Quiet Luxury Story — Part I

Quiet Luxury Story — Part I

It’s been a minute.
At least that’s what I’ve been telling həsəl.

Yeah, I talk to həsəl—because it’s me. My inner child. The version of me from a time when dreams flourished, beliefs soared, and social chatter or media hadn’t placed an overlay on them yet. Back then, the noise didn’t have this much opacity. Right now, it’s turned all the way up.

The noise in my head lately sounds like content creation jargon. Algorithms. Posting schedules. Aesthetic expectations. Creating “something” not just to express, but to be seen. If I’m being honest, content creation gives me anxiety. The kind that convinces me everything I make has to be aesthetically pleasing to the eyes—and quietly serve the ego too.

But that’s not the only noise bouncing around.

I used to day trade a little. I told myself it was to fund həsəl. Something productive. Responsible. But looking back, it was more of an alibi for self-sabotage towards həsəl’s progression. In trading, you’re always analyzing patterns—candlesticks— and sometimes waiting for a “squeeze.” And somewhere along the way, I realized I was living in one too.

The midlife squeeze.

Ray Dalio described it as “a silent crisis that traps millions of people… a perfect storm.” Overboard. Lost. Floating. Like Mark Wahlberg, but in a dense ocean of noise. Work [həsəl] demands rise, parents are aging, kids grow more expensive, and responsibilities stack higher every year. None of it slows down. None of it asks if you’re okay.

Some of that noise leaks out. Like when I scream out, in frustration, while driving alone. Windows up. No audience. Just me trying to release the noise bottled up.

All this noise messes with time.

I forget it—not in the way I want. Time feels like it’s moving fast because I’m not present. There’s a line in a song by Darren Waller, called 100 meters, where he says, “I want to slow down, but my life like a hundred meters.” That line stuck with me because that’s exactly how it feels. Life sprinting. Mentally, trying to breathe.

I want to be present. Especially with my kids. Their sports. Their moments. But instead, I catch myself checked out. Mentally. Physically. On autopilot.

I recently watched The Long Walk, and it hit closer than I expected. It’s about people who are just walking. Barely sleeping. Barely surviving. They can’t stop—because if they do, they get their “ticket.”

What struck me wasn’t the walking.
It was the watching.

Society lined up on the sidelines, consuming their endurance for pleasure. The walkers want to veer off the road. Take a break. Step away from the eyes on them. But they don’t—because stopping means judgment. Shame. Being “ticketed” to the afterlife, for choosing themselves.

So they keep walking.
Not for themselves—but for the spectators.

And that’s when I realized how familiar that felt.

Somewhere along that walk, I started wondering if the answer wasn’t to keep going—but to find a different way of being inside the noise.

To be continued...