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Lately, I’ve been realizing that most of my philosophical thoughts arrive not when I’m reading thick, intimidating books, but in the quietest, most ordinary moments—like waiting for water to boil or sitting by a window watching strangers walk by. It’s funny how life keeps offering small invitations to think deeper, if we’re willing to notice them.

This week, the thought that stayed with me was simple: Why do we rush through the very moments we claim to live for? I caught myself scrolling mindlessly, planning the next thing, worrying about things that haven’t even happened yet. And then, suddenly, a small pause—sunlight reflecting off a glass on my table—pulled me back into the present.

It made me realize something: maybe the meaning we’re all searching for isn’t hidden in some grand revelation or dramatic life event. Maybe it’s tucked into the ordinary, waiting for us to slow down.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about how we define “progress.” Society tells us it’s all about moving forward—earning more, achieving more, being more. But sometimes, the bravest kind of progress is stopping, questioning, and allowing space for uncertainty. There’s a strange kind of strength in admitting, “I don’t know,” and sitting with that discomfort instead of running from it.

Another thing I’ve been exploring is the idea of contradictions within ourselves. We want adventure but also security, independence but also connection, freedom but also routine. And instead of forcing a tidy answer, maybe we’re meant to live inside these contradictions—to accept that humans are messy, layered, constantly shifting.

What I love most about digging into these thoughts is that it makes everyday life feel wider, deeper. A walk becomes a meditation. A conversation becomes a mirror. A problem becomes a teacher.

If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s this: philosophy isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about becoming more awake to the world and to yourself. And in a life full of noise, those small awakenings—those tiny sparks of awareness—might be the closest thing we have to clarity.

There’s a special kind of calm that comes after midnight—the world softens, the noise fades, and suddenly your own thoughts become louder than anything around you. That’s usually when I start drifting into these long reflections about life, purpose, and all the tiny moments we overlook during the rush of the day.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how most of us spend life searching for answers, when maybe the real magic lies in asking the right questions. Questions like: Why do we expect stability in a world built on change? Or why do we cling to the familiar even when it no longer fits who we’re becoming? These thoughts hit differently when the world is quiet. They make me see my own routine in a new light—how I react, what I fear, and what I choose to ignore.

One thing I’ve noticed is how drastically perspective shapes everything. A setback at work, a tough conversation, a missed opportunity—they can feel overwhelming in the moment. But if you shift the lens even slightly, these same moments become lessons, catalysts, or reminders to slow down. It’s almost funny how we create half our problems in our own heads.

What keeps grounding me is the idea that meaning isn’t something waiting to be discovered—it’s something we create. Through the people we love, the habits we nurture, the passions we chase, and the small rituals that keep us sane. Even simple things like writing down thoughts, watching the sunrise, or taking a long walk can make life feel a little more intentional.

I don’t claim to have life figured out—not even close. But I’ve learned to enjoy the process of questioning, wondering, and paying attention. There’s something beautiful about being curious, about letting your mind wander freely without needing everything to make sense.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe understanding life isn’t about mastering it, but noticing the tiny moments that quietly shape who we are becoming.

Most people start their mornings with the news or music. I start mine by questioning existence over coffee. Being a philosophy enthusiast doesn’t mean I have answers — it means I’ve learned to be comfortable with never having them.

It started years ago with a single line from Socrates: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” That quote hit me harder than I expected. Since then, philosophy has become less of a subject and more of a lens through which I see the world. Every conversation, every silence, every heartbreak — all of it feels like material for reflection.

I find beauty in contradictions. How can humans crave freedom yet build systems that confine them? Why do we seek truth in a world that thrives on illusion? These aren’t depressing questions — they’re liberating. They remind me that certainty is overrated, and curiosity is sacred.

Philosophy has also changed how I interact with people. When you realize that everyone carries their own version of truth, you stop arguing to win. You start listening to understand. Even a random chat with a cab driver or barista can turn into a deep dive about fate, love, or time.

Of course, not everyone gets it. Friends often joke that I “overthink everything.” They’re not wrong. I’ve debated the morality of killing a mosquito and written a page on why humans fear silence. But that’s the charm of it — finding meaning in what others overlook.

Lately, I’ve been drawn to existentialism — the idea that life has no inherent meaning until we give it one. It’s scary, but it’s also empowering. Because if nothing comes pre-written, then everything is possible.

