Lately I have been finding it difficult to run in the evenings after work. The plan is clear in my head—1.5 hours set aside for a mix of cardio and weights—but the execution slips when the day stretches longer than expected in office. By evening, energy is low, and small delays turn into reasons to skip the workout. It is frustrating because the intention remains strong, especially with a goal of covering 100 kilometers in October, but the consistency is not falling into place. The gap between planning and doing becomes most visible when the schedule depends on evening hours.

The evenings carry their own challenges that mornings do not. Work leaves its residue in the form of fatigue and scattered focus, and stepping out for a run requires breaking through that inertia. Even when I start, the runs feel heavier, as if the body is slower to respond after sitting for most of the day. Cardio requires rhythm, and weights require focus, both of which are harder to summon when energy is already spent. What I notice is that the barrier is not physical ability but timing—the same distance or set feels easier in the morning than in the evening.

Finding a block of 1.5 hours is itself a challenge. On paper, it looks manageable, but in practice, there are interruptions, messages, or small obligations that cut into the window. Once the time shrinks, it feels like the workout is not worth starting, which becomes an excuse for missing it altogether. The discipline I need is less about willpower during the workout and more about guarding the time before it. Without that, the plan for cardio and weights keeps slipping into “tomorrow,” while the goal of 100 kilometers moves further away.

At the same time, I know that evening workouts are not impossible. The key might be in adjusting expectations—shorter, sharper sessions on weekdays, and longer runs on weekends where time pressure is lower. The balance between cardio and weights could also be rotated, so that every session does not require the full 90 minutes. This flexibility may reduce the mental resistance that builds when the workout feels too heavy to begin. The important part is to keep the habit alive rather than aiming for perfection each day.

Looking ahead to October, I want to focus on building toward the 100-kilometer target without letting the evening fatigue block progress. Even if the distance comes in smaller pieces, the cumulative effort will count. The challenge is not only in covering the kilometers but in finding consistency within a working schedule. Evening runs remain difficult, but with better planning and acceptance of shorter sessions, the larger goal can still stay in reach. The month will be a test of whether habit can overcome timing.

The previous weekend was a reminder of how unpredictable social plans can be. Saturday turned out to be a surprise as a a friend came over without much warning, and the day shifted into an unexpected dinner. It was unplanned, yet it worked out well because the spontaneity carried its own energy. By contrast, Sunday was a case of sudden cancellation. A couple from our group had to drop out at the last minute because of fever, and the plan we had been building around for a while fell apart. The two days together highlighted how fragile scheduling can be when it depends on many people at once.

What makes planning with groups difficult is that everyone carries different schedules, responsibilities, and last-minute contingencies. Even when a date is fixed and agreed upon, external factors—like health in this case—can undo it instantly. Unlike professional commitments, social gatherings often carry less rigidity, which means they are more vulnerable to changes. The effort that goes into coordinating them sometimes feels heavier than the gathering itself, especially when the outcome is uncertain. This is what makes last-minute cancellations feel more disruptive than they should, because they challenge the sense of structure that was already hard to build.

On the other hand, Saturday showed the opposite side of the same problem. When friends arrived unexpectedly, the absence of planning meant there was no buildup of expectation. The time spent together felt easy because it was not measured against an agenda. Spontaneity removes the pressure of coordination and allows interaction to unfold naturally. It also reduces the disappointment that comes with cancellations. Perhaps that is why unplanned meetings often leave stronger memories, because they arrive without anticipation and carry no weight of failed scheduling.

Yet, living only on spontaneous meetings is not sustainable. Larger groups need planning, and meaningful time together often requires effort to coordinate. The challenge lies in balancing the unpredictability of life with the desire for connection. Cancellations due to unavoidable reasons like illness are understandable, but they still leave gaps in the rhythm of social life. Each failed plan carries with it not only the loss of the event itself but also the subtle erosion of momentum in the group. It is not frustration at the people involved but at the difficulty of maintaining continuity in busy lives.

