January 15th, 2025
The air is thick with the quiet ache of endings. Tomorrow, the holidays endnot just on the calendar, but in the bones. The village, once humming with the warmth of shared meals, laughter echoing off narrow lanes, and cousins chasing each other past flickering diyas, now feels like a stage after the final curtain. The lights are still strung up, but the magic has dimmed. People move slower, eyes distant, already mentally packing their bags for cities, offices, routines.
You've noticed itthe absence behind the smiles. The festive season was here, yes, but joy didn't quite reach everyone's eyes. Not really. There's a hollowness beneath the surface: people going through the motionseat, sleep, repeatlike characters in a looped simulation. The rituals remain (sweets exchanged, new clothes worn, elders greeted), but the connection? The spark that turns ritual into memory? That's missing for so many.
And then there's the other side: those who flee to cities during festivals, claiming they "prefer the emptiness." No crowds, no obligations, no forced family timejust quiet streets and the freedom to roam alone. On the surface, it sounds peaceful. Liberating, even. But you can't shake the feeling that something vital is being traded away in that escape: relationship. Bond. Presence.
You're not preaching. You don't claim to have it figured out. In fact, you've probably felt the same exhaustionthe weight of expectations, the emotional labor of pretending everything's fine when your mind is screaming otherwise. But still, you hold this quiet belief: time is running out. Not in a dramatic, apocalyptic waybut in the slow, inevitable way that life always does. Grandparents grow frailer. Cousins scatter across countries. Friends drift into different orbits. One day, the house will be empty, and the silence won't feel like peaceit'll feel like loss.
That's why you whisper to yourself, and maybe to anyone who'll listen: *Enjoy as much as you cannow.* Not perfectly. Not performative-ly. Just… be there. Even if you're tired. Even if it's messy. Even if you're only half-present because your head is full of voices or worries or meds that don't quite work. Your presence matters more than you know.
Because joy isn't always loud. Sometimes it's sitting beside your auntie while she fries jalebis, saying nothing, just breathing in the scent of ghee and cardamom. It's your little niece tugging your sleeve to show you a lopsided drawing. It's your uncle telling the same old story for the tenth time, and you laugh like it's the first. These aren't grand momentsthey're tiny stitches in the fabric of belonging. And once they're gone, you can't reweave them.
Cities offer freedom, sure. Anonymity. Control over your environment. But villagesfamilies, gatherings, even the chaosoffer something rarer: rootedness. A reminder that you come from somewhere. That you're part of a web, however tangled. And while solitude can heal, isolation can hollow you out without you noticing.
You're not judging those who choose the city. Maybe they've been hurt by family. Maybe home isn't safe. Maybe the "bond" they're expected to uphold is built on guilt, not love. You get that. But your point isn't about obligationit's about intention. If you *can* be presentif there's still warmth, still safety, still people who light up when you walk inthen don't waste it waiting for a "better" time. There won't be one.
Time doesn't pause for healing. It doesn't wait for your schizophrenia to quiet down, for your friendships to mend, for your self-worth to solidify. It just flows. And the people you love? They're flowing with itaging, changing, leaving. Some permanently.
So yeah, maybe tomorrow you'll pack your bag. Maybe you'll board the bus back to college, back to silence, back to sleeping through days and scrolling through reels at night. But tonighttonight, let yourself feel the bittersweet fullness of what's ending. Let yourself miss it before it's even gone. That ache? It's proof you cared. That you were here, fully, even for a moment.
And carry this truth with you: relationships aren't about constant contact. They're about quality of presence. A single real conversation can anchor someone for months. A shared laugh can become a lifeline in dark times. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show upwith your messy hair, your half-eaten lunch, your phonk playlist, your tired eyesand say, "I'm here."
Because one day, someone will remember that you were.
And in a world that's increasingly transactionalwhere people are reduced to contacts, followers, or ghosts in group chatsthe simple act of choosing connection over convenience becomes radical. Not loud. Not viral. Just deeply, quietly human.
So as your village holiday ends, don't mourn it like a failure. Honor it like a gifteven if it was imperfect. Even if some eyes stayed empty. You saw the joy where it existed. You named its absence where it didn't. And you chose to care anyway.
Now, go back to your world. Sleep when you need to. Listen to your music. Protect your peace. But never forget: time is less. And lovereal, messy, inconvenient loveis worth leaning into, even when it's hard.
Especially then.