EVERYTHING HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE

 

We live in a world that often glorifies permanence. We’re told to invest in things that last “forever,” to build relationships that will stand the test of time, and to create work that will outlive us. And so, many of us, myself included, grow up with the belief that once something is ours, it will always remain. But life has a way of reminding us otherwise.

It’s in the moments when something breaks, when systems fail, or when change knocks unexpectedly at our door that we’re forced to face a humbling truth: nothing is truly permanent.

I once had a conversation with my dentist that changed the way I look at life. My crown had broken, and I was upset about it. I remember asking him why it broke and what use it was to me if it couldn’t last a lifetime. His answer was simple, yet so profound that it has stayed with me ever since: “Everything has a lifespan. Nothing on this earth is permanent. Even we as humans eventually die.”

Those words struck me. In that moment, I realized how often I hold on to the illusion of permanence, expecting things to last forever. But the truth is, everything has an expiration date, whether it’s objects, systems, relationships, or even habits.

The Illusion of Permanence

We live in a world where marketing sells us the dream of “forever.” A phone that will serve us endlessly. A website that will run smoothly once it’s built. A crown that should stay in place for life. Yet reality is different. Everything requires maintenance, repair, or eventual replacement.

Take my website, for example. When it recently experienced downtime, I was frustrated. My first thought was: “Why isn’t this permanent? Didn’t I already put in the work?” I had subconsciously assumed that once I created it, it would remain stable without further effort. But websites, just like people, need check-ups, updates, and care.

My frustration revealed something deeper: I struggle with the idea that things I build or invest in won’t last forever. I want them to, but they don’t, and that dissonance unsettles me.

The Price of Value

This also occurs when I purchase expensive electronics. The moment something breaks, I feel cheated: “Why spend so much money on something that won’t last?”

But that’s the reality, we aren’t paying for eternity. We’re paying for value within a time span. Even the most durable products eventually wear out. And perhaps that’s the point: value isn’t measured by how long something lasts, but by how much use and meaning it provides while it lasts.

Patterns of Attachment

I’ve realized this mindset of permanence affects not only my possessions but also my habits, my work, and even my relationships. Somewhere deep down, I’ve always believed that once something is mine, it will always be mine.

That’s why letting go has always been difficult for me. Whether it’s a broken phone, a failed project, or even a piece of art I don’t like, my instinct is to hold on, to finish, to see it through. If I start a painting and dislike it halfway, I can’t just abandon it. I’ll push through until the end, even if I remain unsatisfied with the result.

At first glance, that may look like discipline and consistency. And in some ways, it is. This is why I always see things through to the end. It’s why people often describe me as reliable, consistent and loyal. Those are strengths.

But there’s also a downside. The same consistency that keeps me finishing projects also keeps me stuck in patterns, a loop, even when those patterns don’t serve me. I remain consistent in failure as much as in success. I cling tightly to things long after their expiration date, sometimes out of loyalty, sometimes out of habit, sometimes out of fear.

The Double-Edged Sword of Consistency

Consistency is both my superpower and my struggle.

On the one hand, it has taught me perseverance. It has allowed me to complete works of art, to finish difficult projects, to maintain routines when motivation falters. It is the quiet force that ensures progress.

On the other hand, it can chain me to things I should release. A project that no longer excites me. A routine that no longer nurtures me. A relationship that no longer serves me. By insisting on finishing everything, I sometimes forget that not everything deserves to be finished. Some things are meant to be paused, reimagined, or simply let go.

Learning to Embrace Expiration

This lesson about impermanence is still unfolding in my life. I am learning that expiration dates are not failures. They are reminders that life is dynamic. Just as seasons change, so too do the things we create, use, and experience.

Permanence was never the promise. Presence is.

The crown that broke served me for years. The website downtime taught me to be attentive and adaptive. The phone that eventually failed gave me countless moments of connection and creativity. Even the artwork I dislike teaches me something new about my craft, an opinion formed at a glance, but still shaped by the act of creation.

And maybe the deeper truth is this: expiration dates force us to keep moving. They prevent us from clinging forever to the old, and they make space for the new.

A Gentle Shift

So instead of resenting impermanence, I’m trying to embrace it. To see the lifespan of things as part of their beauty. To remind myself that endings are not betrayals but natural transitions.

Everything has an expiration date, but that doesn’t diminish its worth. It only means we must be present while it lasts, grateful for the value it gives, and willing to let go when its time is done.

