This is not a story about one person’s life. It is a mirror held up to any life — to ask what it could be. Not a list of achievements or failures, but a journey into what ifs, how comes, and did I truly notice?
By Abdullah Usman Morai
If a human life stretches across a full hundred years, it means they are gifted approximately 36,500 days on this planet.
It sounds vast and an immense number, almost infinite. But that illusion fades when we look closely. A single day comes and goes with the blink of an eye, the ticking of a clock, a sunrise, a sunset. And when bundled together, 36,500 of them still feel far too few when we ask: What did I do with all those days? How many of those days were truly lived? How many were soaked in meaning, connection, beauty, or growth?
This is not a story about one person’s life. It is a mirror held up to any life — to ask what it could be. Not a list of achievements or failures, but a journey into what ifs, how comes, and did I truly notice?
The Quiet Arithmetic of Days That Slip Unnoticed
If I had 36,500 days, how many did I live fully and realize their value?
Not just breathe in, breathe out. But live.
With presence, with feeling, with attention, and the richness of today.
How many days did I rush through, eyes on the clock, heart somewhere else entirely?
How many mornings did I open my eyes but forget to feel grateful and open my heart that I could?
How many nights did I fall asleep with worry in my chest instead of peace in my soul?
We’re told life is long. But what if it’s not?
What if it’s just long enough for those who learn to notice?
Did I ever walk slowly through a forest, not for exercise, but for presence?
Did I listen to the birds, not just hear them? The birds converse in languages I’ll never understand, and yet feel completely welcomed by.
Did I notice how the fallen leaves make soft sounds underfoot, reminding us that even endings can be beautiful? Falling leaves weren’t just debris from branches, but nature’s quiet reminder:
What if I paid attention to the smallest things — the shape of a stone, the curl of tree bark, the scent of damp earth?
The Sacredness of Small Things and The Music of Life Around Us
Did I feel the softness of moss beneath my shoes?
What if everything ends? But everything, in its time, is also beautiful.
Did I pause by a stream and let the sound of flowing water wash my spirit? Or to hear the flowing water’s steady song?
Did I hear how rain sounds different on rooftops, on leaves, on skin? What if I took time to just listen — to the rain falling softly on rooftops, to wind in the trees, to the unspoken calm that exists beneath all noise?
What if I sat by a fire and listened to the wood crackling gently in the warmth, the sound of fire whispering like a secret? The voice of trees returning to the sky in smoke?
Did I ever watch that smoke curl from a chimney in winter, and realize that warmth, too, has a sound?
Did I ever pick up a stone and wonder how many centuries it had waited to be noticed?
What if a meaningful life isn’t found in faraway places, but in the details we so often miss?
If I ever stood by the sea, did I let the waves speak to me — about time, about surrender, about rhythm?
Did I ever bake bread or plant a seed — and marvel at the quiet joy of nurturing something with my own hands?
Did I learn the slow magic of cooking — where flavors blend like memories, and the aroma fills not just the room, but the heart?
The Art of Making, Giving, Growing
If I had hands, did I use them to create? Did I knead dough with intention, bake bread with love, and stir food with stories?
Did I plant anything — a flower, a herb, a tree — and feel awe when it grew?
Did I learn that the act of growing something is less about success and more about connection?
The soil teaches patience. The kitchen teaches care. That waiting for dough to rise is a form of hope.
What if I had the ability to nourish — not just bodies, but hearts?
Did I ever cook a meal not for a celebration, but simply because someone looked tired and I wanted them to feel held?
The Measure of Kindness
If I passed by strangers, did I acknowledge their humanity?
Did I speak to the janitor the same way I spoke to the CEO?
What if my true character was revealed not in how I treated those who helped me, but in how I treated those who couldn’t offer me anything at all?
If animals crossed my path, did I see them as living souls or background scenery?
If I stood in forests, on mountains, near oceans — did I feel reverence, or entitlement?
What if the Earth remembered me — would it smile?
Relationships and Responsibility – The Real Wealth
If I had the gift of family, did I nurture those bonds? Did I cherish them, or assume they’d always be there?
