Writeia

I remember it clearly — most of this happened more than a decade ago. Something in me snapped. I’ve never been the same since. I can think of many events from my life to begin this story with, but I’d like to go back to when I was 13. That was when I stole a digital camera. My friend — let’s call him Parbat — and I were strolling around our school compound when we spotted a digital camera on a bench. Without thinking much, we sat beside it and pocketed the shiny red object. It didn’t belong to us, but we sold it for 4,000 rupees. The next day during the school assembly, we found out who it belonged to. Nothing to do now — half the money was already spent. We decided to keep silent and spend the rest. From then on, two 13-year-olds were on the path to a business journey. We dealt in electronics: MP3s, cameras, PSPs, iPods — the whole lot. An odd deal here, a pen drive there — we were set. We made around 1,000 rupees on most deals. Unknowingly, we were disrupting the market for ano...

They’ve guided me for most of my life. I’ve always known how they feel about my shortcomings. At times, I feel completely lost in this business of living. What decisions are we supposed to make, the ones that shape the rest of our lives? I find myself wondering—alone in the night. I wish there had been a blueprint. It would have made things easier. Advice comes my way constantly—about my current state, my future—but it often feels more like a confession than a suggestion. Aren’t we all truly unique? I’ve been a traveler, guided by the day, by the necessity of the moment. The only place I get to wander—trackless, aimless—is here, on the page. Writing opens a door to a land that is mine alone. I fantasize about stories—most of them go unwritten. Daydreaming has always been one of my favorite hobbies. Sometimes, though, it turns into stress. I feel a sudden passion to write, to create, but that energy often has to be diverted to something else—something already committed to. It wreaks hav...

I don’t even know how many of my friends have gone abroad by now—I’ve lost count. I hear from them now and then, and I know what they say life is like over there. They work hard, day and night, often clocking 12-hour shifts. Yet, almost none of them work more than 40 hours a week officially. To work beyond that is considered excessive—almost criminal. It's tough, yes, but that’s the deal. Meanwhile, here I am at home, living a so-called normal life. My job runs from 10 AM to 6 PM, six days a week. That’s 8 hours a day, 6 days a week—48 hours total . That’s the standard for most average Nepalis. Let’s break down the rest of my week: My Weekly Time Breakdown: Activity Hours per Day Days per Week Total Hours/Week Work 8 6 48 Sleep 7 7 49 Eating 2 7 14 Travel (Commute) 1 7 7 Preparation (Bathing, getting ready) 1.5 7 10.5 Total Used 128.5 Total Available 168 Remaining Time 39.5 hours That means I’m left with 39.5 hours per week , or around 5.6 hours per day , for everything else:...

Who are my true friends?  I’ve been asking myself this for a while now—especially whenever my folks start nagging. Somehow, the conversation always circles back to how many friends I have and how I spend time with all of them, here and there. I used to think that having many friends meant being loved by many. But that’s not how it works, apparently. There’s one friend I’ve known for over a decade—someone I considered close. Yet just today, I realized how little we truly know each other. I thought we were the kind of friends who showed up in joy and in sorrow. But we never really had that. What we had was convenience—tolerance dressed as intimacy. We were just... around for each other. That realization hit me hard last night. Some things, no matter how much heart you put into them, reveal their hollowness under close inspection. Even if both sides tried, if it never resonated beyond convenience, it remains just that—a temporary comfort. Like the furniture in a convenience store: yo...

  Am I a Name? Am I a name? Or am I a writer who believes he just hasn’t had enough time to write, or enough people to appreciate the work? Am I the emotional one who seeks comfort, who searches for love? Or am I the one who offers it? Am I the name that was given to me— Akash ? Or am I the person you call a friend, a son, a brother? If knowing me means knowing my behaviors, my thoughts, my actions—then maybe I am the sum total of what I’ve done, what I am doing. But is that all? Am I simply what has happened to me, or is happening? When I think— truly think—about this, I realize, certainly,  I am a body and a mind. Does what I ate yesterday, or what I did a moment ago, define who I am now? If so, then who I am must be shaped by thoughts and actions—summarized, added to, subtracted from, divided into—the totality of my experiences. All the information I’ve absorbed until this point has become thought patterns and behaviors I now mimic. I often believe my ideas are or...

I started reading The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest yesterday, and the opening really pulled me in. It’s simple enough to follow, but the first insight about self-sabotage hit hard. I had to stop reading and sit with it for a while. I found myself thinking about all the ways I’ve held myself back. There’s still a lot I don’t fully understand, but late last night, I tried to dig deeper—to look inward and face the fears that keep me stuck. One thing that came up was my fear of failure, especially when it comes to finding something meaningful to do with my life. That fear goes back to childhood. I grew up being told to avoid becoming someone who “fails”—but what does failure even mean if you're happy with what you have? I realized that fear of failing is what stopped me from trying new things, and even when I did try, the fear would creep in so quickly that I’d abandon what I’d started. I still have more to unpack, but I’m grateful to Brianna for putting things in such a clear way...