Quest
With a raised eyebrow and a dramatic sigh, I can almost hear my inner critic whispering, “Really, Nariman? Blogging? As if you don’t have laundry, deadlines, existential questions, and three tabs open?” Yet, I begin anyway. At first, it feels awkward. My fingers hover over the keyboard like guests who’ve accidentally stumbled into the wrong party but are too polite to leave. Tap. Pause. Delete. Tap again. After years of practical living, writing feels like trying to salsa dance in sensible shoes. Necessary? No. Liberating? Suspiciously, yes. Somewhere between responsibility and routine, many of us have quietly misplaced our sense of wonder. We traded sunsets, daydreams, and curiosity for sensibility, duty, and calendars that resemble overbooked hotel lobbies. We became efficient, reliable, and productive, but life turned a little beige, punctuated only by sporadic bursts of brilliance. This is my awkward attempt at reconnecting with my soul. It’s choosing to lie in until 11 a.m. on a T...