In my neighbourhood, a few high-rise buildings are springing up. They all have balconies, a sign that they are residential blocks. From a distance, they form a chequered pattern against the sky.
Yet I rarely see anyone sitting out on those balconies. The wind that once carried quiet thought as someone stirred their morning chai, eating roasted ground nuts and admiring the scenery, now only dries laundry.
The spaces meant to host private conversations, where forgiveness is sought or counsel is given, are now filled with broken furniture and old toys-things no longer needed. On some, small sigiris and bags of charcoal darken the walls, painting traces of daily survival where leisure was once imagined.
Sometimes I wonder if these balconies are mirrors of our lives; open spaces that once carried our aspirations but now echo only our absence. We build homes with views so that our eyes can escape the walls that hold us during the day, yet those horizons are lost to darkness, because we leave before dawn and return after dusk. We buy furniture for comfort, and yet spend our evenings elsewhere, in traffic, on phones, in worry.
It is comfort without presence, emptiness neatly adorned. Comfort has become the stranger we invite into our homes, the one that mocks our absence with unwrinkled cushions and untouched chairs, that we pay people to clean because they gather dust anyway.
Our bedrooms are sanctuaries, each master bedroom designed to look like it has mastered rest. The beds are measured by the inches, fitted with spring mattresses and grand headboards. We make them with white linen and fluffy pillows, dressing them in matching bedspreads to set the mood for sleep, that sacred moment when the body rebuilds itself for the next day.
But when it’s time to sleep, we are somewhere else, scrolling on our phones, catching a drink, watching a movie, or sitting before the laptop with the office we carried home. Maybe this is what Abraham Maslow was trying to teach us, that once our basic needs are met, life asks for something deeper.
After we have built comfort and security, and been able to provide food, shelter, and safety, we may find ourselves stalling halfway up the ladder, unsure how to climb towards the apex of belonging, meaning, and peace. The lower rungs of the ladder require us to gather from the outside, yet as we reach self-actualisation, we must look inward to sustain what we have gathered with our presence.
Presence has now become the one thing we cannot afford because we have spent so long decorating our lives to express ourselves, forgetting that expression without presence is only performance. And so, when absence owns the things we buy, luxury becomes decoration.
The cars are still polished, the linen still white, the bed still grand, the balcony still framed against the sky, yet we are nowhere to behold them. Perhaps to make progress up the ladder, we must stop reaching outward and begin going inward. Sit longer on our couches, eat dinner at the dinner table, call our friends instead of scrolling past their photos on our phones.
The journey upward is not about acquiring more but about returning to ourselves. Going in is how we afford presence-the invisible wealth that builds belonging, peace, and meaning. The impact of these small restorations of living on public health is immeasurable. It lives in the presence we bring to our lives, our meals, and one another.