The best approach may be to treat plans as provisional, open to change, and to value the occasions that do come through rather than holding too tightly to the ones that do not. The surprise of Saturday and the cancellation on Sunday together illustrated the spectrum of social planning—from unplanned joy to planned disappointment. Both are reminders that connection happens in irregular patterns, and learning to accept that might be the only way to reduce the weight of broken schedules.

At Edzy we recently ran our first design hackathon, focused on UI and UX challenges, and it turned into an experience that stood out from the usual work rhythm. We kept the format simple, with three design sprints assigned as tasks, but the energy it created throughout the day was something new. A few candidates were invited to work on Figma designs and quick prototypes, and watching ideas take shape in such short cycles showed how much momentum can build when structure and time pressure are combined. It was not only about producing results but also about observing how different people approach design under constraints.

The sprint format gave a clear shape to the day. Each task was limited in scope but wide enough to allow creativity, which meant no one could afford to get stuck on details. This constraint encouraged sharper thinking and faster decisions. Design in longer timelines often allows room for hesitation, but here the sprints demanded focus. Seeing a team move from concept to wireframe in a short burst underlined why hackathons work—they generate urgency that can cut through overthinking. The output was not always polished, but it carried raw clarity, which often gets lost in slower cycles.

Using Figma as the central tool added structure. Because everything was in one shared space, it became easy to follow progress and compare approaches. Prototyping within hours showed how ideas translate from abstract requirements into something visual and functional. For the candidates, it was a chance to showcase not only technical skill but adaptability. For us, it was an opportunity to see how design thinking looks when stripped of long processes and committees. The immediacy of working side by side with designers gave insights that interviews or portfolios rarely provide.

What surprised me most was the atmosphere that formed naturally. There was no need for constant direction because the pace of the sprints carried its own energy. People were engaged, focused, and occasionally playful with ideas, which kept the environment alive. A hackathon does not run on deadlines alone; it also depends on participants feeling they can experiment. That balance of pressure and freedom made the event feel worthwhile. It was clear by the end that we had learned as much from observing the process as from the final designs themselves.

Looking back, the first design hackathon at Edzy was more than a trial run. It became a template for how we might engage with talent and ideas in the future. The format showed that creativity can be structured without being stifled, and that short bursts of intense focus often bring more insight than long, stretched projects. The experience proved that energy is created not only by the tasks but by the people who take them on and the space given to them to build quickly. It left me convinced that hackathons, even in small settings, carry value far beyond the prototypes they produce.

The recent society elections here showed how much technology has reshaped even the smallest forms of governance. What stood out was not just the campaigning itself but how AI tools and simple websites were used to organize information, reach residents, and keep messages consistent. The combination of structured communication and personalized outreach made a clear difference. While earlier elections in the society were often dependent on word-of-mouth or group meetings, this time the presence of digital systems gave an advantage to those who knew how to use them effectively. It became an example of how the methods of politics at large scale trickle down into local communities when the tools are available.

The use of a dedicated website gave the campaign credibility. Instead of fragmented WhatsApp messages or handwritten notices, residents could find candidate profiles, promises, and updates in one place. This reduced confusion and allowed people to revisit the information at their own time. The website served as both a reference and a record, something earlier campaigns lacked. Alongside it, AI-supported drafting ensured that the tone of communication stayed uniform, clear, and free from unnecessary conflict. The neutrality of phrasing made the messages more acceptable across diverse groups of residents, who might otherwise react strongly to poorly chosen words.

Still, the real strength of the campaign lay in one-on-one messaging. Digital reach creates awareness, but decisions are shaped when people feel personally addressed. Messages were tailored, short, and directed at individual concerns rather than general slogans. Technology allowed quick customization and delivery without losing the personal touch. In practice, this meant that each resident felt acknowledged, and their priorities were reflected in the campaign. The efficiency of AI tools in generating and adjusting these responses saved time while maintaining quality, creating a cycle of interaction that felt both modern and personal.