Because in the end, maybe the point isn’t for things to last forever. Maybe the point is to let them shape us while they last.

MY MIND IS A CONSTANT LOOP

 

There’s a coldness that surrounds me constantly. I can’t quite explain it. Only that it lingers, quietly wrapping itself around my thoughts, consuming any warmth I try to hold onto. It drains me of energy, strips me of drive, and slowly pulls at the threads of my ambition. It’s like a fog, subtle, but persistent. Dimming the light inside me and shuttering the dreams I once held so vividly. Every spark of hope seems to flicker out before it can become a flame, and I'm left wondering what happened to all the things I was once so sure of.

There’s this looming sense of disappointment that trails me. Not necessarily about where I am, but about where I think I should be. It’s like a shadow that whispers, "You could have done more. You could have been more." And maybe it's right. Or maybe it's just the echo of comparison and unmet expectations. Either way, it feeds on my courage, chipping away at the resilience I try so hard to preserve. It keeps reminding me to be discontented as though I haven’t been blessed, as though I don’t already have so much to be grateful for.

But I do. I know I do.

Still, that doesn't quiet the noise.

There’s also a shadow from my past that clings to me. It shows up uninvited, replaying past accomplishments that I once brushed off, things I didn’t celebrate, because I didn’t think they were enough. And yet, now, those same moments seem precious. They remind me that I’ve done good things, even if I didn’t give myself the grace to acknowledge them back then. Somehow, I’ve tethered myself to these echoes, unable to surrender the past, yet unsure how to carry it forward with peace.

Then comes the fear of the future. It creeps in quietly, disguising itself as preparation or caution. I imagine the worst-case scenarios, running through them as if I’m rehearsing for disaster. Still, somehow, I remain hopeful, hopeful that better days are ahead. It’s a strange kind of duality, living between anxiety and expectation. The present feels like a blur, like I’m neither here nor there. As though my efforts today don’t quite measure up, or aren’t even being seen. There’s a disconnection from the now, like I’m always either looking back with regret or forward with fear.

I find myself questioning what I’m meant to celebrate. The things I once held proudly seem to have slipped from my hands. And yet, I still reflect, search for meaning, trying to believe that the future is not yet written. That the choices I make now still have weight. Still have the power to shape something good.

And yet, none of it seems to make sense. It’s a cycle, a loop that wraps itself around my thoughts, tightening and loosening without warning. A tug-of-war with reality, where my mind crafts scenarios both real and imagined. They dance endlessly in my head, teasing my peace, shaking my calm. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one destabilizing myself, or if life just comes with this kind of inner noise. I tell myself I have control and, in some ways, I do. But in others, I feel like a passenger just trying to hold on.

Still, deep down, I know something important: I get to decide. I get to decide what I focus on. What I feed. What I let grow. And what I let go of.

Life is a wonder. Sometimes frustratingly so. I find myself rereading the things I write, observing the patterns that consume my mind. And I realize that, after all is said and done, I’m still me. The core of who I am hasn't changed. Only time has passed. The visions, the worries, and the uncertainties remain the same. Maybe they always will. Maybe that's just part of being human.

It's just another day in the loop. Another attempt to make sense of it all. Another journal entry, another deep breath, another quiet reminder that I’m still here, still standing, still feeling, still hoping. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

Hopefully, one day, it will all make sense.

 

THE SHIFT OF THE DIGITAL AGE

When the Machine Creates, Is There Still Room for the Human Touch?

I feel as though I keep having to relearn a new skill just to stay ahead, to keep up with the times, because if I don’t, I’ll be left behind. It wasn’t too long ago that knowing Photoshop was a big deal. I remember growing up and just learning how to use a computer, having to get used to typing because writing by hand was all I knew. I didn’t even have a cellphone at one point, before high school, because it didn’t exist at an affordable price, and back then, the internet wasn’t even a thing, at least not accessible from the comfort of my home.

But life comes at you fast.

The internet arrived, and cyber cafés became the place to be. I remember paying to access the internet, a luxury not many could afford to have at home. Then came owning a cellphone, and eventually laptops. Technology started placing access to information right at the palm of our hands. Libraries started to dwindle. Dictionaries were no longer a necessity.

Now, when I try to hold a pencil and paper, I realize I’ve become so accustomed to typing that I’ve almost forgotten my own beautiful handwriting.

