Category: Thoughts

I recently rewatched Passengers—that 2016 sci-fi film where a man wakes up alone on a spaceship, decades before he’s supposed to.

It was actually my dad who reminded me of the movie. He said he just watched it for the third time and still found it worth revisiting.

So I thought—why not?

At first, I wasn’t expecting much. I assumed it’d be another romanticized space story. But it caught me off guard—and the questions it raised stuck around.

Jim, the main character, is the only one prematurely awoken from hibernation on a 120-year journey to a new planet.

He’s completely alone. No people. No destination he’ll live to see. Just an android bartender and the slow, heavy weight of isolation.

If he doesn’t do anything, he would live 60 more years and die lonely in the middle of the space.

Eventually, in his desperation, Jim makes a decision: he wakes up another passenger, Aurora — played by beautiful Jennifer Lawrence.

On paper, it sounds like salvation.

A second chance.

A god-like act of “giving life.”

But really, he’s dragging her into the same hopeless reality he’s been trapped in.

What hit me hardest wasn’t just the ethical dilemma—but how instinctive his reaction is.
He doesn’t look relieved.
He looks guilty.

Almost like a god who just pulled someone out of paradise and sentenced them to exile. His panic says it all—he didn’t “save” her. He stole her future.

And that made me wonder: how often do we confuse “giving life” or “helping someone” with goodness—without really thinking about what kind of life we’re offering?

Because sometimes, giving life isn’t a gift.
Sometimes, it’s a burden wrapped up as kindness.

That hit something personal.

I’ve been in situations—relationships, friendships—where stepping into someone’s life felt like an offering. A connection. Something we both needed. But in hindsight, it wasn’t always mutual. Sometimes it was beautiful. Other times, it meant pulling someone into a world they didn’t ask to enter. And I’ve been on the receiving end of that, too…

We all carry the power to shape someone’s path, whether we admit it or not. That power can feel generous. It can feel like love. But it can also be dangerous if the intent is not clear or is not mutually shared.

Passengers reminded me that these life-giving choices aren’t always heroic. Sometimes they’re selfish. Sometimes they’re desperate.

And sometimes, they come from a place of love—but still cause harm.

There’s a moment in the film when Aurora finds out what Jim did. She’s devastated.

She doesn’t speak to him.

She shuts down completely.

And then, Jim tries to explain:

“I was so lonely. I fell in love with you before I met you. I wanted you here with me.”

That line made me think…

Because it’s not evil—it’s just human. Messy, desperate, imperfectly human.

And that’s what makes it hard to watch. Because it reflects something we’ve all done in some way—acted from our own need and called it care.

We like to think we’re doing good. That we’re helping. That we’re offering something meaningful. But sometimes what looks like love is just our fear of being left behind—dressed up in prettier words.

The film doesn’t try to clean any of this up. There’s no neat ending. No moral redemption. Just two people stuck in a metal box, learning how to live with what’s been done—and trying to find meaning in a life neither of them chose.

There’s no clean resolution to that.
Maybe there doesn’t need to be.

But I do think this:

Before we bring someone into our world—literally or emotionally—we should ask ourselves honestly:

What kind of world are we inviting them into?

Closing notes

While I was reflecting on all this, I wasn’t just thinking about romantic love. I was thinking about every kind of love that makes us act—that pushes us to bring someone into our lives.

A dog you adopted. A baby you brought into the world. A friend you insisted on keeping close.

Love is powerful. It’s one of the most beautiful drivers we have. But it often walks hand in hand with ego, with longing, with the quiet hope that something—or someone—might fill the empty spaces we carry. Acknowledging that doesn’t make love less precious. If anything, it makes it more real.

It was just another Sunday in Berlin, the kind where you aimlessly wander through a flea market, pretending you’re on a mission for something specific—when really, you’re just hoping to stumble across something interesting. Usually, I’m scanning for old furniture or quirky poster. But that day, what pulled me in wasn’t a mid-century table or a dusty lamp—it was a song.

There was an old record player playing at one of the stalls. Nothing fancy. But the music it played stopped me in my tracks. It had this slow, hypnotic pull—something between a lullaby and a confession. The song felt timeless and sad, but not in a way that made you feel heavy. It was more like: “Yeah, life’s strange… but you’re still here.”

We stood there—me and my friend—pretending to inspect the player, but really, we were just quietly captivated.

No one wanted to break the spell.

We just looked at each other in awe and slightly nodded approving the song. No words spoken but we understood each other. 

Eventually, I pulled out my phone to Shazam it.
Talk Talk – Tomorrow Started.
I hadn’t heard it before, but it hit something deep.

Talk Talk: Not Just Another 80s Band

I knew Talk Talk vaguely—like a lot of people, through “It’s My Life” or “Such a Shame.” But Tomorrow Started was something else. It felt like a different band entirely—slower, deeper, heavier. Not heavy in volume, but in atmosphere. It was cinematic. Reflective.

That one track sent me down a rabbit hole. I started digging into Talk Talk’s evolution—from synth-pop beginnings to their later, more abstract soundscapes. And suddenly, a whole new world of music opened up.

The Lyrics That Don’t Scream, But Stay

The lyrics of Tomorrow Started aren’t trying to explain themselves. There’s something distant about them—like someone talking from the other side of a foggy mirror. But that’s what made them stick. They feel like a conversation you’ve had with yourself on a quiet winter night just before falling asleep, when you’re not really trying to figure things out—just sitting with what is.

“They never seem to be any use

It’s just tomorrow starting”

There’s a kind of tension in the song—one voice feels exhausted, maybe resigned. Another keeps whispering that something might still be possible, although they are the same vocal. It’s not hope in pink clouds. It’s hope on a low battery. But it’s still there.

A Sound That Breathes

What really hooked me was the sound. It wasn’t trying to impress. It was just… honest. Synths that didn’t glitter, but hovered. Drums that didn’t push forward, but floated under everything. And vocal’s voice—cracking, fragile, completely human.

“…it carries emotion without having to shout.”

That’s what I’ve come to love about synth-pop—not just the catchy beats that people associate with the 80s, but how it carries emotion without having to shout. How it wraps itself around melancholy, ambiguity, longing—and just lets them exist.

Music discovery is weird like that…

I didn’t buy the record player that day. But I did start building a new kind of playlist—full of synth-pop tracks that weren’t about escape, but about reflection. I’ve since gone back to that flea market a few times, but I’ve never heard anything like that moment again. And maybe that’s what made it special.

Music discovery is weird like that. Sometimes it’s a curated algorithm. Other times, it’s a scratchy vinyl in a dusty Berlin stall on a grey Saturday.

“Tomorrow started with a record I didn’t know I needed.”