This approach also changed the pace of the election. Instead of large gatherings where many voices compete, communication happened in smaller, steadier intervals. People were not overwhelmed but engaged over time. Even those who had been disengaged from society matters found it easier to interact when they received direct messages that respected their time. The digital layer created continuity, while face-to-face conversations built on the foundation already set online. The election became less about last-minute persuasion and more about consistent presence throughout the campaign period.

Looking back, it is clear that the success in the society elections came from merging traditional personal trust with the efficiency of technology. AI and websites did not replace human connection, but they amplified it, ensuring that messages reached widely without losing depth. This is likely to become the new standard, even at the level of housing societies, because once residents experience a campaign run with clarity and accessibility, it is hard to return to scattered methods. Winning with technology this time may well redefine expectations for every election that follows here.

Sometimes the question surfaces without warning — what is the point of it all. It does not arrive with a dramatic setting but quietly, often on an ordinary day when tasks feel repetitive and energy runs low. Life has a way of catching up through small pressures that accumulate until they feel heavier than they should. In those moments, thinking too long about meaning only seems to deepen the weight. The better response has always been to step outside, put on running shoes, and go for a run. Movement has a way of clearing the mind that reflection alone cannot manage, and with each step the question softens into something less urgent.

Running creates a rhythm that simplifies thought. Breathing aligns with the pace, and the body settles into a cycle that does not demand anything beyond the next step. The mind, in turn, begins to let go of scattered concerns. It is not that answers appear during the run, but rather that the need for immediate answers fades. By the time the distance is covered, the same problems remain, but they are no longer disorganized. Running makes them feel more manageable, as though the body has absorbed some of the restlessness that the mind could not carry alone.

I notice that the clarity from running does not come from distraction but from a form of grounding. The physical act requires enough attention to pull thought away from looping questions, yet it also leaves space for reflection to settle in the background. It is this balance that shifts perspective. Questions like “what is the point of it all” do not disappear, but they lose their sharpness. Instead, they become part of a wider view where daily actions, even small ones, are seen as sufficient reasons to keep moving. The run demonstrates that action itself can be an answer, even when words cannot explain it fully.

The effect of such runs is temporary, but repetition strengthens the habit. Each time life catches up in an unexpected way, choosing to run builds a pattern of responding with movement rather than paralysis. Over time, this becomes less about exercise and more about resilience. The body learns to carry tension, release it, and return with clearer thought. It shows that while meaning may not be fixed, the act of moving forward consistently can sustain a sense of stability. That, in its own way, feels like a point worth holding onto.

In the end, I think the question itself is unavoidable, but the way it is handled makes the difference. Waiting for perfect clarity can be exhausting, while choosing to run offers a simpler, repeatable solution. The miles do not provide grand answers, but they prove that continuing has value even without resolution. That may be all the point there is: to keep moving, to clear the head when it feels heavy, and to trust that meaning can emerge gradually through action. The run does not solve life, but it allows me to live it with steadier ground.

Mont Blanc as a brand often reminds me of how quality becomes more than just a measure of durability or performance. It turns into a cultural marker, something that people associate with tradition, refinement, and trust. Holding a Mont Blanc pen, for example, is not only about writing but about experiencing an object that has been carefully designed and manufactured to meet a standard higher than necessity. This pursuit of quality is what sets certain countries apart in the way they are perceived. Switzerland, in particular, has made finesse part of its national identity, whether through watches, tools, or precision craftsmanship. Appreciating Mont Blanc becomes a way of appreciating that culture of meticulousness.

