For the longest time, I found myself writing about how weird life is .. chaotic .. complicated ..unpredictable .. messy. At times poetic, at other times, completely absurd. There was always something elusive about it—something I couldn't quite grasp but couldn’t ignore either. It felt like walking through a fog where the path keeps shifting, even as you take each step forward. That weirdness, that mystery, has defined my understanding of life for years.
But time has a way of offering new vantage points. With every passing year, life invites you to re-read the same chapters with wiser eyes. The strange becomes familiar. The complicated becomes clear—or at least clearer. And what once seemed like chaos reveals itself to be a different kind of order.
My definition of life has been slowly evolving. It's no longer just “weird” or “complicated.” Now, I see life as weird—but beautiful.
And a big part of that beauty lies in the one thing we all fear, the thing we try so hard to ignore or outrun: death.
It’s strange, isn’t it? That the thing which gives life so much meaning is the very thing we dread most. Death is woven into the fabric of life. You can’t have one without the other. They are not opposites—they are partners .. intertwined .. inseparable.
This realization didn’t hit me all at once. It came slowly, in whispers—during quiet walks, late-night thoughts, moments of reflection, and losses both personal and distant. At some point, I began to see that the weirdness of life—the complexity, the beauty, the fear, the urgency—comes from this constant dance between living and dying.
We are all living and dying at the same time .. every moment of every day ..
The moment we are born, the clock starts ticking. The process of death doesn’t wait until old age. It’s present from the first breath. Every second we spend alive is also a second closer to the end. It's ironic, almost cruel, but deeply poetic. And oddly empowering.
A candle feels like the perfect metaphor. You light it, and it brings warmth, glow, and comfort. It flickers. It dances. It changes the energy of a room. But in the very act of shining, it is dying. The wax melts. The wick shortens. Its purpose is fulfilled in its gradual disappearance.
Life is much the same. We spend our days burning—working, loving, struggling, celebrating, grieving, growing. In doing so, we create light for ourselves and others. We give off energy. And as we do, we inch closer to the end.
This isn’t meant to sound grim. In fact, I find something deeply liberating in it. When you embrace the fact that life is finite, suddenly everything becomes more precious. A sunrise isn’t just routine—it’s a gift. A hug isn’t just an action—it’s a fleeting connection. A conversation, a meal, a laugh—all of these moments are time-limited, and because of that, they shimmer with meaning.
Death, then, isn’t just the end. It’s the context that makes life worth living. It’s the boundary that gives life its shape, its urgency, its color.
Of course, we fear death. We’re wired to. The unknown, the loss of self, the idea of “no more”—it’s terrifying. But here’s the shift that time has helped me make: fearing death doesn’t mean denying it. And acknowledging death doesn’t mean living in gloom.
When you stop pretending you’re immortal, you start making different choices. You stop postponing joy. You stop numbing yourself with distractions. You pay attention. You start asking: Is this really how I want to spend my time? Am I burning for the right reasons?
That’s when life becomes more than just survival. It becomes intentional. You begin to prioritize what matters—relationships over resentment, presence over productivity, purpose over performance. You stop waiting for the “perfect time” to start living, because you realize that time isn’t guaranteed. You might have 80 years. You might have 8. Either way, the candle is burning.
So here’s my new definition of life, still evolving but clearer than before:
Life is a burning candle—finite, fragile, flickering. But it is also luminous, warm, and beautiful because of that very fragility. It is weird, yes, because it’s both joyful and heartbreaking .. Because it contains beginnings and endings .. Because it demands we let go, even as we hold tight .. Because it asks us to make meaning while knowing none of it lasts forever.
But weird doesn’t mean bad. Weird just means .. human. Real. Raw. Poetic.
We all have a candle. We don’t control its length, but we do control how it burns.
So the real question is: What are you doing with your light?
Are you letting fear dim it? Are you hiding it from others? Or are you letting it glow brightly—imperfectly, vulnerably, honestly?
Life will never stop being strange. But maybe that’s what makes it worth living .. or slowly dying ..
Burn, not dim, while time remains,
Let purpose course through all your veins.
No one escapes the final night,
But some go out still casting light.
Each breath you take—don’t take for granted,
This soil we walk is not enchanted.
It holds no promise but today,
So speak your truth, and dance, and stay.
Stay present in the fleeting now,
Let go of “why” and focus on “how.”
How can I love? How can I give?
How do I make this moment live?
For candles aren’t for hoarding flame,
They’re made to burn despite the end.
So light your path, then light another—
A friend, a stranger, a sister, a brother.
Because in giving, we endure,
In loving, fleeting things feel pure.
We can't control how long we shine,
But we can burn with bold design.
So when your wick begins to fade,
And silence starts to stretch and spread—
May you not mourn the light you gave,
But smile, knowing you truly lived instead.