Merge pull request #227 from WatchOutNewsAgency/ronin/posts

chore: add author name what's the point

_posts/2025-10-23-the-ship-of-theseus.md

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+---
+layout: post
+title: "The Ship of Theseus"
+image: the-ship-of-theseus.png
+category: editorial
+tags: [wona, column]
+author: Aarush Aggarwal and Shivansh Goyal
+excerpt: "Packing is a labyrinth of memories. The old, dusty boxes are dangerous nostalgia traps. You pick up one forgotten trinket, and you’re stuck."
+---
+Packing is a labyrinth of memories. The old, dusty boxes are dangerous nostalgia traps. You pick up one forgotten trinket, and you’re stuck. Suddenly, you're not sorting clothes; you’re reminiscing and deeply analyzing one random anecdote, its philosophical impact on your childhood, your life, and human existence as you know it.
+
+(This profound state lasts exactly as long as it takes for your mom to yell from downstairs, instantly vaporizing all existential insight. Dang it, Mom! Thankfully, that moment hasn’t arrived yet. For now, you’re happily remembering your antics.)
+
+You pick up the majestic 1000-piece Colosseum. It represents weeks of your childhood, your first architectural masterpiece. After all, who doesn't like to play with LEGOs? Those blocks became units of uncashed potential, limited only by the imagination of the hands that held them.
+
+It’s a miracle it lasted this long, given the Odyssey it went through. 
+
+(We know we’re mixing Greek tales; that’s what happens when everything you know about ancient Greece stems from Percy Jackson.)
+
+---
+
+This is where we’d like to introduce ourselves. We're your conscience (yes you still have it hidden somewhere). Hello! As you often do, this is a conversation you’re having with us.
+
+---
+
+Childhood is a battlefield of unintended casualties. One day, your younger sibling had whimsically decided that they were done with all of creation, and your colosseum bore the brunt of their rage.
+
+You remember gathering the rubble of your toppled colosseum, putting it in a box, and replacing the broken pieces. Another day, your mother had wondered, "What is this piece of 'useless memorabilia'?" Soon, you’d found your poor building in the trashcan. You had tediously replaced another batch of pieces, and this cycle of destruction and resurrection continued.
+
+You think of the broken pieces saved over the years, and suddenly, a thought strikes: the broken pieces, they’re just enough to make another LEGO Colosseum if you put in some effort, glue and time (all of which you have plenty of).
+
+A paradox begins to form in that brilliant head of yours (no offence, but you’re a bit of a narcissist)
+
+Which piece claims the throne of authenticity? Which one is the real Colosseum: the one you’ve maintained over the years—scarred yet tall, or the one you would have made from all the pieces that were stripped off it. 
+
+You might be anticipating the question we’re about to ask: What truly is the “identity” of something? Or what is the physical representation of identity? Is identity even a physical concept or simply a mental illusion? Have you discovered immortality, or mastered the art of self-deception? Doesn’t this mean you could make like 15 of the same things? Is Identity divisible, then? Or are those copies identical to the point of perfection? 
+
+Have you discovered cloning? This is the stuff of dreams isn't it? Think of the limitless possibilities…
+
+_Wait, wait. Take a breath my friend._
+
+Let’s review the two sides to this:
+
+If you say the model you had kept repairing was the real one, you're valuing continuity, the idea that identity comes from the history of the object, even if its parts change. The journey it’s been on defines it more than its origin does, and the final product, the construction of experience, proves its originality more than the original’s stagnancy. 
+
+On the contrary, there is a case to be made for its origin. The journey, instead of defining it, changes it; if it loses everything that connected it to its roots, it no longer remains the same thing. Memories aren’t the only constituent of its identity, rather it's the original pieces. Those faded polaroids still feel warmer than any high-definition photo ever could.
+
+And yet, beyond philosophy, there’s a quieter, more unsettling thought.
+
+Perhaps there's another possibility: that you would’ve simply created two identical ghosts, and that identity itself is nothing more than a comforting illusion you’ve constructed to avoid confronting the void.
+
+Heavy words, we know… but that's the nature of the paradox.
+
+There’s also a fourth (albeit way cooler) explanation, you in fact have discovered cloning, and physicists can cry over the corpse of quantum physics because, guess what? Information is not conserved, and this satanic nightmare referred to as engineering can end.
