The Paradox of Ownership

Have you ever imagined how vast the concept of ‘space’ is? It is undefined, broad, and expansive, waiting to be claimed. It exists in its way until someone steps into it, breathes life into it, and gives it meaning. But when does a space become a place? When do we start to belong?

As a Test Room Supervisor, I escort test-takers to their desks. ‘This is your desk,’ I tell them. At that moment, a generic workstation transforms into being owned by a person. They arrange their mouse, keyboard, and screen with quiet familiarity, creating a sense of ownership. For three hours, this small corner of the room belongs to them. And then, as the test ends, they gather their belongings, push back their chairs, and leave. The desk, once ‘theirs,’ resets, ready for the next person.

When we lose someone, do we mourn the absence of our person, or do we grieve the part of ourselves that leaves with them? When we lose a job, is it the countless hours of effort slipping away, or the loss of our livelihood that weighs heavier on scale? It’s like a Schrödinger’s cat paradox — where we were present, yet not entirely, and what we once claimed as ours was never truly ours to begin with.

We build homes, decorate rooms, and fill shelves with books and memories. We call these places ours. But how different is that from the test-taker who claims a desk for three hours? The walls may hold echoes of our words, and the floors may remember the rhythm of our footsteps, but in the grand scheme, do we own these places, or do they own us? This extends beyond physical spaces — titles, relationships, even identities shift over time. What we claim as ‘ours’ is often just a borrowed fragment of something greater. Even when our bodies are not ours and so one day — the soul, too, will leave the world.

Recently, I was reading something and found out that in Islam, everything ultimately belongs to God. “To Allah belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth.” (Quran 3:189) We are just travelers passing through. Our true belonging isn’t tied to places but to purpose — to how we live, how we connect, how we show gratefulness for a life that was given to us, how we make use of it and how we give back.

When we see space as temporary, we tend to loosen our grip on attachment from the materialistic world. There is something both unsettling and beautiful about this realization — everything we hold dear is fleeting, yet in that temporariness lies the essence of life itself. Nothing we call ours is ever truly ours, and perhaps, in accepting this, we free ourselves from the fear of loss. How fascinating it is that in letting go, we come closer to understanding what truly matters. The test-taker lets go of their desk. The homeowner eventually leaves their house. The person who loses their job eventually moves on to another. And this is how the cycle of life continues.

If nothing is truly ours, then perhaps what matters most is not what we claim, but what we contribute. Does our presence transform a space into a place of meaning, warmth, and kindness? Long after we have moved on, what will remain? A smile shared, a prayer whispered, a kindness extended — these are the things that will respect us, the things that turn borrowed spaces into sacred places.

So maybe the real question isn’t what do we own? but how do we leave a space better than we found it? And when we finally leave this world, maybe the spaces we once occupied will remember us in the way that matters. Perhaps no one will remember the things we accumulated, but the love we left behind, the words that mattered, and the lives we touched. And maybe, in that momentary presence of kindness, we can finally find a kind of permanence that transcends beyond the paradox of belonging.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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