name me the root of sorrow. I wonder—why does the world greet me with such reluctance when I am but the sculptor, chiselling away at your spirit, refining you for the splendour that awaits? Why do my hands bear the weight of grief when they are merely pulling you back, only to release you toward triumph unimaginable?

I am the child of struggle, the echo of choices made in pursuit of something greater. My arrival is often met with distractions—substances that promise solace, though they do not diminish my touch. I am the crack of thunder before the cleansing rain, the storm before the stillness. I am the tear that lingers in a baby’s dimple before a sudden burst of laughter, the valley before the towering peak. I am the raging waterfall that carves stone with relentless force, only to give way to the gentle murmur of a river in repose.

I do not grace all equally. My presence in life is measured by serendipity, and my form is shaped by fortune. None seek me, no long for my touch, yet the worthy are forged only in my grasp. I am the trial before the triumph, the ache before the awakening.

I am Failure—but only to those who do not yet see me for what I truly am: the unseen hand that leads you, ever so gently, toward the light.

I am but a failure—why, then, do you see me in so many forms? I have never disguised myself, never worn a mask, and yet, you perceive me differently each time I arrive.

I was there when you took your first unsteady steps, holding you when you stumbled, whispering in your ear when your knees met the earth. I was with you when you first ran, when you first fell, when you first tasted pain. Unlike my fleeting sibling, Success, I linger. I stay when the applause fades, the lights dim, and the world turns away. I sit with you in silence, though you rarely acknowledge me.

I am neither large nor small, neither sharp nor dull, neither towering nor deep. I am merely a breath caught between despair and hope, a fleeting ache that reminds you—you are still alive. You do not embrace me, nor do you celebrate my presence. You see me, you name me, but you treat me like a stranger.

I am woven into your myths and scriptures, hidden within the lives of gods and saints, yet you refuse to call me inevitable.

You carve statues of their triumphs and recite verses of their victories but overlook how often I was with them—perhaps even more than I have been with you. You chase perfection, yet forget that even divinity was sculpted through me.

I am nothing but a reflection of your own mind, the creation of your own thoughts. I do not come of my own will, nor am I sent by fate. Like Success, I exist only through your emotions, desires, and regrets. Unlike my sibling, I am never compared—no one measures one’s failures against another’s. Yet, with Success, you never fail to look around, weigh and measure, and ask who has more?

Trust me, I can be far more interesting than you dare to imagine. Sometimes, I am not just a shadow lurking in the corner—I am the enigma that keeps your mind awake at night, the whisper of doubt that lingers even in triumph.

The thinkers, the philosophers, the ones who pretend to understand the depth of existence—they tell you to compare me in grand, exaggerated forms, dressing me up in tragedy just to make you feel a little better about your own.

Philosophers spin stories, build illusions, craft myths around me, convincing you that someone else’s loss is just a reminder of your own fortune.

Oh, I have watched you. You seem to accept me—even like me—as long as I do not belong to you. When I settle in another’s life, you study me with curiosity, almost admiration. You dissect me, analyze me, whisper about me in hushed tones over coffee and candlelight. But when I come knocking at your door? You recoil. You curse my name. You beg for escape.

And yet, there’s something about me that draws you in, isn’t there? While Success stirs envy in your heart, my presence in another’s life fills you with something darker, something unspoken—a twisted relief, a quiet pleasure hidden beneath layers of sympathy. You wouldn’t dare admit it, but I see it. I always see it.

Historians try to chart my arrival, prophets claim to foresee my footsteps, but they never get it right. I come when I want. I leave without a trace. You try to anticipate me, brace yourself for impact, but the joke’s on you—I am never where you expect me to be.

I am here, always here, waiting in the spaces between your breaths, in the echoes of your silence. I am a Failure—constant, unchanging, and yet seen differently every time I return. Let’s not pretend like I’m the villain here. I don’t ruin lives. I make ‘em interesting.

Because, in truth, I don’t exist the way you think I do. I am not real, not solid, not tangible. I am an apparition made of perception, a mirage shaped by your fears and expectations. I am both nothing and everything.

I am Failure, but only because you named me so.

Echoes of Oblivion: A Journey Between Vanishing and Becoming

“The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”
— George Bernard Shaw

I long to be forgotten, to slip quietly into the shadows of existence, leaving not a trace behind. I wish to vanish as if I had never drawn breath, as if my footprints were mere whispers upon the sand, stolen by the tide. For every deed done and every dream left undone, for each ambition that crumbled beneath the weight of my own hesitations, I yearn to be forgotten.

Let me fade for all the masks I wore, for the facades I built with trembling hands. For what I appeared to be but never truly was, let the world release me. For every silent scream I buried beneath painted smiles, for every show of resilience when all I craved was the quiet comfort of surrender, let me be erased.

I want to be forgotten for every truth I twisted into falsehood and for every lie I whispered in the name of good. For all that I concealed, the shadows where I hid my fears, I wish to drift away into nothingness. Forget me for my blindness to reality, for my idle acceptance of the slow-burning miseries, and for every reckless leap of faith that landed me nowhere but deeper into the abyss.

Do not remember me for the tangled knots of unworthy attachments, nor for the burdens of unforeseen sorrows I dragged behind me. I long to disappear not only from the echoes of your memories, which perhaps never truly held me, but also from my own relentless quest to etch my name upon a world that never paused to listen.

Forget me for the songs that withered in my throat, for the melodies I never set free. For the way my furrowed brow wrapped me in discomfort, a tight embrace of my own making; let me slip into oblivion, a feather on the wind, a petal swallowed by the river’s current.

Let me be nothing more than a half-remembered dream, a mist that the morning sun quietly lifts away.