+
+(Maybe not that last one. Boy, you wish that were true)
+
+---
+
+The paradoxical nature of identity is a concept on which philosophers around the globe have pondered for very many years (because that’s what philosophers do). What makes it particularly fascinating to you, is how naturally this question arises in domains with nothing common in them.
+
+Our journey starts at the British Isles where this paradox plays out on the stage of history:
+
+Picture a ship bobbing on the waves. At first, the Celtic-speaking Britons are at the helm, singing old songs by the fire, minding their own business.
+
+(Maybe wondering about the last city which they colonized)
+
+Then, one day, the Angles and Saxons row up like they’ve been invited, lugging their runes, their Old English, and a battered copy of _Beowulf_. They strip the deck, hammer in new boards, and the ship now reeks of Germanic sweat.
+
+But the tide never stays still. The Normans crash the party with barrels of wine and manners. As the voyage goes on, you pass candlelit decks where Shakespeare’s dramas play out between storms of plague, and you witness royal squalls so fierce a king loses his head. The winds take the ship to Asia and Africa. It comes home stuffed with tea, spices, a famous diamond (wink wink) and a taste for telling the world how to queue properly. For a while, to be British was to keep your tie straight, your hat intact and paperwork stacked higher than the mast.
+
+But seawater soaks into every plank. Now, you can find the best chicken butter masala in London, hear Jamaican pop bouncing off in makeshift basketball courts, and elders gathering for a spot of tea at 4 p.m. Bring Elizabeth or Newton aboard this ship today, and they’d probably stare around like tourists, their wide-eyed reactions worth replaying on the West End.
+
+The experiences, it seems, have enriched England, from a bland oatmeal-raisin (seriously, who eats that shi-) to a full seven-course meal and a fine wine to wash it down with.
+
+Support Liverpool? Back in the 19th century, it was mud-caked boots and proud moustaches charging down the pitch. Players come and go, managers swap the captains, Anfield gets a makeover. Nothing of the old crew is left. And yet, the name, the colours, the roar in the stands never stopped sailing. _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ isn’t just a song; it’s the wind in the sails. 
+
+A Liverpool fan experiences a lot of highs and lows, the journey almost seems like a test of loyalty and those who pass seem to understand just a bit more about the essence of being a true supporter. The change seems fresh and exciting while stirring that nostalgia.
+
+Liverpool and England are both examples of entities which ripened with experience, it becomes impossible to define them without acknowledging the journey they went through. Their originality holds little meaning when compared to the eons of change undergone.
+
+Sometimes though, it’s very hard to rid yourself of the originality. Sometimes the journey destroys the ship, every piece of it until the ship turns into a boat, then a log of wood, and then is simply gone, no longer existing. The broken pieces telling stories about the original that seem like a fairytale on steroids.
+
+Such is the case of Alzheimer’s disease, a tide without cause, progressively destroying every memory that made you, you. Witnessing it is like seeing a candle burn. It starts with its unburnt wick, proudly giving light and warmth to everyone around it, unrelenting in its potential, leaving everyone unaware of the tragedy about to unfold. 
+
+Slowly the wax starts to melt, the wick starts to shorten, the warmth starts to stutter and then the ball drops. Suddenly a gust of oxygen flares it up again, you think that things have stabilized but no, the wax keeps on melting, taking the last hopes you had along with it. Every resolve fails against the inevitability of change.
+
+And then the light fades, fades until it dies. This melted candle is the same which started this journey but somewhere along it, it didn’t remain itself. It lost its identity, became unrecognizable and incomparable to its past. All there is to live by are the memories, of its warmth, of its fight. 
+
+You wonder where along this journey did the candle change that much, when did that tall source of light become this heap of wax.
+
+That is the heart of the paradox: if change is constant, when does a thing cease to be itself?
+
+The simple reason why both ships cannot co-exist is that they are not alike, they represent two contradictory ideas of representation and embracing both is impossible.
+
+Most people don’t focus on the most important assumption of this paradox: that identity itself can survive change. Remember your LEGO Colosseum, all it would take is glue to create a brand-new one, masterful enough to rival the original.
+
+It seems almost _magical_, right? 
+
+Working against change never is, nothing magical is going to appear to fix your colosseum.