Maybe philosophy doesn’t solve life’s mysteries — but it helps me live with them gracefully. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

I’ve always been drawn to questions that don’t have answers — the kind that keep you up at night, not because they’re troubling, but because they’re infinite. Philosophy, to me, isn’t about sounding deep or quoting old Greeks. It’s about learning to sit with uncertainty and realizing that not knowing is, sometimes, the most honest state of being.

The world today worships certainty — quick takes, confident opinions, and instant answers. Everyone’s sure of everything. But philosophy taught me that truth often hides in hesitation. It’s in the pause before we respond, the silence before we judge. When Socrates said, “I know that I know nothing,” it wasn’t defeat — it was freedom.

I remember reading Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus for the first time. The idea that life’s absurdity doesn’t have to crush us, but can actually liberate us, felt oddly comforting. We push our boulders every day — jobs, relationships, responsibilities — and maybe meaning isn’t found at the top of the hill, but in the climb itself. That changed how I saw everything.

Sometimes, when I walk home late at night, I catch myself looking up at the sky — endless, quiet, indifferent — and I feel small in the best way possible. It’s humbling to realize that the universe doesn’t owe us meaning; we create it through our choices, our kindness, our curiosity.

Philosophy isn’t just for classrooms or dusty books. It’s in how we forgive someone, how we decide what’s right when no one’s watching, how we make peace with endings. Every ordinary act hides a question: Why do I do this? What matters most? Who am I, really?

The beauty of philosophy is that it doesn’t demand answers — only honesty. It reminds us that the search itself gives life its depth. Maybe that’s the point: to stay curious, to keep asking, to find wonder in the mystery.

Because the moment we think we know everything… we stop truly seeing anything at all.

As a philosophy enthusiast, I’ve always found it fascinating how much peace there is in uncertainty. In a world obsessed with answers—quick, certain, and absolute—there’s something deeply liberating about admitting, “I don’t know.” Philosophy, at its core, isn’t about having all the answers; it’s about asking the right questions and staying curious enough to explore them.

Socrates once said, “The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” That line hit me harder than any self-help quote ever could. Because in that humility lies growth. When we think we know everything, our mind closes. But when we admit ignorance, we make space for new perspectives, deeper thinking, and genuine learning.

Take everyday life for example—when someone challenges your belief, the first instinct is defense. But if you pause and ask, “What if they’re right?”, you suddenly shift from ego to exploration. That’s the heart of philosophy. It’s not about being the smartest in the room; it’s about being the most open-minded.

Philosophy doesn’t just exist in thick books or long debates—it’s in the way you reflect before reacting, question before concluding, and seek meaning beyond what’s visible. Whether it’s ethics, purpose, or the nature of consciousness, philosophy gives us a lens to examine life from angles we usually overlook.

In a noisy digital age where opinions scream louder than truths, maybe what we need isn’t more knowledge, but more thought. To sit in silence and wonder again. To question why we chase success, what happiness really means, and whether progress always equals improvement.

So here’s to not knowing. To staying curious. To thinking deeply, even when no one’s watching. Because sometimes, the most profound answers arrive not when we search for them—but when we learn to live comfortably in the mystery.

Human progress has been one of the greatest narrations of civilisation, which is always seen from a very linear perspective rather than a nuanced and kind og paradoxical process. From the time we invented wheels to the web, from fire to fusion, we have come a long way and our journey is framed as a steady march forward rather than looking at both sides. We think that with every generation life is going to get much better, easier and more englihthing , but is the sense of progress universal and lasting? Or are we simply shifting from the perception, dependent on context and expectations.

Let’s imagine a thought experiment for a moment: a caveman named Gar suddenly landed from 50000 years ago into our modern world. His first reaction would be one of awe. He is seeing skyscrapers all around the city that touch the clouds, flying machines, food that appears at the click of a button, light without fire, everything that he has to work so hard for in this world. To him, the world is like a genie fulfilling all his whims within some time; Gar is experiencing years of human ingenuity compressed into a single overwhelming experience.

