Tag: spirituality

  • Write Your Own Myth

    Storytelling Isn’t Just for Children

    Storytelling is an underrated art, often dismissed as mere entertainment or something reserved for teaching kids values. But have you ever noticed how we adults still use storytelling to guide our lives?

    Every Conversation Is a Story

    The gossip we indulge in, the content we engage with on social media, the way we talk about people, places, and ideas—our tone, expressions, and framing—all of it becomes a story.

    It reveals who we are: our likes, dislikes, philosophies, spiritual leanings, and passions.

    Even the person who sells you groceries starts forming a story about who you are, based on the narratives you live and tell.

    The Stories We Tell Shape Our Society

    But it doesn’t stop at revealing who we are. The stories we share, whether publicly or privately, shape the worldviews of those listening, consciously or subconsciously.

    A simple chat in a park or restaurant about a social issue gives passersby a glimpse into the kind of world their peers are helping create.

    When One Narrative Dominates

    When you hear only one kind of story, it leads to one kind of messaging. What you hear often becomes the path you follow, especially if you’re cut off from other perspectives.

    Without exposure to diverse cultures and experiences, we may never realize that different problems have different solutions, shaped by entirely different mindsets and traditions.

    The Hidden Influence of Popular Stories

    This shapes society in subtle but powerful ways.

    Stories influence:

    How we raise children

    Where and how they study

    How far people move

    How marriages happen

    What caste or religion is “acceptable”

    How beauty is defined

    How we treat our partners

    What jobs are considered respectable

    How old people should live

    What we expect from the government

    They shape our moral compass, set thresholds for outrage, and influence how we express dissent.

    Stories tell us whether we should only care for ourselves—or for our neighbor, too.

    They don’t just shape our happiness, they define how much abuse is “acceptable.”

    If the common narrative is about enduring suffering, speaking up becomes difficult unless your pain meets a certain threshold.

    The Tone of a Story Matters

    The impact of a story depends on its tone and delivery. Stories which are shared as obvious norms to be followed, quickly become the trend of the contemporary society. They are depicted as norms followed by the wise, rich and powerful of the society, so shouldn’t be questioned by common man.

    Some stories are amplified through loudspeakers, repeated on social media, organically or through paid campaigns, aimed at normalizing certain ideas or instilling fear.

    Others are spread quietly. These may be the stories that challenge the status quo, initiate cultural shifts, or simply deserve to be heard.

    Stories worth attention

    Maybe it’s the ones rooted in kindness, peace, and truth. The ones that don’t center power and ego but instead prioritize community, harmony, and creating space for everyone to thrive.

    Who Gets to Be Heard?

    If stories shape us so deeply, it’s worth asking: who gets to tell them? And who gets listened to?

    Ironically, popular stories often glorify conformity. They celebrate tradition, patriarchy, and dogmatism, while we simultaneously idolize past rebels who didn’t conform.

    History celebrates the antiheroes of their time, while the present vilifies today’s rebels.

    So, why don’t we listen to the rebels of today? Why are they being shunned? Aren’t they the ones trying to wake us up from the Matrix?

    If human and moral values are the mountaintop we aspire to, why are stories of violence, division, power struggles, and abuse interest us the most?

    Stories from Childhood

    If we look back, our ancient stories, even those about gods, often ask us to break norms in the name of compassion. Give up ego. Fight for those who can’t fight for themselves.

    Sometimes, even show kindness to the enemy.

    They teach us to choose right over wrong. And when faced with right vs. kind? Choose kind.

    But they also warn us: don’t be kind at the cost of yourself. Don’t tolerate abuse in the name of goodness either.

    These stories remind us: the power lies within us—to write our story, even if no one is listening.

    Are Our Stories Making Us More Humane?

    So we need to ask: are the stories we’re choosing to believe making us kinder and more humane—or simply repeating the traditional values of our ancestors, too scared or scary to question?

    The Discrimination of Stories

    Some people only want to hear one kind of story. They believe that denying all other perspectives makes their version more real. To them, their story is the absolute truth.

    But stories asking for change are often judged by who tells them.

    Is the storyteller “respectable”? Is the storyteller part of my social group? Are they acceptable by my peers?
    Does their story fit my comfort zone?

    If not, I won’t listen, because listening may require me to change. And change is uncomfortable.

    The Story of Me

    Stories have power. They touch our subconscious. They make us feel, even when we try not to. And those feelings demand reflection.

    What if you hear a story from someone you don’t like, and it moves you? What if it makes you empathize?

    That’s terrifying for some. It blurs the lines between good and bad, us and them.

    We grew up with stories that never asked us to change. We were told to follow them, like characters who never questioned the script. Our beliefs were handed to us. And because we didn’t choose them, questioning them now feels like betrayal.

    After all, we’re not gods or rebels—we’re “good people.” Raised not to be uncomfortable in the society that molded us.

    So we deny the uncomfortable stories. We pretend they don’t exist. We don’t share them, no matter how powerful, because we fear being rejected. Or we fear feeling like hypocrites.

    The story might force us to reassess our beliefs. And that’s hard.

    What if we lose our place in our social circle?
    What if we become the villain in someone else’s story?

    What If the Story of Rejection Becomes Our Story?
    What if they twist our truth and cast us as the demon?

    What if we’re not allowed to share our side of the truth?

    What if our children or descendants are humiliated because we dared to speak up?

    Leap of Faith

    But what if I believe in storytellers beyond my peers? What if stories transcend timelines?