Did I protect, encourage, and stand beside those I loved — or did I take them for granted?
Did I sit with my parents in silence, listen without interrupting, and thank them without needing a reason?
If I raised children, did I pass on wisdom or just rules? Did I raise them with compassion, not control? Did I teach them love before discipline, curiosity before obedience?
Did I hug them when they failed, or just correct them when they did wrong?
If I had siblings, would I have forgiven quickly?
What if I had elders who needed my time, patience, or attention? Did I sit with their silence, or rush past it?
If friendships blessed my life, did I treasure them? Did I hold space for them, or just share jokes and photos?
Did I become someone others could trust, especially when no one was watching?
What if the most valuable moments in life aren’t the big declarations, but the quiet acts?
A shoulder rubbed during a tough day. A message sent at the right time. A hand held without asking why.
The Test of Character
If I encountered people who were struggling, did I turn away or lean in?
Did I greet the cleaner, the delivery man, and the street vendor, with dignity?
Did I help someone who would never be able to repay me, and feel no need for recognition?
What if kindness is the only real test of who we are? And not just kindness to people, but to all living beings.
If an animal looked into my eyes, did I look back — and see a soul?
Did I ever feed a hungry cat, stop for a wounded bird, or speak softly to a scared dog?
Did I treat nature as home, or just background?
When I stood in a meadow, on a cliff, by the sea, did I feel awe or ownership?
What if the Earth is keeping a silent record — not of our footsteps, but of our gentleness?
The Inner Life and the Outer Noise
If I had the ability to think, feel, and question, did I use it to grow? Did I keep my mind open and explore, wonder — even when others told me to settle?
Did I seek meaning, or just achievement?
What if success wasn’t about wealth or status, but peace of mind and alignment with one’s values?
If I was hurt — and surely I was — did I let the pain shape me with wisdom or harden me with resentment?
What if I could forgive myself and others more freely?
If I was lost — and I must have been, more than once — did I stay still long enough to be found?
What if growth wasn’t about becoming someone else, but finally accepting who I truly am?
Joy, Legacy, and the Echo We Leave – The Echo After the Song
If I lived 36,500 days, did I create joy or merely chase it? What would I leave behind? Not in wealth. Not in fame.
But in the feelings I gave to others.
Did someone feel less alone because I existed?
Did I leave behind memories that comfort, stories that inspire, actions that ripple beyond my time?
What if I am remembered not for what I built, but for who I was when no one was watching?
Did I find joy in the grand events, or in the ordinary ones — warm tea, shared laughter, honest conversations, the feel of sunlight on my face, or a dog or cat curled at my feet?
If I leave the world tomorrow, what will remain?
Not my possessions. Not my titles.
But perhaps the way someone felt heard because of me.
The courage someone found because I believed in them.
The tree I planted.
The child I inspired.
The dinner I cooked for someone who needed comfort.
The moment I chose gentleness over judgment.
And when they speak of me, will they say:
“He was kind.”
“She listened.”
“They cared deeply.”
“They noticed things.”
Because in the end, what else matters?
Closing the Book of Life: The Final Page
What if life is a book, and every day is a page?
What story did I write across 36,500 pages?
Did I fill it with fear, comparison, and delay — or with risk, love, effort, and wonder? Or are they colored with presence, warmth, effort, and soul?
And when the final page arrives — as it surely must, whether on day 36,500 or far before — will I feel panic? — Will I look back with regret? Did I write my story — or did I let someone else hold the pen?
Or will I whisper to myself, gently but surely, exhale, smile softly, and say:
“I lived. I tried. I loved. I mattered. I saw. I felt. I gave. It was beautiful.”
Final Reflection
To live a hundred years is rare, but if yes, it is a gift. But to fill those days with depth, kindness, presence, and quiet wonder, courage, tenderness, and awe — that is a life well lived. That is extraordinary.
So the question isn’t:
“How long will I live?”
But rather:
“What will I do with the life I have — starting today?”
Read: Strange Beliefs and Lucky Charms
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Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.
