The Weight of Leisure

Retirement brings time affluence, but it also brings a vivid view of the horizon. How do we learn to live purely for now?

If time is running out, how can you justify spending the remaining currency on something that leaves absolutely no footprint behind?

Arun Kumar

How do we bring ourselves to engage in an activity fully for its own sake when confronted by an enhanced awareness of mortality? For me, this question began as a shimmering, smoky pattern — an ambient background noise that only slowly took shape after the structure of retirement set in.

In the workforce, time was an external currency. It was budgeted, traded, and justified by outcomes — a paycheck, a project completed, an objective achieved. Over decades, I was conditioned to live a strictly goal-directed existence, where the value of the present moment was always borrowed from the future milestone it served. Then, the career ended. The calendar cleared. I entered a state of time affluence, handed a blank check of hours to spend exactly as I please.

It should have been a dream come true.

But this sudden abundance arrived with a dark companion: a heightened view of the horizon, and a stark awareness of the limited time that remains.

And here is where a paradox of retirement bites: a sudden affluence of time, vast enough to support any pursuit, colliding with the narrowing corridor of a finite life. I am finally free to choose activities entirely for their own sake, yet the gravity of finitude raises awkward questions when I engage in them.

How do I summon the devotion to play, to create, to simply be — while knowing the act is entirely self-contained? How do I throw myself fully into an activity when the effort is not for a monument, but a moment? How do we justify the expenditure of energy when it is not preserved in a repository of achievements, carved into a legacy, or used to build a bridge to some future destination?

You would think that knowing time is limited would make us savor the pure, unadulterated “now” — to paint, to read, to play, to walk, purely for the joy of it. Instead, the awareness of mortality twists the autelic activities into unsettling questions that arrive unbidden, crashing into the very middle of doing. A persistent whisper demands to know the ultimate point of an arbitrary pursuit. If time is running out, how can I justify spending its remaining currency on something that will leave no footprint behind?

For now, I do not have answers. I know this interior monologue will go on. It will often feel tedious, spinning in exhausting circles without offering the grace of immediate closure or a neat solution.

But there is also a quiet necessity in keeping this introspection alive. By refusing to look away from the friction, I hope to slowly inch closer to a deeper grounding — a way to inhabit activities purely for the sake of the doing, and perhaps, lengthen the beautiful, tranquil spaces between the echoes of autelic anxiety.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Acceptance: Finding Joy in a Universe That Says “You Just Are”

When the hunger for a "Why" meets a silent universe, the answer isn't more searching—it's the courage to embrace life as it actually is.

It is startling to realize that I am essentially searching for a signal in a world that is an end product of noise.

Arun Kumar

 

The Beginning

A part of me is defined by a singular, persistent ache: the hunger for understanding the “Why” of my existence while living in a universe that only offers “You Just Are.” My efforts to reconcile these two opposites—the seeking of a reason and the indifference of reality—act as a perpetual fuel for introspection. Their tension is an invitation to the sense of the Absurd. It is startling to realize that I am essentially searching for a signal in a world that is an end product of noise.

The Quiet Air

The feeling of absurdity is not a constant weight on my shoulder, however; rather, it is as variable and unpredictable as the weather. There are days when the air is quiet, and so is the feeling of the Absurd. On days like those, I move through my routines with a sense of ease. The “Why” of existence stays at bay. The joy of doing has an unquestioned and unexamined presence; it requires no justification. While watching a movie, I do not question whether I should be doing something “more meaningful” instead. I do not risk losing the pleasure of the moment to the shadows of doubt.

The Storm

But then, without warning, the wind shifts. The winds of the Absurd begin to howl. They are not unlike the Santa Ana of California, dry and searing, or the Viento del Sur as it crests the Cantabrian Mountains of Spain, tumbling down the slopes with a pressure that agitates the soul. When these winds blow full force, they strip away the veneer of my unquestioned engagement with daily routine. Quite suddenly, everything becomes a question; everything needs to be turned over and examined. And with that, the sense of coherence bids adieu.

The Danger of Exposure

If I leave myself exposed to these winds for too long, the consequences are more than just philosophical dabbling into existence and its meaning; they become visceral. Prolonged exposure to the Absurd manifests as disengagement and a sense of lethargy. If nothing matters on a cosmic scale, the simple act of cleaning the kitchen sink or bringing oneself to answer an email begins to feel like moving through molasses. Without a protective framework against the Absurd, the sense of motivation withers.

I Am Not Alone

Cinema has long attempted to capture this internal landscape. A striking cinematic portrait of this struggle is found in The Bridge on the River Kwai. The protagonist, Colonel Nicholson, is a man who refuses to inhabit a world that “Just Is.” Held in the senseless vacuum of a prisoner-of-war camp, he seeks shelter from the winds of absurdity by anchoring himself to a singular purpose: the construction of a magnificent bridge.