+
+Perhaps the most profound truth hidden in this ancient riddle is that you are simultaneously aboard both ships: the one sailing forward into uncertain waters, and the one being slowly dismantled by time. 
+
+You are the Captain, navigating the uncertainties and passing the storms.
+
+You are the Curator, collecting fallen pieces of the journey gone.
+
+You are the Voyager, choosing what to carry into tomorrow.
+
+The question is: are you also the Tinkerer? Daring to right the ship when it fails you, daring to _renew_ your very own Ship of Theseus.
+
+---
+
+*"HOW CAN IT POSSIBLY TAKE THIS LONG TO CLEAN ONE ROOM? I SWEAR, I'D GIVE ANYTHING FOR A VERSION OF YOU THAT ACTUALLY LISTENED!"*
+
+That oh-so familiar voice calls out from downstairs; you smile inwardly at the irony of the statement as the train of thought breaks. Some things, like that sharp voice from downstairs, are stubbornly eternal themselves; a constant in a house of replacements, immune to time, repairs, or philosophy.

_posts/2025-10-28-what's-the-point.md

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+---
+layout: post
+title: What’s the point?
+tags: [wona, column]
+category: editorial
+image: point.png
+author: Paavni Khattri, Divya Agrawal and Shivansh Goyal
+excerpt: "Aarav entered the world screaming, startled by its brightness. The hospital smelled of disinfectant and beginnings; outside, life hurried on, buses honked, sunlight spilt over concrete, and people scurried with unreadable urgency."
+---
+
+Aarav entered the world screaming, startled by its brightness. The hospital smelled of disinfectant and beginnings; outside, life hurried on, buses honked, sunlight spilt over concrete, and people scurried with unreadable urgency. But inside that room, time hesitated. His parents gazed at him, awash in wonder. That fragile new life had summoned a vast emotion that, even in an indifferent universe, meaning could bloom uninvited.
+
+  
+
+> *Existence is beautiful if you let it be.*
+
+  
+
+He grew up in the warm order of a secure life. Mornings were filled with pressure cooker whistles and lace-filtered light, evenings of football practice. The world felt safe and fair, effort led to reward, goodness to success. Aarav was bright, the kind of child neighbours envied and relatives dreamt of having.
+
+He still dreamed vaguely of becoming important, a goal unclear and without purpose. “Big” was fuel without a map, burning fiercely but lighting no path.
+
+  
+
+The move from school to college felt freeing at first, but college itself only quickened the race. The corridors buzzed with deadlines and laughter that sounded rehearsed. He performed well, but in quiet moments, questions returned like a fever—unwelcome but familiar: Why do this? The answer is to get a job, to be successful, and feel hollow. What did any of it even mean?
+
+  
+
+At night under the hostel’s neem tree, he shared his unease with friends. “You think too much, Aarav,” Kabir, his closest friend said. “Everyone feels lost,” another shrugged. But Rohan murmured, “Maybe thinking too much is just another way of trying to see clearly.”
+
+Aarav often felt like a rat running not from hunger but habit. Fleeting glimpses of meaning faded quickly.
+
+  
+
+> *“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”* — **Nietzsche**
+
+  
+
+One night, after watching a video about the Crusades, he remembered a scene from a film: a weary king asked, “What is Jerusalem worth?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+Pause.
+
+“Everything.”
+
+The paradox struck him—how something could be meaningless and sacred at once. Perhaps meaning itself was like that: weightless yet unbearable. Maybe his childhood dream of becoming “big” was his own Jerusalem, sacred only because he needed it to be.
+
+Life went on. He studied, performed, laughed, and secured a good job. Outwardly, everything aligned. Yet some nights, catching his reflection in the hostel window, he felt a quiet distance from himself. Success had come, just as planned, but the old question lingered, softly, persistently: And now?
+
+  
+
+Years passed. Aarav and Kabir who once shared benches, lunches, and dreams had become men, both with the same degrees, the same start, yet their paths slowly began to drift apart. They had joined the same company, wearing the same neatly pressed shirts, filled with the same ambitions. But time, as it always does, began to play its quiet tricks.
+
+Kabir climbed the ladder, promotion after promotion, until one day, his name gleamed on the office door: Chief Executive Officer. Aarav, too, worked late into the nights, his lamp burning just as long, but somehow, the world never tilted in his favor.