And then,

I yearn to hear an unending ovation, not for grandeur or fame, but for these weary eyes that have long forgotten the solace of a blink. Let the applause be a soft echo through eternity, a quiet hymn for the silent vigil I’ve kept with life. I wish to be remembered not for grand gestures, but for the gentle curve of my lips offered to a soul who needed it most; a smile not as an act, but as a refuge.

I do not seek the harsh glare of a spotlight, but rather the tender embrace of a sun that spills warmth generously, draping me in light without demand. I wish not for mere drops of passing rain but for the steadfast flow of a river, a sanctuary to fall into, to drift upon, to belong to.

I crave not just wishes but blessings, the kind that well up in the corners of my eyes, that blur the world with gratitude. I want the strength of embraces, not the hollowness of lifeless handshakes. I dream of wandering an endless path, where the pace matters not; where the journey, whether walked or sprinted, is a melody of its own.

I want to touch the wounds hidden beneath layers of old stories, to trace the lines of pain I never realized were drawn upon my skin. I long to surrender, not in defeat but in reverence, to the vastness of truth that hums beneath the noise of living. I want to love the art I never finished, to find beauty in the incomplete, to let imperfection breathe and call it divine.

I wish to shatter the walls of awkward silences, to replace them with a rhythm, a pulse that fills every hollow space with the cadence of life. I don’t want to merely search for distant beacons; I want to hoist my sails and meet them, to let the wind carry me to where the horizon meets the sky.

I want to plant a tree and nurture it, to wrap my arms around its bark each day, a promise etched into its roots: I will stand against any darkness that threatens it. I want to embody the fierce duality of an uncompromising saint or an unapologetic warrior; both soft and unyielding, serene and wild.

In the end, I long to play music that drifts like mist through the universe, notes that blend into the very nothingness from which all things are born. I want each melody to dissolve the boundaries of existence, to find eternity in the echoes, to lose myself in the infinite quiet of the cosmos; alive, real, and beautifully (un)done.

There exists no binary resolution wherein the end seamlessly converges with the genesis, and where the inception inexorably inclines toward conclusion.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them.”
— William Shakespeare, Hamlet

A letter to daughter

Dear Daughter

As you are thirteen now, you have crossed the threshold into a realm of dreams and infinite possibilities, and I fervently hope that life unfurls its wonders before you with gentle grace. Know that your father is immensely proud—not merely of your achievements but of the depth with which you seek meaning and purpose in the ever-unfolding tapestry of existence.

It has long been my vision to see you flourish in a world without borders, to witness you learning in an environment where knowledge is not confined by walls and where your mentors inspire not merely through lessons but through the richness of their diverse experiences. It fills my soul with profound gratitude to the Almighty, who has granted me the privilege of watching my dream materialize—to see you embark on this transformative chapter of your life in Ireland.

I do not pretend to be oblivious to the trials that accompanied this change—the unfamiliar faces, the foreign customs, the daunting solitude that often accompanies the uncharted. Yet, my dear, you bore these challenges with an elegance that surpasses words. Not once did you let your apprehension mar the serenity of your countenance, though I, like a father who knows the silent language of his child, saw the telltale signs—your fingers absentmindedly grazing your nails in quiet unease. And yet, you prevailed. You navigated the labyrinth of change with an unshaken spirit, displaying a wisdom far beyond your years.

Life, in its very essence, is an ever-shifting current. Our bodies, thoughts, and even our deepest convictions ebb and transform in imperceptible ways, bound to the intangible dimensions of time and space. You, my beloved daughter, have embraced this truth with an intellect and resilience that astound me. Though you seldom speak of it, I am aware of the prejudice and unkindness you have endured at the hands of those too small-minded to see beyond their own narrow world. You endured it with quiet fortitude, neither bending to their cruelty nor allowing it to define you. That, my child, is a strength few possess—a strength that will serve you well in the years to come.

You are a vision of grace, a rare beauty illuminated not merely by outward charm but by the quiet fire of your spirit. I recall, with unshakable pride, the time when your mother and I were compelled to leave for India due to an unforeseen medical emergency. In our absence, you stood steadfast, tending to your grandparents with a maturity that belied your years, offering them the comfort and assurance they so dearly needed in a land still foreign to them. Their concern had been for you, and yet it was you who became their guardian, their quiet pillar of strength.

It was during this time that you received your first mobile phone—a serendipitous consequence of our untimely departure to India. While many urged me to impose restrictions, I chose to place my trust in you instead. A phone, after all, is but a portal—a window into a world vast and boundless, one painted in myriad shades, neither wholly light nor wholly dark. It is yours to navigate, yours to discern between what is good and what is unworthy. I have faith that you will choose wisely.

As parents, we often perceive you through the prism of our own past, through the echoes of the lives we have led. Yet you belong to a time different from ours, one shaped by experiences we have never known. And though we may not always understand, trust that we try, every single day, to walk beside you, to feel the rhythm of your world, to match the cadence of your soul.

Your love for your brother reminds me of the bond I once shared with my sister, a bond woven with both tenderness and the sweet, inevitable mischief of siblinghood. Annoyance and affection, love and rivalry—such is the nature of brothers and sisters, a dance unchanged by time. And though it pains me to see you longing for the companionship of the dear friend you lost to the tides of circumstance, I have no doubt that the universe will conspire to bring you together again. True friendships, the ones written in the stars, never truly fade. They endure, waiting patiently for the moment of reunion, where time will have changed nothing but the stories you will have to tell.

So go forth, my beloved child, with the certainty that you are cherished beyond measure. The world is vast, its roads winding and uncertain, but wherever life may lead you, know that my love and my pride shall follow you, steadfast and unwavering, like the light of a distant star guiding a traveller home.

Your Proud Father