To Nicholson, the bridge is more than wood and stone; it is his “Why.” It represents discipline, craftsmanship, and a defiant order against the chaos of the jungle. He becomes so insulated within this constructed meaning that he loses sight of the broader reality—that he is building a vital instrument for his enemy. The climax arrives when the “glass house” of his obsession finally shatters. In a moment of jarring clarity, he surveys the destruction and realizes the utter senselessness of his labor. His final words—“Madness... madness!”—serve as a haunting realization of the Absurd. He recognizes, too late, that his signal of “meaning” was merely another piece in the noise of war.

Seeking Shelter

For millennia, religion has served as our primary storm cellar. It offers a sturdy roof of continuity, promising that our narrative does not end at the grave and imbuing our moral choices with eternal weight. That shelter, however, does not work for everyone or for me.

Are there other ways? Perhaps. One of them is the path of radical acceptance: the suggestion that if my life does not have a pre-ordained meaning or purpose, that is okay.

The Acceptance

If I stop the quest for answers to my “Why,” the struggle ends. The winds subside. To conceptualize this, consider the game of table tennis that I play. There is no cosmic significance to a plastic ball moving across a net. Yet, in the rhythmic click-clack, the focus of the eye, and the kinetic joy of the movement, the search for the “Why” of me becomes irrelevant for a few hours.

If I can internalize this on a larger scale, the harsh winds of the Absurd will lose their bite. In that acceptance, I can find a quiet, resilient serenity. The goal is to move toward an acceptance that becomes part of my marrow. From that vantage point, the existential gusts are no longer a threat; I may occasionally sway, but I will remain anchored. And so, I can pray:

Universe, grant me the serenity to accept the state of my absurdity that I cannot change, courage to find joy in the mundane, and wisdom to know the difference.

I live in the hope that the acceptance of “You Just Are” will keep the harsh winds of absurdity at bay.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

The Old Age

A time for fewer
and softer
footsteps.

 

The Microclimates of the Concourse

A flight delay is more than an inconvenience; it’s a rare intersection of worldlines and a window into the raw, unpolished human condition.

 

We are ghosts to one another, just passing through without leaving shadows behind.

Arun Kumar

A delayed flight is usually dismissed as a modern inconvenience; it is a rift in the schedule that most attempt to bridge with a mixture of frustration and mindless activities. Yet, it also offers a unique vantage point from which to peer into the human condition.

I find myself currently anchored in an airport concourse, engaged in the art of people-watching. It is a perhaps more rewarding pursuit than bird-watching; humans are far more unpredictable, layered, and endlessly complex.

The Digital Posture

The defining characteristic of the airport crowd is a specific physical posture: nearly 90% of heads are bent in a singular, uniform arc, eyes fixed upon the glow of an electronic device. Of these, at least 80% are tethered to smartphones—those pocket-sized portals that simultaneously connect us to the world while isolating us from our immediate surroundings.

A few outliers still cling to the tactile sensation of a physical book. Others are hunched over laptops, extending their working hours into the liminal space of the terminal, perhaps striving to gain an edge in the rat race. For them, the airport is no longer a place of transition, but an auxiliary office where the pressure to produce never wanes.

The Physics of Chance

There is an unappreciated physics to this gathering. The "worldline" of every individual in this concourse has intersected at this precise coordinate of time and space through sheer, staggering chance. Mathematically, the probability of our collective presence is incomprehensibly low.

Each person here carries a lineage of decisions and accidents that led them to this specific gate at this specific hour. Yet, despite this mathematical rarity, these intersections are mostly inconsequential. Our being here together will not alter the trajectory of our lives. We are ghosts to one another, passing through without leaving shadows behind.

The Human Element

But once in a while, something more than ordinary catches the eye. Days from now, when the annoyance of the delay has faded, I suspect two specific images will remain with me.

The first is the sound of raw human grief. A woman is crying nearby. Hers is not the quiet, polite sobbing of a private sorrow, but a visceral wailing. She repeats, over and over, that her mother has passed away. Perhaps she was racing to say goodbye, but the universe had other plans. Her piercing cries serve as a jarring reminder of the fragility of our plans and the impermanence of life.

The second image is more observational than emotional: the rise of the modern uniform. Women of all ages, shapes, and sizes move through the concourse in stretchy, high-waisted, and seemingly comfortable leggings. If there were a designated "uniform" for the 2020s, this would surely be it. Just as the bent head over a smartphone defines the posture of the era, these leggings define the visual landscape; a shift in the aesthetic that many, I suspect, find quite pleasing.

The Microcosm

As I wait for my flight to finally be called, I realize the airport is a microcosm of the broader human experience. It is a place of technological obsession, a professional workspace, a shifting fashion gallery, a theater for tragedy and boredom, and a place for dining and shopping.

These are the memories and impressions I will take with me when I finally leave the concourse and continue along my own worldline.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.