
I’ve always believed that some people ride bikes, and some become them. I’m the latter. I’m not the kind of guy who hops on a weekend ride in overpriced gear just to post a few Instagram reels. I’m the one eating asphalt for breakfast, pushing limits, burning through cities like they were pit stops in a long, stubborn dream.

Over the past year, I toured more than 10,000 kilometers. Not some curated, pre-planned kind of ride—this was raw. Fog-choked mornings in the hills, late-night downpours on slippery highways, the relentless sun baking my jacket as I sliced through empty stretches. I’ve seen oceans crash against the land and mist curl around peaks like smoke from an old memory. I’ve taken wrong turns into forests and ended up in silence so deep, it felt holy.

One time, I planned a trek just to see a sunrise. Slept through the alarm. Most people would’ve let it go. Not me. I jumped on my bike, flicked the traction control off, and just went straight up the damn hill—rocks, mud, gravity all against me. Didn’t matter. My bike and I, we don’t wait for paths. We make our own.

I’ve screamed into my helmet during road rages, cried silently after heartbreaks, and laughed like a maniac as the wind hit me at 120 kmph. My bike has heard the most honest versions of me—moments no one else ever will.

My last big ride was to Kanyakumari—India’s final point. The end of NH44. I stood at the edge of that highway with the sea touching three sides of the land. It felt symbolic. The road literally ran out. I just stood there, sweaty, sore, sunburnt… but whole. That moment? It felt like closure to something I didn’t even know needed ending.

Then came the accident.

I was back in Hyderabad after wrapping things up in Bangalore. A childhood friend was getting married—at 24. I called it a child marriage, jokingly. I mean, who the hell gets married at 24? But she was happy, and I guess that’s all that matters.

It was meant to be a break—a short, soft detour. I thought I’d use the time to visit old college friends. So, I got my bike washed at the neighborhood shop. Tires still wet. A small, stupid detail I didn’t think about.

The first warning came quickly. I slipped a little on the main road, but saved it with some quick opposite steering. Felt like a god for a second. Then came the next turn—just a simple left. I leaned in. Just a bit too much. The bike skidded. My control vanished. And the next moment, I was flying.

I hit the ground like a sack of regret. Slid across the road. Could feel the scrape of gravel on my skin, my helmet thudding. All those thousands of kilometers—and I crash five minutes from home. What a damn joke.

Two ligaments torn. Significant knee damage. Surgery was inevitable, but only once the swelling went down and my body was stable enough to be cut open.

So began the long, boring purgatory. I vacated my Bangalore apartment. Shut that door for good. Bought a PlayStation—figured I’d distract myself. Bed rest became my routine. Day blurred into night. There were long naps, slow physio sessions, awkward limps around the society just to feel something other than uselessness. It was okay. Not terrible. But I was waiting. Always waiting.

Then came the surgery.

They numbed my spine. Local anesthesia. Which meant I was awake. Not just awake—aware. I heard every goddamn thing. The drills, the saws, the hammer hitting bone. The surgeons chatting like it was just another Wednesday while my leg was being rebuilt from the inside out.

Three procedures. Two legs. They sliced into my good leg to take a hamstring ligament, then used it to fix the broken one. Screws. Plates. Metal fused into me like I was being turned into a cyborg against my will.

Post-op? Pure hell.

Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t bear a simple touch. Couldn’t think straight. My body burned and froze at the same time. The IV ran chemicals into my veins like poison disguised as healing. I woke up every 10 minutes in cold sweats, scared of nothing in particular but terrified all the same.

Sometimes, I just wished they’d saw the legs off. At least then the pain would make sense.

Eventually, I came home. Walking with a walker was a new level of misery. The leg brace felt like a medieval punishment device. Every time I moved, I could feel my skin stretch and pull against the surgical staples. It wasn’t just pain—it was betrayal by my own body.

But I kept going.

Physio became religion. Every small progress was a win. I pushed. I limped. I learned. I got stronger. And now… I’m in better shape. Recovery, they call it.

But I keep asking—what is recovery?

Is it just walking again? Is it smiling and pretending you didn’t watch your life stall out like a broken engine?

Because sure, I’m healing physically. But mentally? I feel like I’m just floating through space. Stuck in this weird purgatory between existing and disappearing. I haven’t done anything "productive" in weeks. Haven’t felt like a rider, a worker, a friend—hell, even a person, sometimes. Just this blurry outline of someone who used to move fast and feel everything all at once.

Now I just stare at the ceiling fan and wonder—did the world move on without me? Or did I move too far away to ever return?

I was a man who moved so fast.
And now, the world caught up, pulled me back, and put me to rest.


The Accident


There's a pain I've carried silently—  
unseen, unheard, yet always felt.  
A pain so familiar it feels like home.  

I’ve chased relief:  
traveled miles to outrun it,  
cooked meals hoping to warm it away,  
turned pages searching for solace,  
played melodies on strings,  
yet the notes only echoed my ache.  

Where does it come from, this pain?  
Loneliness, childhood shadows, broken hearts?  
Or maybe it just is—  
existing without cause,  
lingering without invitation.  

Sometimes it flares,  
pulling me into darkness so heavy  
I forget what light felt like.  
Other times it retreats,  
and for fleeting moments,  
I breathe easy, almost free.  