The Swiss example is striking because quality there is not treated as an occasional achievement but as a consistent expectation. Watches are the most visible part of this identity, yet the same principle extends to knives, chocolate, and even public infrastructure. The focus is less on mass production and more on precision, which in turn builds a reputation that lasts across generations. When someone speaks of Swiss finesse, it is understood as an assurance of detail and care. Mont Blanc products, though not limited to Switzerland, resonate with this same idea of precision. They belong to a tradition where the object itself carries cultural meaning beyond function.

It is interesting to see how such quality becomes part of global culture. A Mont Blanc pen is not necessary for writing, yet owning one signifies an appreciation for craft. In that way, objects become symbols of values. Swiss finesse, as seen in design and engineering, influences how other nations think about their own products. Countries known for quality build trust in their exports, and this trust shapes both reputation and economy. What begins as attention to detail in manufacturing grows into a national brand, and eventually into cultural identity. That is why Mont Blanc feels connected to a larger narrative about how societies measure themselves through the things they produce.

The relationship between quality and culture also raises the question of how habits are formed. In places where quality is expected, consumers hold producers accountable, and producers in turn train their workforce to maintain standards. This cycle strengthens over time, embedding itself into education, business practice, and even everyday life. Swiss finesse, then, is not only about luxury but about an entire system of discipline and precision. Mont Blanc stands as a visible emblem of this, but the deeper reality is that quality in such cultures is not reserved for high-end goods. It runs through simple objects as well, which quietly reinforce the same values.

Thinking about Mont Blanc and Swiss finesse leaves me with a broader appreciation for how quality influences culture and identity. It shows that products can be more than tools—they can embody principles that define how people view themselves and how others view them. In a world where speed and scale often dominate, the insistence on detail and endurance carries its own weight. Quality, when pursued consistently, becomes cultural heritage. Mont Blanc is only one example, but it points to the larger truth that finesse, once established, shapes the reputation of a country as much as any political or historical achievement.

Dushera always brings a reminder of how festivals carry both cultural meaning and personal reflection. It marks the victory of good over evil, most often remembered through the story of Lord Rama defeating Ravana, but its importance extends beyond the myth itself. The act of celebrating Dushera is about affirming values that persist through time—truth, discipline, and resilience. In many places, effigies of Ravana are burned, and that symbolic act connects communities in a shared acknowledgment that wrongdoing can be overcome. Saying happy Dushera is not only a greeting but also a recognition of why the festival exists, as it brings people back to the idea of choosing righteousness in daily life.

The festival also represents the conclusion of Navratri, tying together ten days of devotion and fasting with a celebration that unites families and neighborhoods. For those who observe, this transition carries a sense of renewal. It shows how cultural rhythms are set to remind people of cycles of effort and reward, devotion and joy. In that sense, Dushera does not stand alone but is part of a sequence of festivals that guide both community and individual through the year. It is important because it helps to mark time with meaning, ensuring that tradition remains woven into modern life.

Remembering the story itself is significant because it is less about the historical figure of Ravana and more about the symbolism he represents. Arrogance, greed, and misuse of power are traits that continue to exist in society, and the burning of his effigy serves as a collective act of rejecting those qualities. At the same time, Rama’s victory highlights the value of patience, strategy, and trust in allies. These lessons are carried forward not as rigid rules but as cultural memory, shaping the way people interpret moral choices in the present. The importance of Dushera lies in its ability to keep these reminders active, not as distant mythology but as living tradition.

On a personal level, festivals like Dushera often bring a pause from routine. Even without participating in the larger gatherings, there is an atmosphere of reflection that settles in. It becomes an occasion to think about where personal struggles lie and what patterns need to be discarded. The symbolic burning of negativity can be understood at the level of individual habits, making the festival both communal and personal. In that way, Dushera offers a chance to align private life with broader cultural symbolism, creating a bridge between inward reflection and outward celebration.

This year, wishing happy Dushera feels like an acknowledgment of both continuity and change. The core meaning of the festival remains intact, but the way it is celebrated adapts to the times. Large gatherings may shift in form, and the methods of observance may vary, yet the essence stays. The importance of Dushera is not measured by the scale of celebration but by the persistence of its message. It endures because the need to affirm truth and resist wrongdoing is always present. Remembering that through festival rituals makes the tradition relevant even today.