    What I am depends on the audience—good or bad, right or wrong, rebel or revolutionary.

    Maybe I should trust the audience once. Trust their ability to hold space for my truth. Maybe they’re also tired of the same old stories, waiting for a new one.

    A story where the protagonist dares to try a different ending.

    What if you let go of fear and let destiny decide whether you’re remembered as a hero or a villain?

    What if the world, if not today, then someday, uses your story to awaken others?

    Aren’t we all standing on the shoulders of those who dared to write a different story?

    Final Word

    Maybe all that matters is giving your full self to at least one story, one where you are unapologetically you.

    Think you’re not worthy of a story?

    God may have written your destiny, but gave you the free will to shape its course.

    If you weren’t worthy, why would nature bother keeping you alive?

    The very fact that you’re here, reading this, means you have the power to change how your story ends.

    The choice was always yours.

    Maybe I’m the hero, the villain, the antihero, or even a silent spectator, in different stories.

    But I owe it to myself to be the true protagonist in at least one.

    The one that’s mine.

  • Masters Of The Stage Or Masters Of Fate?

    I am a novice when it comes to acting. Not only did I hold various assumptions about the talent required, thinking it was no big deal, but I also believed acting was for those who couldn’t do anything else.

    Recently, I had an epiphany, a newfound respect for actors, when I realized that acting isn’t just impromptu. It’s rehearsed. And it’s not just a monologue all the time. There is a group of people working together to present a real-life situation in the most convincing way possible. I now understand why the term “timing” was coined.

    An actor already knows what will come next, yet they still hold the expressions the scene demands. They know their next line, but they wait patiently for their turn, responding as though hearing it for the first time. And while they wait, they don’t look bored or fake their reactions, they seem to be immersed in that character and that’s the mark of a great actor.

    This got me thinking about the mystery in our own lives. What if we knew what was coming next? Could we still stay present and play our part convincingly?

    If we knew we were going to die, get hurt, or lose everything, could we still be as happy in the present moment as we are now, oblivious to the future? Personally, I doubt that about myself.

    If we can’t even be good actors in the small plays of life, how could we expect to be good humans if we knew our fate beforehand? Would living still be as exhilarating if we knew exactly how it would unfold?

    Actors don’t just play one role in their lifetime, they embody many. With each character, they get to live as sinners and saints, lovers and villains. They don’t just recite lines; they feel what their characters feel, diving deep into the emotional and spiritual depths of those experiences. Maybe that gives them an unusual perspective, a glimpse into different kinds of human existence. They witness what it means to be selfish or selfless, cruel or kind, broken or whole.

    In real life, they probably get to choose who they want to be, based on those experiences.

    And that made me wonder—as humans, do we experience something similar? If we believe in multiple lifetimes, could it be that, deep down, we remember the lessons from each? Maybe not consciously, but somewhere in the fabric of our being, we carry those experiences, shaping the way we choose to live.

    If we could see all the beads on the string of life—every role we’ve ever played, every lesson we’ve ever learned—would we finally understand why we are here? Would it make us better? Or is the forgetting just as essential as the remembering?

    It makes me wonder, are we all just actors in the grand play of existence, striving for our final standing ovation?

  • The Search Of A Soulmate

    Lately, I’ve started to believe that our search for a soulmate isn’t a quest for answers—it’s a quest for shared questions.

    For centuries, we’ve idealized the notion of a soulmate as “the answer to all my questions.” Love songs, poetry, and stories tell us that we were born incomplete, carrying questions only our beloved could answer. But what if we’ve misunderstood this narrative? What if the answers have always been there—offered by our friends, our family, or even life itself? What if the essence of a soulmate lies not in answers, but in the questions they ask?

    Friends, after all, satisfy our curiosity. They give us answers, clarity, and a sense of grounding. That’s why friendships endure; they fill gaps in our understanding. A soulmate, however, is different. They are not the ones who settle your uncertainties—they are the ones who mirror them. They ask the same questions that keep you awake at night.

    This idea might feel unsettling, especially in a world where love is marketed as a solution. We’re taught to seek compatibility through shared goals, values, and intellectual pursuits. We’re told to look for someone who “completes us” or “makes us better.” But what if the true purpose of a soulmate is to stand beside us, equally lost, equally searching?

    It’s not the answers that bind us, but the shared journey of questioning. To feel truly connected to another is to see your own confusion reflected in their eyes and to find comfort in that mutual uncertainty. The idea of “completion” becomes irrelevant because the bond isn’t about fixing; it’s about exploring.

    This is why relationships often falter when one partner “finds the answer.” The balance shifts. Suddenly, the partnership feels unequal—one leads while the other lags behind. In such moments, the relationship risks becoming an uncomfortable hierarchy, rather than the safe haven it once was.

    A soulmate isn’t a wise teacher sent to enlighten you. They’re not the long-awaited guru with a roadmap to your life. They are, instead, your fellow wanderer—the same goofy, clueless last-bencher who doesn’t have all the answers either. Together, you stumble through life, laughing, tripping, and asking questions that may never have answers.

    The real question, then, isn’t “Who is my soulmate?” but rather, “What are my questions?” Have you sat with your doubts long enough to understand them? Have you figured out what you’re truly searching for? Because only when you understand your own questions can you recognize the ones who share them.

    A soulmate isn’t a destination. They’re not an endpoint to your search. They are a companion who joins you on the journey, walking beside you through the uncharted terrain of life’s mysteries. And maybe, just maybe, the beauty lies in the questions themselves, not the answers we once thought we needed.