Flashes in the Internet Sky: A Retrospective at 200 Posts

Marking 200 posts, I reflect on writing, mortality, retirement, and the quiet joy of inquiry in a world overflowing with words.

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect — Anaïs Nin

Arun Kumar

Summary: A contemplative reflection marking 200 posts, this essay explores writing as a practice of presence, adaptation, and inquiry. From evolution and mortality to retirement and pickleball, it traces a journey of thought shaped by time affluence, existential curiosity to keep asking deeper questions.

My first post on Medium was published on August 1, 2021, titled “I have something to say, would you be interested?” It emerged from a quiet contemplation: in an age of the internet and practically infinite content, how does one’s voice find its place? The web’s explosive growth has created a vast, ever-expanding universe of words — so wide that being found within it feels like a cosmically improbable event.

In that post, I questioned whether originality was still a prerequisite for resonance. Must every idea be new to matter? Or can recycled concepts, reframed, still strike a chord? I suggested that a blog post, like a supernova, does not need to be groundbreaking to illuminate. Its value lies in the moment it “flashes” into someone’s field of view — when its words, however familiar, feel freshly lit against the backdrop of their attention.

I concluded with a line that became my manifesto: “If the words [you write and post] flash through the right part of the internet sky that I look at, I am interested in what you have to say.” That sentence gave me permission not to be exceptional, but simply to write and offer my thoughts. And that was enough to begin. Since then, the journey has continued.

And today, on September 3rd, I mark my 200th post.

I am quite proud of having stayed the course — committed to posting at least once a week, with each article scheduled for Saturday at 10 a.m. Writing has become a steady companion, a definitive part of my portfolio of activities. It is self-sustaining, requiring no coordination with others, and as long as my cognitive faculties remain intact, it is something I can continue indefinitely (though, of course, there is the ultimate limit set by mortality).

Writing also serves as a kind of existential pivot. If physical pursuits like pickleball were ever to fall away due to injury or age, writing would remain — a durable backup, and perhaps even a primary engagement. It has given purpose and meaning to reading and deepened my commitment to continued learning.

Over the past year, the emergence of AI tools like ChatGPT and Copilot has made the learning process more fluid and accessible. They have become collaborators of sorts — sparring partners, sounding boards, and accelerants to thought.

Across these two hundred posts, a distinct cluster of themes has emerged, each orbiting the central questions of change, meaning, and the human condition. Evolution and the inevitability of biological emergence — natural selection, adaptation, and the architecture of the senses — have been recurring subjects, explored through the lenses of biology, psychology, and perception. Journaling has served as both method and mirror, capturing reflections on mortality, existential inquiry, and the transition into retirement. Philosophy threads through it all. sometimes solemn, sometimes playful. probing the contours of selfhood, time, and truth. Politics appears occasionally, reflecting what is currently going on. And humor, ever present, provides levity — a reminder that even amid meditative musings, the absurdity of life deserves its own space. Together, these themes trace a journey of change, aging, and the quiet passage of time.

At this stage of life, certain aspects of writing have become easier. I no longer feel tethered to metrics — likes, shares, or the need for fleeting validation. That said, I will admit: every now and then, a cue triggers a rush of dopamine, nudging me to check the stats. But that is okay. It is a gentle reminder that I am still human, still responsive to connection.

Being closer to mortality has also deepened my contemplative musing. Questions of existence, meaning, and impermanence arise more frequently now, offering fertile ground for exploration and meditative flight. Writing has become not just practice, but a way of channeling these reflections into a quiet dialogue with my finitude.

On the personal front, a significant transition unfolded between my 100th and 200th post: I retired. The preparation and intentional thinking that went into building a portfolio of engagements to ease that shift paid off. Retirement, often feared for its potential to become void, has instead offered a time affluence, a spaciousness I have put to effective use. It has not become the monster it could have been.

We also moved from Maryland to the South, into a 55+ community, and we were pleased with the choice. The environment suits us, and the rhythms of daily life feel more attuned. Pickleball has become a joyful pursuit, and I have grown quite good at it. In parallel, I have also begun posting some articles on LinkedIn, extending my reflections into new spaces and audiences.

In the years ahead, as I march toward my 300th post, the journey into meditative inquiry will persist. I will continue to find myself drawn to pondering our existence against the vastness of a universe perhaps absent of intrinsic meaning — tracing the cosmic journey woven from glowing stars and swirling galaxies, down through the improbable rise of self-replicating molecules and onward to the unfolding of life’s evolutionary path that brought forth you and me. My thoughts will meander through social norms, wondering how progress alters the very landscape in which natural selection operates — particularly when we seem to have broken through its guardrails. But perhaps it is a process that never truly ends, only the players in the arena of war of evolution change.

As I look to the future, I will continue to contemplate the trajectories humanity might follow if current patterns endure — all while quietly observing and building stories about everyday moments and reflecting on lessons gathered from the pickleball court.

As one grows older and mortality draws nearer, certain questions acquire a sharper urgency. Chief among them is the quiet reckoning with the fact that one day, there will be no “me” left to know that there ever was a “me.” The legacy I might leave behind, subject to exponential decay, is no consolation to the self who will not be around to witness it.

But before I drift too far into the maudlin, let me pause here. I look forward to being here again — with my 300th post.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Returning the Loan

Across the street—
on the wrap-around porch—
a rocking chair sways gently—
holding the outline
of someone
who chose to return
the borrowed atoms.

 

Do not Confuse Meaninglessness with Emptiness: A Message for Mort (and to the rest of us)

Even in a meaningless universe, life need not be empty. We can shape purpose through presence, connection, and courageous action.

