The Fright of Flight
Overcoming the physiology of life
As humans, we are born afraid of only two things- falling and loud noises; an automatic reaction to the perception of a perceived threat. All other fears are conditioned by our environment and culture.
The reason you didn’t wear that traditionally unseemly striped sweater you like so much today, bought those new trendy shoes you’ve seen in Vogue but really only think are voguish because of the mass of people seen wearing them yesterday, or the emotions you opt to deny in exchange for the company of your crowd everyday- all of it, learned and drilled to the core, leaving the same gaping hole we spend the rest of our lives unconsciously trying to fill, in its wake.
I never understood the implications of such a simple concept until years after I was forced to move across the country and integrate into my new junior high, and well after I started the recovery process from the intense heat damage suffered from years of straightening my coiled locks. But I’m beginning to understand, if for no other reason than to be a rebellious cry of individuality in a deeply monotonous world, that the root cause of all these jitters were, and always will be, hidden behind the fear of these two chance occurrences.
It’s astonishing really. From the moment we have life we have a name, a religion, and a nationality intricately bound to us on our journey by no accord of our own, graphed without consent. And from every breath thereafter we spend our lives fighting on behalf of this fictional identity. It doesn’t matter that we might not understand fully what we spill blood over or even why, but only that the task was given to us and that we consent because we’ve never been given anything else.
Now, I’ve come to imagine the loss of such a foundation much like a slit of this fear induced, double-edged sword, unmasking the building blocks of who we’ve come to be; on one end, plunging towards life uncharted and on the other, a complete dissolution of the tranquil nature within dust we once knew so well. But that’s the thing about our life’s course. It is a choice that can only ever be made for ourselves. It can’t be handed down like a castoff garment, or recycled like redundant waste for reusable material. It must be meticulously carved, of our own volition, at our own pace and within the comforts of our own structure. All our fears of doing so, derived from the slip of an ascribed identity and the dissented cries from the original designers against it, are as fabricated as the reality they’re designed to shackle us to.
This uncommon knowledge, common to us all, is the fault behind our dissatisfactions, discontents, and disillusionments in a life that was never even truly ours to defend in the first place. So while we can’t help but be afraid to step away and build something new because of faults beyond our control, we can still make the leap despite them. It’ll take courage and strength that we may not yet have but next time dread prevents you from showing up for any opportunities presented, or divulging from the path that’s been carelessly laid before you, take solace in the fact that these fears are a mirage.
Just as you can come to embody traits that were once completely foreign, trust that what can be learned can also be unlearned. If we’re to get anything of value out of this life, we have to soar- against resistance- the heights that everyone else so dearly fears, the shame and condescension they’ll try and hurl along the way, and ultimately, the very physiology of the skin we’re wrapped in.
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Don’t Waste Your Life
The alarm rang at 9:30 a.m., but Hamza did not move. He stared at the ceiling, scrolling endlessly through his phone. One video became ten. Ten became fifty. Outside his window, the sun had already climbed high, shining brightly over the small town where life was moving forward without him. Hamza was nineteen, full of dreams once—but lately, those dreams felt distant. He used to talk about becoming a civil engineer, about building strong bridges and tall buildings that would carry his name into the future. But now, his days were filled with excuses. “I’ll start tomorrow,” he often said. Tomorrow became next week. Next week became next month. His mother would gently knock on his door. “Beta, the day is going. Do something meaningful.” “I will,” he would reply lazily, never lifting his eyes from the screen. Hamza was not a bad person. He was kind, polite, and intelligent. But he had fallen into the dangerous habit of wasting time. He didn’t realize that time is the only treasure that never returns once spent. One evening, while wandering outside aimlessly, he noticed an old man sitting on a bench near the park. The man was writing in a small notebook, his hands wrinkled but steady. Curious and slightly bored, Hamza sat down beside him. “What are you writing?” Hamza asked. “My memories,” the old man replied with a soft smile. “I am writing about the life I lived.” “Was it a good life?” Hamza asked casually. The old man paused. His eyes grew distant. “Some parts were beautiful. Some parts… I wasted.” Hamza looked at him more closely. “When I was your age,” the old man continued, “I had many opportunities. I wanted to start a business. I wanted to travel. I wanted to learn new skills. But I kept delaying. I kept thinking I had plenty of time.” He closed the notebook slowly. “Now I am seventy-eight. I have time—but not the energy. I have wisdom—but not the years.” The words struck Hamza harder than he expected. “Do you regret it?” Hamza asked quietly. “Yes,” the old man said honestly. “Not because I failed. But because I never truly tried.” That sentence echoed in Hamza’s mind the entire night. Not because I failed. But because I never truly tried. Back in his room, Hamza stared at his ceiling again. But this time, his phone lay silent beside him. He imagined himself at seventy-eight, holding a notebook filled with regrets. The thought frightened him. He began thinking about his father, who worked long hours every day to support the family. About his mother, who prayed for his success. About his younger sister, who looked up to him as a role model. Was he truly living? Or was he just passing time? The next morning, Hamza did something unusual. He woke up at 6 a.m. The sky was still painted in soft shades of pink and orange. For the first time in months, he watched the sunrise. It felt different. He opened his notebook and wrote three simple goals: Study for three hours daily. Exercise for thirty minutes. Learn one new skill every month. They were small goals—but they were a start. The first week was difficult. His mind constantly whispered, “Just relax today. You can start tomorrow.” But he remembered the old man’s regretful eyes. He forced himself to continue. Slowly, discipline replaced laziness. He began preparing for university entrance exams seriously. He reduced his time on social media. He started reading books about successful people—not just their achievements, but their struggles. He learned that greatness is not built in comfort. It is built in effort. Months passed. Hamza didn’t become a genius overnight. He didn’t suddenly turn into a millionaire. But he changed in a deeper way—he respected his time. When friends invited him to waste hours doing nothing, he sometimes joined—but in moderation. He understood that rest is important, but wasting life is dangerous. One afternoon, he visited the park again. The old man was there, writing as usual. “You look different,” the old man observed with a smile. “I stopped waiting for tomorrow,” Hamza replied. The old man nodded slowly. “That is the secret. Tomorrow is a promise that is never guaranteed.” Hamza sat beside him and shared his new routine, his goals, and his small victories. The old man listened proudly. “Remember,” the old man said, “life is not about being busy every second. It is about being purposeful. Even a small step each day can change your entire future.” Years later, Hamza stood on a construction site, wearing a white helmet with his company’s logo printed on it. He had completed his engineering degree. It wasn’t easy. There were failures, sleepless nights, and moments of doubt. But he never returned to the habit of wasting time carelessly. He often told his team, “Time is like water in your hands. If you don’t use it wisely, it slips away.” One evening, after finishing work, Hamza visited the same park bench. The old man was no longer there. A local vendor told him softly, “He passed away last winter.” Hamza felt a wave of sadness—but also gratitude. He sat on the bench and opened his own notebook. He began writing: “Today I completed another project. I helped build something that will stand for decades. I am tired—but proud.” He smiled gently. He understood something powerful: Life is not wasted in one big mistake. It is wasted in small daily neglect. In endless scrolling. In constant delay. In fear of trying. And life is built the same way—through small daily efforts. Through discipline. Through courage to start. As the sun began to set, painting the sky golden, Hamza whispered to himself: “Don’t waste your life. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to begin.” The wind moved softly through the trees, as if agreeing. Every sunrise is a silent gift. It arrives without asking for anything in return. But it also carries a quiet question: What will you do with today? Hamza finally knew the answer. He would not waste it.
By The best writer 4 days ago in Motivation
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