humour, Inspiration, Narratives, philosophy, random

How’s life in England?

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone notifies me of yet another text bearing the same question I’ve heard daily since the past two months. And I am left wondering, yet again, how the hell do I answer this?

How’s life in England? Each day, I wake up with a slight hangover because somehow I have developed a habit of mistaking beer for water. The morning begins with me brewing a tasteless tea and slicing an apple, often along with my fingers. Then I connect my phone to the speakers as I eat my so-called breakfast and start preparing my lunch. Two months back, cooking was my least favorite task and now it is my top choice for procrastination. I chop vegetables while dancing to some 2000s rock. I still don’t know how I manage to pull that off. The day progresses as I finish cooking my lunch which is almost never completely consumed by me. I leave some curry for my flatmates. And by the evening, there’s no trace of it left. My utensils are cleaned and neatly placed back in my shelf. Cooking a little extra so that you don’t have to clean? I figure it’s a pretty good strategy to go by. But this is not what you want to know, do you?

How’s life in England? Well, mostly it’s the blue sky and chartreuse grass spread across remarkably vast stretches of land. Each day I discover a new breed of dog. Each day I come across those cars that I never thought I would see in three dimensions with my own eyes. Each day I meet different kinds of people. And almost each day, I write about them in a small cafe with a small blackboard placed at its gate happily flaunting the beautiful handwriting and the supposedly reasonable rates of different kinds of coffees. Hours pass by as I type random stuff on random things and before it gets too cold (and it’s not even Winter yet!) I return to my kitchen to enjoy a multi-cuisine dinner cooked by flatmates. My kitchen is not a particularly attractive one. The dining table is almost never cleaned. Sometimes, the refrigerators stink. Noone is ever able to find his/her plates or spoons or coffee cup on time. When one of us burns food accidentally, we don’t pray for our own safety. Instead we pray for the inefficiency of the smoke detector. I look at the small exhaust, the electric heat stove, the rarely used oven, the toaster that partially works and the silver platform that’s turning grey – This kitchen is as ordinary as it can be. I look at the people I am dining with. This kitchen is my favorite place. But this is not what you want to know either, is it?

How’s life in England? Whenever the sun shines outside my tiny window my heart swells with happiness and hope. And then I think of the pending work, my spinning head and my heart immediately sinks. My table is splashed with my clumsiness. I am running out of clean clothes to wear. The bedsheet of my bed is beginning to stink. The mattress has given me a permanent back ache but I love my tiny little corner. My cupboard is bare but surprisingly, I don’t hate my limited collection of clothes. I am slipping below the poverty line slowly but steadily. However, somehow I don’t hate my depleting financial state. I am not sure why I am here sometimes. To write life? To live life? Sometimes my room haunts me too – to make it more eerie, there are unexplained bruise marks on my limbs. My financial burden haunts me. My insecurity and uncertain future haunts me. My dreams haunt me. But I am here anyway, I guess, happily haunted.

Days in England – It was clear sky a second ago and it’s suddenly raining. And despite the unpredictable weather, I can safely predict that it would never rain when I do have an umbrella with me. The cloudy night sky is bit of a shame but at times when it is clear I can almost get lost among the diamonds shining above, along with the silhouettes of the trees caressing the edges of the river. And then there’s the moon. The same moon I wrote a letter to saying that I would do what I love to do and in some surreal way I am still keeping that promise. I like to picture myself looking at this satellite somewhere someday in the future and instead of the moon, I like to believe that I would be looking at my own present self. We would briefly acknowledge each other, smile and whisper, “It is going to be alright.” The moon is my imaginary time travelling machine. When I look at it now, I suddenly see myself searching for it through the clusters of buildings back in Vadodara or strolling under the moonlight through the peaceful beaches of Goa during my final undergraduate year or picturing nose or eyes on it during my kindergarten days.

How’s my life? Each day I am going older. Each day I am learning something new. Though I can’t specifically point out the change but I can still feel a certain kind of novelty running through my blood. Life in England – It’s the walks among the pretty homes in red bricks. It’s playing with the amber leaves lining the footpaths. It’s being marvelled by the sparrows with orange necks. It’s walking through the trails lining the river. It’s catching a brief experience of forest and making an escape from urban life during those walks. Living here is modern and ancient at the same time. I am simultaneously falling in love in Swedish beer and cutting masala chai found in the streets of India. I am simultaneously falling in love with butter croissant and Latte and also with freshly cooked potato paratha made by my mother back home. I am amazed by the quiet and peaceful locality but at the same time I sometimes miss the crowd and the cacophony as well.

It’s writing, so much writing, reading, scribbling, dancing, drinking and being terrified of the fact that these days are disappearing much faster than they should and also the fact that I would miss this more terribly than I can ever imagine. My life in England? Well, honestly, life seems to be chasing me instead of I chasing it for a change. At first it was overwhelmingly surreal. Now, it’s overwhelmingly busy. Like the gas compressed in a cylinder, it seems like a whole lifetime has been squeezed into a couple of months. Weeks are long but yet they fly by. And sometimes all I do is breathe and watch yet another sun explode into thousands of shades of Crimson and Magenta and all those hues that I can’t even name.