I find myself thinking again about Mahatma Gandhi and how his life continues to be a reference point whenever the subject of truth, discipline, or social change arises. His role in the freedom movement is often discussed in broad strokes, but it is the personal side that seems worth revisiting now. Reading about Gandhi always makes me notice how much of his strength came from simplicity and consistency in action. The autobiography The Story of My Experiments with Truth remains a book I have long intended to read in full, but I feel it requires isolation and quiet to absorb properly. It is not a book for skimming but one that needs to be taken in slowly, with pauses to reflect on how ideas of truth and self-discipline can be applied personally.

Gandhi’s approach to life seems far removed from the pace of the present. His insistence on truth as both principle and method feels almost radical today, where compromise is often seen as necessary for progress. His life shows how truth, as he defined it, was not abstract but lived daily in decisions about food, clothing, work, and interaction with others. Remembering him now is less about the image of a national leader and more about the method of living that he practiced, which required awareness and restraint in each action. That is what makes his autobiography more than a historical text; it is a record of practice and failure, with honesty about mistakes.

I think part of what draws me toward reading his book is the possibility of seeing how ideals are tested in ordinary life. Gandhi did not present himself as flawless, but as someone who treated each decision as an experiment. This makes the title accurate and also unusual compared to most political autobiographies. The “experiments” he describes are not grand achievements but small steps in diet, faith, and self-control. To read it requires a willingness to slow down and accept that insight comes not from dramatic victories but from repeated attempts to live according to chosen principles. That is why I keep postponing the book until I can find enough quiet to give it the attention it deserves.

Isolation seems essential for this reading because Gandhi’s focus was always on internal discipline before external action. The lessons about patience, fasting, and simplicity will probably feel clearer in silence than in distraction. Reading such a work in peace would allow me to place it against my own life without noise. The calm setting would also match the pace of the writing, which, from what I have read in parts, does not rush. It demands reflection and perhaps even discomfort, because living truthfully often means confronting where one falls short. In that way, the book might serve less as a biography of Gandhi and more as a mirror for the reader.

Remembering Gandhi on days like this leaves me thinking that his relevance is not tied only to political history but to the discipline of everyday living. The idea of truth he pursued can sound distant, but it remains practical when applied in small, personal experiments. Reading The Story of My Experiments with Truth in a quiet space will, I hope, make that clearer. It is not only about remembering what Gandhi stood for but also about examining how those principles can still be tested in a modern context. The book seems less like a monument and more like an invitation, and I want to take it seriously when I finally sit down with it.

September was supposed to be the month to complete 100 kilometers of running, but I ended up closing at 54. Travel first broke the rhythm, and when I returned, a short spell of flu made it harder to get back on track. Looking at the log, I see that there were too many zero days spread through the month, which eventually made the gap impossible to close. Even though I had some longer runs in the later weeks, including a ten-kilometer stretch, the missed days meant the overall count stayed much lower than planned. It is a reminder that consistency counts more than single efforts, and once the pattern breaks, recovery takes time.

The goal of 100 kilometers was not unrealistic because in previous months I have crossed similar marks, but circumstances made September different. Travel disrupts sleep and routine, which affects the body more than I expect. Running after long flights or irregular meals always feels heavier, as if the legs need extra time to find rhythm again. Just when I had started adjusting back, the flu set in and kept me off the track. Even a short break for illness slows everything down because the body needs energy for recovery before it can handle distance. These interruptions stack up quickly, and the mileage gap grows without much warning.

I noticed that the cumulative distance chart reflected the slowdown clearly. Early in the month I had some promising runs, but the middle weeks flattened out with too many consecutive zero entries. The momentum only returned in the last stretch, where I managed consistent three to ten kilometer runs. Still, the late push was not enough to cover what had already been lost. This shows that chasing numbers only at the end of the month rarely works, because endurance does not build that way. Each skipped day accumulates, and a concentrated effort at the end cannot easily replace steady daily work.