+
+  
+
+> *“The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”* — **Albert Camus**
+
+  
+
+They both married, built families, and raised children who would someday ask what “success” really means. Kabir’s laughter echoed through expensive halls, while Aarav’s echoed softly in rented rooms. Yet when the two old friends met, there was always a flicker in Aarav’s eyes, a faint sadness, almost invisible.
+
+He never hated Kabir, not really. But somewhere between admiration and envy, something heavy grew. He wanted to be like him—not for joy, but for justification. Perhaps that’s the cruelest illusion of all: believing that only the world’s applause can make life meaningful.
+
+  
+
+> *“To be happy, we must not be too concerned with others.”* — **Albert Camus**
+
+  
+
+Kabir, on the other hand, often looked tired, tired in a way that even sleep couldn’t heal. And Aarav never noticed that the higher Kabir went, the lonelier he became.
+
+One quiet evening, Aarav looked at his reflection and wondered: When did life turn into a race I never signed up for?
+
+Maybe both of them had been running in circles, one chasing success and the other chasing its shadow, his illusion of success.
+
+Because in the end, whether you rise or stay still, time consumes us all the same. Titles fade, wealth rusts, faces age, and even memory forgets itself.
+
+  
+
+> *“Our great mistake is to try to exact from life more than it can give.”* — **George Santayana**
+
+  
+
+Maybe life was never about winning or losing. Maybe it was about walking beside someone for a while, sharing the silence, and learning that existence itself is enough.
+
+  
+
+One morning, like any other, Aarav received news that would shatter everything, Kabir had been hit by a car, his wife sobbing on the other end of the line. Numbness spread from his feet to his head, a cold, paralyzing layer of disbelief. He staggered to the hospital as though the weight of the news had struck his legs, only to find Kabir lying half-dead on the bed, a pool of blood darkening the sheets and floor.
+
+Aarav sat beside him, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the empire builder reduced to fragile breaths and silence. Around him, machines hummed indifferently, their rhythm the only thing alive in the room.
+
+  
+
+In that sterile stillness, Aarav felt something collapse—not just Kabir’s life, but the scaffolding of purpose they’d both spent years climbing.
+
+All envy, fondness, competition, and love vanished with him, leaving only memories some joyous, some painful. How does it feel to see someone you spent half your life with vanish in an instant? The question gnawed at him as he walked home, the city’s sirens fading into the heavy silence of grief.
+
+  
+
+> *“The literal meaning of life is whatever you’re doing that prevents you from killing yourself.”* — **Albert Camus**
+
+  
+
+His steps carried him without direction, his mind pulled backward into the past.
+
+He remembered the nights on the college rooftop, staring at the stars.
+
+“Do you think success gives life meaning?” his friend had asked. He laughed. “Of course. Isn’t that what everyone wants?” His friend nodded, smug. “Exactly. Leave a mark, that’s all that matters.”
+
+But now, that memory feels hollow. That “mark” had vanished, just like his friend. Success hadn’t saved him.
+
+Another night, over half-empty glasses of beer:
+
+“What happens if we never find our purpose?” his friend had whispered. He shrugged. “Then we’ve wasted our lives.” “Maybe,” his friend had muttered, “or maybe we’ve just lived.”
+
+  
+
+Those words now echoed louder than ever, as if meant for this moment. The memories dissolved, but their weight lingered. He realized he wasn’t just grieving a friend, he was inheriting their unanswered questions, reshaping them into something he could carry. Perhaps there was no ultimate purpose. Perhaps that was the point.
+
+  
+
+Maybe life holds no grand purpose, no grand “why” waiting to be discovered. Or perhaps, life’s meaning lies not in what we find for ourselves, but in what we leave behind; the quiet ripples of kindness, the contributions that outlive the presence, the echoes of who we were in others’ lives. Maybe the only truth is that life goes on, with or without answers. Some call it tragedy; others, freedom. Life may not be about uncovering a purpose written among the stars, but about inventing small ones that vanish with us like a laugh shared at dinner, a hand held in silence, a dream chased even if it fails.
+
+He breathed in, breathed out, and carried on—not because he knew why, but because he didn’t need to anymore.
+
+  
+
+> *“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”* — **Albert Camus**