The memories of home are vivid—yet somehow distant. It’s a strange paradox: I can recall every detail if I choose, but I often find myself blurring them, bending them out of proportion and perspective. Maybe it’s self-preservation. Maybe it’s just time.
Let’s be honest—only a rare few are gifted with a childhood filled entirely with warmth, stability, and growth. Most of us carry a mix. Some grew up with a careful balance of good and bad. Others, with more light than shadow. And some—more shadow than light.
But in the end, it’s always about proportions. Proportions that shape who we become.
Funny Word, Serious Weight: Proportions
LEVEL 28
Talking in gaming terms: I am currently on level 28, and the difficulty level is increasing, with some days when the proportions are completely out of control. However, with the rising level, one tends to become experienced in allocating the proper points they have earned—or, I must say, they become wise enough to do what’s right for them.
A Console, A Moment
A memory from my childhood surfaced today—one that’s both comforting and a little distant. I remember the day my dad brought home the SEGA Genesis console. The black model, with two matching controllers. The games came in cassette form—Contra, Duck Hunt, Mario, Sonic—names most people would recognize. But for me, the one that stands out is WWF WrestleMania: The Arcade Game.
Not because it was my favorite game, but because it reminds me of the time I spent with my older brother. We didn’t get to play together much, but I remember watching him as he played, quietly cheering him on. At one point, only one controller worked, and I’d fight him for my turn. It was silly. But now, those moments feel like gold—fading gently as time, distance, and life have pulled us into separate worlds.
Two emotions stay with me when I think of that part of my life. One is the image of that SEGA Genesis—resting on the ground or maybe a small tabletop, plugged into a little TV. The green wall behind it showed signs of dampness. The picture isn’t sharp, but the feeling is.
The Cost of Joy
Second is the one which hits hardest now. My father bought it for us—not because he had extra money, but because he chose to make room for our joy by cutting into his own needs. It’s never easy running a household on a single income. It takes sacrifice—more than I understood back then. Where my father came from and what is his past… that’s a story for another time.
Now, years later, I’ve bought myself a PS5. It feels good. But more than that, I finally understand the weight behind giving—and the quiet strength it takes to bring something home for someone else.
In the end, it always comes down to PROPORTIONS.
“If you don’t know who you are, the world will tell you.”
Life in Pieces
The people around us live their lives in quiet calculations—giving, saving, and stretching themselves in small, intentional ways. My father, or perhaps yours, set aside little by little to bring home that gaming console. For some, it might’ve been a beautiful dress or a cherished doll. Whatever it was, it came from a piece of their own life they silently chose not to spend on themselves.
And if your father wasn’t the one there—look closer. Maybe it was your mother, holding it all together with quiet strength.
She’d always give you the bigger share of her favorite dessert, the last bite of something she loved, without a second thought. That was her way of offering you more than just food—it was care, measured out in generous proportions.
And it doesn’t stop there. Your workplace asks for a slice of your mind. Your partner, a share of your heart and body. Your friends, a little of everything. Life, it seems, is always dividing you into pieces.
But with so many calls on our time and energy, who decides what stays whole?
Do you know your pieces? Do I know mine?
Because maybe, if we don’t, we’ll always end up being shaped by the expectations of those around us—family, friends, bosses, managers, and everyone in between.
Only we can decide how to live our lives. And unless we know which parts of ourselves, we truly own, we’ll keep bending to fit into spaces never meant for us.
Reclaiming the Ratios
Maybe proportion isn’t just about how we give to others—it’s also about how we withhold, how we ration ourselves unknowingly. We pour patience into colleagues, attention into screens, silence into pain, and love—sometimes sparingly—into the people who matter most. We tell ourselves we’re out of time, out of energy, out of space. But are we really? Or are we just misplacing the pieces?
What if the reason we feel drained isn’t because we’re giving too much… but because we’re giving in the wrong proportions?
And if that’s true—what exactly have we been saving the best parts of ourselves for?
"I Solemly Swear that I am upto no good" 
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