Forward
I write this in limbo. I’m currently at Cornell, in my apartment with some of my closest friends. Yet I’m not a student. I’m still on my semester of leave. I’ve decided to take a break and part ways with Build. I want to work on something bigger than myself (not that Build wasn’t—those guys will build a trillion-dollar company).
I say limbo because there’s this feeling of disorderly order—no schedules, no obligations, no prelims (midterms for my non-Cornellians). There is just work. I wake up, I work, drink my cold brew, chill with friends, and that’s it. Granted, this is only the beginning. But in every new beginning, there are shimmering lights followed by the deepest void. You stare into this void and see a reflection of every insecurity, every fear, every little thing that’s weighed on your shoulders for eternity. This is why the beginning of every story ends up feeling like the end.
Alexander the Great stared into the void. He saw everything, and he still went forward.
Anxiety
I tend to be very susceptible to anxiety. I think everyone who stares into the void feels the same.
But this is a good feeling. It means you’re going forward. You’re moving the needle, even if it’s a small amount. You’re on the cusp of doing something uncomfortable. It’s a signal of internal growth.
For me, taking that leap of faith and dropping out of school was borderline insane. I mean—SHI—my immigrant parents came all the way to the U.S. for me to drop out? There’s a lot of weight in that. But it’s that anxiety that carries me forward. It’s the exodus from normalcy to pursue something my parents can’t even fathom. Maybe I am crazy, but this is worth a shot. I have to win. Not only for my parents, but for everyone who has rooted for me.
Hibernation
No one talks about what comes after the void. But once you step in, it’s death—not literally, but a kind of hibernation. You have to escape reality. Escape all obligation, all structure, and focus on the reason you stepped into the void in the first place.
I’d even argue you lose touch with reality for a bit. Your wiring shifts. You’re no longer bound to the status quo, but drawn toward some distant reality that feels impossibly far. And yet, we’re remarkable. We make things happen at lightspeed. There was once someone who told the great Srinivasa Ramanujan he could never crack pi or advanced combinatorics. But he did it anyway. He left his country, left everything he knew, and integrated himself with some of the greatest mathematical minds in the world. He stepped into the void, was met with bitterness, locked himself away, and discovered some of the greatest findings in math.
What’s out there?
Writing this made me think: what is out there beyond death? Rebirth. I don’t know what it looks like or what it has in store, but I’m sure it’s beautiful.
Or not—I don’t know.