I’ve learned to mask it well,  
a skill honed over years of solitude—  
living alone, working alone,  
friends drifting in and out like quiet tides,  
their departures gentle,  
barely rippling the surface anymore.  

Yet here lies the contradiction:  
I resent this pain but cherish solitude,  
loving the isolation that deepens my ache.  
Perhaps the comfort fuels the hurt,  
a cycle spinning endlessly,  
drawing me inward,  
farther from humanity’s embrace.  

Strangely, this pain softened my edges,  
made me more sensitive to others’ suffering,  
tuned my heart to silent battles around me,  
yet I stand helpless—  
feeling their hurt,  
but powerless against my own.  

Slowly, it stripped joy from me—  
things once vibrant faded,  
ambitions dulled, dreams blurred.  
Life became serious,  
and somewhere along the line,  
I stopped feeling much at all.  

No joy, no longing, no ambition,  
just the relentless ache of powerlessness.  
The pain of not wanting "it" anymore—  
whatever "it" might mean—  
love, hope, or simply life itself.  

I carry this silent burden,  
unsure how to set it down,  
unsure if I even want to.  

And maybe, in the quiet truth of it all,  
there’s a strange comfort  
in knowing this pain is mine,  
real, raw, and unspoken—  
always there, yet never fully understood.  

I find this pain curious—  
it consumes me,  
and every day I wage a silent war,  
a war no one else can see.  
At the end of each battle,  
I am left weary, tired,  
yet strangely fascinated  
by the mystery of my own suffering.  


Pain


We are all addicts. Not to cocaine, alcohol, or opioids—no, our addiction is far more subtle, far more insidious. It’s dopamine. The drug that already lives in our brains, released not when we feel fulfilled, but when we anticipate reward. A swipe, a click, a scroll. A match, a notification, a new video. Each action rewards us with a hit, and we keep chasing it. It’s the same cycle as any other addiction: anticipation, hit, brief satisfaction, and then the craving begins again. Only this addiction doesn’t need a dealer or a pipe—it’s in the palms of our hands, served to us endlessly by screens and algorithms that know our brains better than we do.

Dopamine once served us well. It was a survival tool—a compass that pushed us toward the things that mattered. Hunting for food, building relationships, solving problems, creating something out of nothing. The reward came not just from the result but from the struggle itself. Effort led to fulfillment, and the brain rewarded us for it. But today, the world has hijacked this system. We don’t need to hunt anymore. We don’t need to struggle for connection. We don’t need to wait, think, or work hard for reward. It’s everywhere—cheap, easy, instant. Every notification, every swipe, every binge-worthy video floods the brain with dopamine, over and over again.

The brain is an adaptive machine—neuroplasticity at its finest. It rewires itself according to what we demand of it. If we challenge it with complexity, it grows stronger. If we embrace boredom and stillness, it wanders into creativity. But when we flood it with constant stimulation, when we numb it with cheap hits of dopamine, it adapts to that too. It rewires for instant gratification and nothing more. The result? Focus dwindles. Patience disappears. Creativity dies. The thought engine that once roared with original ideas grows silent.

This is where we are now. We can’t sit with ourselves anymore. Loneliness, stress, boredom—these feelings used to have purpose. They pushed us to act, to grow, to connect with others, to create something meaningful. Now they trigger panic. Loneliness drives us to scroll through strangers’ lives. Stress makes us binge-watch until the world fades away. Boredom sends us diving into endless short videos, designed to hold our attention for seconds, not hours. We numb the discomfort. We numb the thought engine.

The irony is that this numbing feels good in the moment. It doesn’t hurt—at least not immediately. But the cost is immense. We are eroding the very capabilities that make us human. The ability to think deeply. The patience to sit with a complex problem. The space to let our minds wander into strange and beautiful ideas. Creativity, innovation, critical thinking—these are not inherent. They are cultivated, generation after generation. But what happens when a generation stops using them? What happens when our children grow up overstimulated and distracted, never learning to sit with boredom, never feeling the satisfaction of effort? The thought engine will not pass itself down. If we let it die, it won’t come back.

We think we are evolving—but for what? Not to survive, not to thrive. We are evolving to keep up. To not miss out. Algorithms have taken our free will, feeding us what we should watch, what we should want, what we should care about. We don’t choose anymore. We react. And with every reaction, we move further from ourselves. Further from the deep wells of creativity and thought that built everything we know. We are becoming passive in our own lives, letting external systems shape our desires, decisions, and identities.

This isn’t just about now. The effects of this addiction ripple outward—into families, societies, and future generations. We are passing down weaker minds, dulled by constant distraction. The long stretches of focus and effort that once defined human progress are being replaced by fragmented attention and cheap rewards. If we keep this up, the decline won’t be sudden. It will be quiet, comfortable, and irreversible. The thought engine will stall. The spark will die. And no one will notice—because no one will remember what it felt like to think deeply, to create something real, or to sit alone with their thoughts and let them wander.

Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe humanity will wake up. Maybe we’ll learn to put the devices down, to reclaim stillness, to let boredom guide us back to creativity. Or maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll keep numbing ourselves until there’s nothing left to numb. Until the brain—our greatest evolutionary gift—becomes nothing but a hollow machine, endlessly craving hits it can no longer feel.

I don’t know what happens next. But I do know this: we are all addicts.

And addiction never ends well.

Drug Addiction


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The Accident

Pain

Drug Addiction

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