There wasn’t a dramatic day. No chest pain. No crying girlfriend ultimatum. No temple vow or “last puff” moment under cinematic rain. Just me—standing outside my office, holding a cigarette and realizing I didn’t want to be this person anymore. Not in a tragic way. Just in a quiet, "I think I’m done with this version of myself" way. I’ve quit smoking twice before. Both times felt serious. Both times failed. The first time, I quit for my mother. Made a big vow, all the emotional drama included. Stayed clean for a month. Then cracked. Because, surprise: external guilt has an expiry date. The second time, I quit after a trip to the mountains. I meditated in front of a Shiva idol in the silence of Nainital and told myself: "No cigarettes until you’ve got a government job or earn ₹50K a month." It worked for a while—until my logic brain showed up and said, "Well technically you’ve kinda achieved that, so…" Cue: relapse. ✋ This time is different. ...
I didn’t wake up one day and become “the reflective guy.” It
sort of happened between late-night walks, broken routines, poor decisions, and
a few YouTube spirals that hit a little too deep.
It started with Kabir, actually.
Not in a temple. Not in a schoolbook. Just one of those random verses you read
and suddenly feel like someone just diagnosed your soul in one sentence.
“maya-maya sab kahe , maya lakhe na koi
jo man se na utare, maya kahiye soye”
It hit me different. Still does. The idea that you can care without
being attached, be aware without performing, and exist without
belonging to either side. Kabir made solitude feel like a choice, not a
punishment. Made detachment feel warm, not hollow.
Then came Shwetabh Gangwar.
Yes, the YouTuber. Don’t roll your eyes. I wasn’t looking for a guru, I was
just bored. But the way he explained “decision-making as a skill” or “not being
emotionally available to nonsense” felt like someone finally gave words to
things I only felt in passing.
He talked like a guy who’s been burnt by life and decided to
sharpen his brain instead of sulking in a corner. That clicked. I didn’t want
to be soft and lost. I wanted to be aware and grounded.
From there, it snowballed.
Jordan Peterson appeared in my feed, and I know he’s a controversial
mess depending on who you ask, but in between the chaos, he said something
like:
“You’re not a good person because you’re harmless. You’re
good when you’re dangerous and choose not to be.”
That stayed with me. I’d never thought of self-control as
power. I’d thought of it as suppression. And this flipped the script.
Then came the deep end.
Nietzsche.
Man was out here screaming into the void, long before it was cool. His whole
“God is dead” thing? People take it like edgy atheism. But to me, it felt like
a man begging humanity to stop outsourcing meaning. It shook me.
If there’s no meaning handed down from above, you have to build
your own. Brick by brick. Choice by choice. That terrified me. And weirdly
enough, it energized me.
And then... Camus.
King of calm despair.
He looked the absurdity of life straight in the eye and said, “Cool. I’ll
keep living anyway.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t angsty. It was dignified acceptance.
The idea that life doesn’t have to mean anything grand, but that doesn’t mean
you rot in a corner. You wake up, you show up, you live.
That’s what I needed. Not a savior. Not a TED Talk. Just... permission to keep going. To build a little meaning where I can, even if it collapses later.
I don’t worship these thinkers.
I don’t quote them to sound smart.
I hold on to them like mental scaffolding when I feel like I’m floating in open
space.
Some people find peace in faith, or family, or ambition.
I found it in the words of tired men who thought too much and wrote it down
anyway.
If you’re spiraling, stuck, or just tired of surface-level
everything—start reading the people who bled on paper.
Not to be them.
But to feel a little less alone when your own thoughts get too loud.
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