But after the wonder wears off, something very interesting happens; he cannot remain in awe forever. He will start to feel irritated and struggle with the modern world’s complexities. He would be confused by the traffic, annoyed by the noise, and frightened by the fast pace of life we have. The comfort of modern living would come with invisible burdens: overstimulation, alienation, pollution, surveillance, and endless rules.

From where he comes, life is governed by the rhythms of nature, whereas our life is glued to screens, clocks, and economic systems that many of us do not know much about. This raises a deep question about progress: is it inherently good or merely a trade-off?

Every advance solves old problems but introduces new ones. Antibiotics conquered deadly infections but gave rise to superbugs. Cars revolutionized travel but caused accidents, congestion, and climate change. The internet connected the world but also fueled disinformation, addiction, and division. We progress by eliminating suffering and swapping one set of challenges for another.

Through Gar’s journey, we see that progress is not a universal ascent; it’s a layered modern adaptation. What feels like progress to one generation might feel like regression to another. Much of what we see as “improvements” are improvements within a particular framework. But outside that framework—outside modern assumptions about speed, convenience, and productivity—those same “advancements” may appear disorienting or even absurd.

And yet, we don’t stop. We build more, consume more, and invent more. The myth of progress has become part of our identity. We measure civilizations by technological achievement, GDP, and life expectancy, often ignoring mental health, social cohesion, or ecological balance. We assume that newer means better and that innovation is always a virtue.
But progress without reflection is a treadmill. It moves forward but never pauses to ask: What exactly are we running towards?

We have rarely stopped to see what progress looks like. It’s not just the technological or physical progress that we should look at, but rather how well we have learned to manage the consequences of our own advancements. Have we built systems that foster human dignity? Have we made life not just longer but more meaningful? Are we happier, more empathetic, and more connected to ourselves and each other? Real growth isn’t just about building better tools—it’s about becoming wise enough to use them in ways that actually make life better.

In the end, progress isn’t a straight road or a finish line. It’s more like a spiral—sometimes we move forward, sometimes sideways, sometimes we loop back. And just like Gar, each of us must keep figuring out what it truly means to live well, not just in a world that’s constantly changing, but in one that’s getting more complex because of the things we call “progress.”

There is a quiet idea sitting at the root of everything we call science. It’s not flashy, and it rarely gets mentioned, but without it, science would fall apart; it’s the Doctrine of uniformity. The belief that the laws of nature stay the same no matter where or when you are.

Give it a thought: gravity works the same way it did millions of years ago. The way light travels, how atoms behave, how the sun rises, and how plants grow are all based on the idea that these patterns don’t change randomly; they remain constant. We use this doctrine everywhere, and without it, none of our discoveries would have ever been made. 

Many of us have not really heard about this, but it’s omnipresent. When astronomers study stars which are billions of light years away, they’re trusting that physics works the same way there as it does here on Earth. When geologists examine rock layers, they assume that the same natural forces, like erosion or tectonic movement, have been shaping the Earth for millions of years. It’s a belief that if it works here, it should be everywhere.

But here is the interesting part: this is not something we can prove, it’s mostly a foundational belief, a philosophical starting point for any research. Scientists trust that the universe follows a set of rules, not because we have absolute proof, but because it’s the only way science can actually function.

This way of thinking really took off during the Enlightenment, when people started moving away from explanations that involved gods or magic. Earlier, people would assume that a volcanic eruption was due to a curse or divine anger, but today we have the means of explaining why it erupts and tracking when it is likely to erupt again. Scientists learned to look at natural patterns and repeatable causes to understand this. For example, Charles Lyell, who studied the formation of rocks, noticed that the slow process of shaping the earth has been at work for ages, even before humans existed. Charles Darwin later took that same idea and applied it to biology. Evolution only makes sense if nature has followed consistent rules over time.

And obviously, people do wonder, what if the laws of physics did change in the past? What if it is different somewhere else? These questions are very fair, and Scientists are constantly looking at the evidence for what might shake these core assumptions we have, but until then, this is what we have. The only thing that truly contradicts the idea of uniformity is our imagination. It gives us the power to learn from the past, understand the present, and imagine the future.

At the end of it, the Doctrine of Uniformity is like the quiet promise behind every successful scientific discovery. It’s never made the headlines, but it is always there, guiding us to victory and holding everything up. Thanks to it, science becomes a global, long-term quest for truth instead of a chaotic mess of guesses and coincidences.