As a graphic designer, my work feels constantly under threat. Ironically, I taught myself much of what I know through the same internet that now makes things too easy. YouTube, tutorials, free resources, they were my teachers. I learned Illustrator the same way. But now, with websites like Canva simplifying the process for everyone, our years of training and creative muscle often feel like a joke.

Still, I jump on the trends. Because the truth is, if life can be made easier, why not embrace it, right?

As a photographer, I used to take pride in the weight of my DSLR camera, its lenses, its gear, the time it took to compose and edit a shot. But today, everyone carries a high-definition camera in their pockets. What even is the value of a DSLR anymore? What even is the purpose of our jobs when almost anyone can take a decent photo on their phone?

Then came AI, and the threats accelerated. Now, a design or an image can be created instantly with just a prompt. Work that once took hours of thinking, planning, and crafting can be generated in seconds.

Where does that leave us?

My traditional paintings, especially my acrylic work, are now mimicked by digital brushes and layering techniques. What once required mastery of color mixing and brush control is now replicated with a tap and a drag. Traditional artists resisted this shift, often dismissing digital artists as “fake.” But they hadn’t seen the coming of AI, something that would challenge their value even more.

In my case, I’ve never been confident drawing human portraits. Digital tools allowed me to work around this by cartoonizing or drawing over images, something traditional media never gave me room to do. I took advantage of it, but then I started worrying about copyright. I wasn’t sure where the lines were drawn, no pun intended. AI then became a kind of blessing, offering references I could use legally, though even that is still a grey area.

So here we are today, facing AI’s rapid rise, watching our work being consumed literally at the touch of a button. Just press “Enter” after typing a command.

But if you think about it, can we even call it art?

We now compete with machines, hoping to be chosen in a world that’s slowly losing its appreciation for the human form and the human touch. Even my writing has been affected. As a creative writer, I’ve become more productive because AI has helped me put my thoughts into words I never thought possible. I can fine-tune my work quickly. I no longer need an editor because grammar checks and flow suggestions are done instantly. But in that efficiency, someone else’s job, someone’s years of experience, becomes less necessary.

All these shifts in such a short time during my lifetime make me wonder what past generations were doing. How has so much changed so quickly? And more importantly, what is to come?

What happens to our creative exploration?
Are we doomed to rely entirely on machines?
Or is our work still relevant?

Maybe the question isn’t about fighting the tools but learning how to use them wisely. Maybe the key is in finding balance, not replacing the human touch, but amplifying it.

 

LIVING IN HOPES

If we all knew our destiny and it was hopeless, we’d probably just give up. What’s the point of trying when you already know it ends badly? But the truth is… we don’t know. And in that, not knowing is where we find hope. It’s the quiet, persistent voice that says, “Maybe it’ll work out. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe this step will lead somewhere better.”

That hope is what keeps many of us going, especially when things don’t seem to add up. I’ve had people talk to me with awe in their voices… amazed at the things I’ve done or the projects I’ve worked on, in the things I have accomplished in my life thus far. And yet, behind the scenes, the numbers don’t always reflect the admiration. The value people see in me doesn’t always show up in reward.

And that used to bother me. Still does sometimes. But I’ve come to understand that I’m not failing, I’m learning. In the process of it all, I’ve become an experienced learner. Life has taught me so many lessons that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Some came the hard way. Some I still don’t fully understand. Each one has added something with a little wisdom here, a little strength there; each one has shaped me into the person I am today.

Sometimes I wonder… is it too late?
To change paths?
To start over?
To try something bold?

I keep hearing it’s never too late, so I know this. The real question is: do you still have the courage to try?

Lately, I have been feeling like it's time to start a new skill or make some changes.

You never really know if a choice is right or wrong until you make it. That’s the risk we all have to take. The only thing that matters is that the choices you make are yours, not forced. Not manipulated, yours. And with that ownership comes power. Though I keep questioning, how do you make them with certainty, if all you do is doubt and question your choices?

George Bernard Shaw once said, “Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last you create what you will.” That quote always reminds me that everything starts in the mind. A dream. An idea. A picture in your head that feels so real you can almost touch it.

So if you’re living in hopes… that’s okay.
Hope is not weakness. It’s not delusion.
It’s breath for the soul.
It’s how you take another step even when your legs are tired.
It’s how you choose to believe in a version of your life that hasn’t shown up yet.

And maybe it will…
Maybe not in the way you imagined, but in a way that still makes sense.
A way that’s still beautiful.

Until then, keep imagining. Keep choosing. Keep living.
Not because you’re guaranteed success, but because it’s your life to live.