There is also the mental side of missing a target. I felt a slight pressure each day I did not run, knowing that the total was falling behind. That pressure sometimes makes the return harder because it turns a simple workout into a task framed by numbers. Yet the number itself is less important than the fact that I continued to run despite setbacks. The body still held up for longer runs after rest, and that is proof of baseline fitness. The experience also made it clearer that training goals need flexibility, especially when external factors like illness intervene.

Finishing the month at 54 kilometers is less than half of what I had aimed for, but it is not wasted effort. It gives me a marker of where I am when circumstances break routine. It also leaves a lesson about adjusting goals when reality changes instead of holding on rigidly to targets. The next month will likely need a fresh plan, built not around chasing a lost milestone but on regaining consistency. Missing the 100 kilometers is a setback, but it is also part of the longer rhythm of running, where progress is measured over months and years, not a single cycle.

I keep thinking about how certain activities create bonds that ordinary conversations rarely manage to build. Diving with a PADI group reminded me of this. The rhythm of preparing the gear, the shared silences before entering the water, and the calm after surfacing make the experience unique. People who may not know each other outside the activity suddenly become part of the same rhythm, connected by routine, trust, and a shared objective. In a way, the sea enforces a closeness because the activity requires reliance on one another, and that reliance grows into an unspoken bond. For search visibility, it is worth noting that scuba diving, PADI certification, divers groups, and underwater friendships often overlap in interest and are linked by the same idea of activity-driven connections.

When I look back, some of the strongest friendships I have seen did not come from planned socializing but from common activities that required persistence. Diving is one such activity because it asks for responsibility toward oneself and toward others. Underwater, each diver is aware of their own safety yet equally aware of their partner’s presence. This mutual awareness creates an accountability that is not forced by words but by circumstance. PADI as an organization formalizes this by structuring divers into buddy systems and teams, which ensures that the learning process is social as much as it is technical. The friendships built here do not depend on continuous talk or shared backgrounds. They develop in the gaps between the actions, in the reliance built on something practical.

It is also striking how activity-based bonds are less fragile than bonds formed only around conversation. Words can be misunderstood or forgotten, but actions done together, especially when repeated over time, accumulate into a memory that feels steady. A diver remembers who checked their gear, who gave a reassuring signal, who surfaced alongside them. In this way, diving friendships carry layers of quiet trust. The PADI framework seems designed to cultivate this naturally. Each certification stage involves shared tasks, and over time those who dive together move through difficulty together. This progression cements the bond further. Unlike casual meetups, these are experiences that leave lasting marks on memory, and the friendships formed seem to survive long periods without contact.

The nature of the sea itself also shapes the bond. When underwater, human interaction is stripped to hand signals and eye contact, which forces clarity and minimalism. This reduction sharpens the awareness of the other person’s presence and necessity. Friendship that forms in such conditions is free of unnecessary clutter. It is not about constant expression but about mutual recognition of dependence. Back on land, these divers may go separate ways, but when they meet again, the bond resumes quickly because it is tied not to surface-level stories but to shared immersion. This is true not only of diving but of many activity-based friendships. What is remarkable about diving is how strongly it enforces the rule of interdependence, making the friendships both organic and durable.

It might be because the activity is intense, memorable, and framed by both risk and reward. PADI’s system is global, so divers can meet across countries, yet the bond feels immediate when shared through diving. It is not friendship born of convenience but one born of necessity and trust. That distinction seems to give it resilience. It leaves me thinking that perhaps activity-based friendships hold a different weight because they are less about preference and more about function, yet they grow into genuine care. In the end, the divers group becomes more than just a set of people in wetsuits; it becomes a network of trust created in silence beneath the water.