Meaninglessness is not only a void; it is also a blank canvas.

Arun Kumar

Summary: Reflecting on a brief scene in Rifkin’s Festival, this essay explores mortality, meaninglessness, and the human capacity to fill the void that existence can bring. It contemplates the indifferent nature of the universe while asserting our power to create fulfilling lives through conscious action, despite life’s impermanence and the absence of cosmic design.

Today, I revisited an old post of mine — Serendipitous Moments, written on August 12, 2023. It centered on a quiet exchange between Mort, the protagonist in Woody Allen’s Rifkin’s Festival, and Death. It was not a climactic moment in the film. In fact, it was fleeting and easily overlooked. Yet the scene stayed with me a long time after the credits had faded.

In a dreamlike conversation, Mort sits across from Death — not trembling, not pleading, but simply listening. And Death, in his cold candor, offers something neither threatening nor profound. Just true. “If we do not come to terms with mortality,” Death says, “then you’ll never be able to relax and enjoy your life.” And then, with a gentler breath: “Even though meaningless, life does not have to be empty. You are a human being. You can make it full.”

Those words had struck a chord — not as a blinding epiphany, but as a truth I had long sensed without ever fully letting in. Over time, that quiet insight has taken root: There is no inherent meaning. Not in the stars that circle above us. Not in the birth and death of galaxies. Not even in the first breath of a newborn.

Meaning does not reside out there, scattered across the cosmos. The universe does not whisper secrets or speak in stories. The universe merely spins — cold, indifferent, radiant. And life, too, follows a similar lead.

At its foundation, life is chemistry: a long unfolding chain of molecular accidents, sparked by the collision of atoms, all governed by blind and impartial laws. Self-replicating molecules emerged not by intention, but through the probabilistic stirrings of energy and matter on a volatile, infant Earth. Life was not a miracle. It was an inevitable corollary of the way nature behaves.

Wherever biology takes root, natural selection follows. Resources are finite. Randomness is ubiquitous. In this crucible, traits that enhance replication survive. And slowly over time, with survival comes complexity.

And so, here we are — descendants of molecular ambition, playing in the sandbox of increasing entropy and an energy constraint environment.

Somewhere along this evolutionary journey, consciousness emerged. Perhaps not as we now know it — with our art, our abstractions, our ache for the eternal — but in its earliest glimmer: the faintest awareness of what happened before and the notion of after, and a whisper of the awareness of self.

We are, in the end, the outcome of a process that had no teleological goal in mind, meaning it was not directed towards any specific purpose or end. But through chance occurrences within the guardrails of physical laws, we inherited a mind that now looks around and asks, “Why?”

But there is no why.

This truth demands courage to come to terms with it. Because if the universe has no grand tale to tell, then we are not actors in a cosmic drama. We are momentary configurations of matter — assembled briefly into the shape of a life. We are born. We blink. We question. We love. We despair. We laugh. We vanish.

What meaning could endure in such a system? Any meaning we create dissolves with us.

And still, we must walk on. That is the paradox and absurdity of our finite existence.

But absurdity is not a curse. It is a gift — an invitation to create. If the universe offers no meaning, we are free to make one. Meaninglessness is not only a void, but also a blank canvas. We can choose cynicism, the cool indifference of being a nihilist. If that gives shape to your days, if it helps you rise in the morning, so be it.

But if it does not — there are other ways. We can choose the option of creating a meaning.

To choose meaning is to act. Meaning is not merely an idea to contemplate. It is something for us to construct. It is not born of thought alone, but of action. It takes shape in our habits, our gestures, our commitments. To live with meaning and purpose is to breathe life into abstraction, and make an idea come to life and tangible.

Without action, meaning remains hypothetical, unmoored from the very life it aims to illuminate.

Yet even as we build, we must remember that the meaning we create is not permanent. It must evolve, and at times, be rebuilt. Our values shift, our understanding deepens, and life unfolds along unpredictable arcs. What once moved us may no longer sustain us. Meaning must remain flexible and open to change, ready to deal with uncertainty, and responsive to our own doubts.

So yes, the universe is, on the whole, meaningless. But within the brevity of our lives, we can still create songs with lasting value.

And that’s where Mort’s exchange with Death endures: “Don’t confuse meaningless (of the universe) with (life being) empty.” They are not the same.

Cosmic meaninglessness is a description of the universe. It is a statement of fact. Emptiness within our finite existence, however, is a condition (and a choice) of how we live. We err when we assume that because the first is true, the second must follow. But it does not have to. A full life can unfold in small, incandescent sparks: the aroma of coffee; sip of a good wine; the warmth of a well-cooked meal; the promise of a journey yet to happen.

A life of presence, connectedness, curiosity, which is a life made full. Its reverberations may not echo across centuries, but it will matter very much to the ones who lived it. And that is enough.

We are here to make the most of the cards we have been dealt. We are free to play them however we choose. There is no need to confuse meaningless (of the universe) with (life being) empty.

And so, there may be no universal meaning to our existence. But that does not mean life must be burdened by its weight. It does not mean smile to be absent from our days. It does not mean some floating Dementor waits to devour the joy.

No. It means that life is ours to shape. To fill. To live.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Primordial Questions

Purpose and meaning—
meaning and purpose—
which came first,
which after?

Birth and death—
death and birth—
which came first,
which after?

Consciousness and Reality—
Reality and Consciousness—
which came first,
which after?

Would the universe—
ever tell?
Or is silence
its only answer?