Perhaps the synonym of life is uncertainty.

That does not seem like too much of a problem. Like a child, forever ingrained within us, we crawl, we walk, we run, we jump, and often in the process of learning and unlearning these things, we realize that falling is not conditional. It is as if certain that the uncertain failure stands right beside us while we try to grasp something near us.

I like to think that there is a pretty thin line between who we stand as and life right against us.

Perhaps, it acts as a balm when we try to dig a tunnel back to the past, looking at stoic philosophers that rather taught the meaning of life as simply ignoring everything that tries to bring us down. That is the key to happiness, to hurt yourself enough and to proceed still to try and find a deeper meaning in life. To look at yourself in the mirror and like every aspect of who you are. I don't, by any means, want to say that it never works. Everyone is a being of their own. Every aspect of life falls in line or stays scattered like an unblended rack of ingredients of unbaked ideas and situations.

But there is no such philosopher that can define the structure of loss in a definite set of words. Words: perhaps the most powerful mode of understanding each other, including the inner-self.

If I were to make a handful of people of all ages, sit in a room separately and make them write down what life means to them, what do they tackle out of it, their amalgamation of life and imaginations as well as experiences would be able to form simply a co-existence of everything that has happened to them individually. The reality for every moral being is churned out of their experiences, expectations and beyond the comprehensible power of utter imaginations that draw out our rawest emotions and questions about existence.

Two people experiencing the same life may obviously have different outcomes and different opinions. One may be stronger than the other. And I am trying to touch on this: the perception of the mind flies wild in all directions. Anything can happen.

Hence, I am writing this to try and not know, but understand that what am I? And what is it that I am supposed to do in this gruesome yet young, powerful life?

Perhaps the worst-case scenario in my life is right around the corner and I am unaware of it. My dreams, and ambitions to be able to write professionally, and to tell stories that deeply disturb me yet manage to help me find solace, may simply come crumbling down from this higher state of living life just as simple as any average human being.

I often sit and wonder, What kind of freedom am I looking for? I live a happy, simple life, too quiet and too noisy at times, with an elder brother and an older father. Both of them, striking images of each other, not the biologically physical but the biological traits, the genes, too particularly similar to each other. But there is a difference. My father, older, and an elevated sense of wiseness tends to oppose anything that seems wrong in my brother's life. He often tells me when we are alone that he was like this, that when he was young, he did not care about anything and tried to live the way things were going and made sure to live today. But he ignored the everyday world that spun around him quite often. He did only occasionally realize his mistakes and now, how late in life when he sees himself in his elder son, he tends to stop him from doing such things.

Obviously, similars often clash more than opposites. There is too much love and respect but also too much repulsion in their relationship. My brother IS his father's son. So in that line, there are always arguments, and misunderstandings, that brew out the deeper questions about their lives and existence. But I cannot help but let my mind flitter like a fly from one place to the other, and wonder: does my father try to save and stop my brother or himself?

Imagine this: If right at this moment, you were chained down by someone and were forced to watch your entire life unfold once again, like a reeling film playing in front of you, you would not be able to sit back and watch relaxed. There will be some movement in your body, a physical reaction of eyes or lips or even hands. The anxiety of living life once again, especially the moments that have either already been conquered or already lost and moved away from.

And so, my father is often forced to look at his mistakes perhaps, and not looking is not even an option because there can be a grave chance, his fear, that his son will turn out exactly like him. Yet, neither he nor my brother is people whom we would see bothered and terrorized by the uncertain and violent unknown of their existence as an entirety.

I, within this dizziness, live with myself. Yet, throughout this uncertain certainty of my family, I feel unrest. I am not bound by anything. Yet I crave some kind of freedom perhaps that is unknown to me or anyone.

I look at the world, and then when I try to look beyond my inner-self, there is a hole, an emptiness devoid of light. While the whole world outside seems bigger than everything, there is something that holds me right at my jugular. There is no necessary torment. If I had to sit down and articulate and animate it for anyone, it feels like a bolt of thunder, something like a crack. And over the years, I realized that it is Fear, at its peak and most powerful form. The correct word here will be the anxiety of existence. Or something like that.

Now I cannot sit down and jot down all the reasons and sources of where it comes from. But I prefer to find out what exactly I am afraid of. I am afraid of the thick white mist that hovers over the river like a floating ghost. I am afraid of the wild cold that blazes through the highest of mountains that rover the planet. I am scared of every kind of human being that manage to scavenge through their lives and turn out to be barbaric, savage life-suckers that pummel through others' emotions and beings. I am scared of the vastness, the nothingness and the everythingness. By the too much of it all.

I find myself consumed, even in this given moment while penning this down, by certain grief of a magnetic pull towards the world, and the daring craving to keep me inside and not explore and understand life. I, like all, like none, crave to not die in vain. I do not necessarily want to set on a journey looking for the meaning of life. But can't it be a compulsion for the mind to hover around the world in order to find peace? Perhaps, it is a different place, perhaps it is in a different time. Perhaps it is someone that does not reside by me. But again, all of this, that is not here, gives me the angst to never go out.