“So, how’s life in England?” My phone is still beeping with that whatsapp message.
“Good.” I text back.

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Inspiration, philosophy, Poetry

I don’t miss home,

Of course I don’t miss home,
Though it’s cold out here but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I miss the warmth.
Of course I don’t miss home,
Yes, I confess that the green bed of my dorm,
The matching duvets and pillows aren’t as somniferous as the violet hues of my room,
The humongous pin board bears such a vast scope for creativity,
But I admit it seems that I have left it all behind on the walls of a small place that I am not supposed to think much about.
But still I don’t miss home,
Not when I look through my tiny window and remember how large it used to be.
I don’t miss home,
I am too happy to bear such delusions,
After all the beauty of my surroundings hasn’t even sunk in,
The notion that I might be sharing same time and same space as this place still lies dangling as a mad hypothesis,
I haven’t properly forgotten the crowds, the dust, the hot weather of the past,
I haven’t even forgotten the sweat, the noise, the boredom, the four walls confining my life,
I haven’t forgotten that the food wasn’t always this tasteless,
I haven’t forgotten that the water used to cheaper than alcohol,
I haven’t forgotten about the time I had to waste,
I haven’t forgotten the anticipation, the butterflies, the apprehensions,
Regarding what that could now be called my present,
I haven’t forgotten much,
Despite being here,
I haven’t forgotten anything at all.
Though the dates in my calendar keeps rapidly changing,
Perhaps I can sit here listening to the same downtrodden playlist,
With my pen and a few things in my head to reminisce,
I can sit here for eternity or so it seems,
I can sit here pretending that the time is frozen.
So I don’t miss home.
I don’t miss it at all.
When I wake up tomorrow,
It would still be incredibly hard to believe
That I am here
Miles away,
In a strange beautiful land,
With strange people,
Under strange circumstances.
Some call it bold,
Some call it cowardly escape,
Some call it love,
Some call it outrageous stupidity,
Some exclaim in disbelief,
Some silently mutter in jealousy,
Some say “You don’t deserve it.”
Some say, “You are worth every penny.”
Some, so many,
All these people in my head,
Who travelled overseas on free tickets with me,
An entire world,
An infuriating celestial miracle,
Obnoxious electrochemical reactions inside my brain,
These people and I,
My room, my pen, the blue blue sky,
Beautiful things, beautiful places, beautiful beautiful faces,
That I peek through my invisibility cloak,
That I look at in wonder,
That I look at with curiosity,
That I look at in boredom…
Happy places, laughing faces,
Of course,
Of course it’s too early to miss home,
Too early to miss the recent past,
Too early to miss the current present.

What is this?
I,
Caught up in a few fucked up tenses,
Trying to make some decent sentences,
Stringing along the pearls of words,
Trying to weave a good fabric through some odd phrases,
Living the life,
Denouncing it at the same time,
Awed, and indifferent,
Amazed and hurt.
How nice! How wonderful!
How enigmatic! How treacherous!
How confusing! How difficult!
A simple question;
A lost answer,
And all this adventure in between –
“What do you want, dear heart?”

***

30 Days writing challenge, Inspiration

Day Fourteen – Downloading…

( A mother’s day special)

After another late night hearty dialogue with my mother, as I lay beside her wrapped in her arms, I ask god once again – What did I ever do to deserve her?
She implants another kiss on my forehead filled with pride. I am sinking beneath the wave of happiness and bewilderment – How could she believe in me more than I do? How is she capable of doing this? How does she have so much love to give away?
I wonder how does the nature manage to store so much love in its servers. God chuckles and replies back in my colloquial language, “This is not it, you know! When it comes to a mother’s love, our servers work in a magical way. Years might pass away and yet you would be far from completing the download! All that will blink on the screen of your life is a pop up menu that says; (Still) Downloading…
That’s how huge that file is. You ask me the exact size? You really think I would know?”

*

30 Days writing challenge, Inspiration

Day Eleven – Catastrophic

Dear Brain,
You are a mess. You are utter chaos tied together with a band on the verge of breaking. Your excellent ability to act like pendulum is remarkable. Or rather remarkably reproachable. Can you stop oscillating for once? For once! I don’t intend to demean you. I am not saying you aren’t talented at all. You are perfectly capable of doing amazing things. And you have done it in the past and you are going to do it in the future. But as far as the present goes, may I just mention here, how utterly skilled you are at risk and opportunity analysis? It is commendable, truly, the way you always have a long list of things that could go wrong and a subsequent mitigation plan already ready with you which somehow, despite your excellent efforts, you are never really much confident about. And yet, on a calm silent night when we are drunk on dopamine, when we stand just a few inches away from our dreams, one can find you lying beside me – shedding tears together plotting an opportunity curve to infinity! Ah brain! You are such a mess! You are dismissive. You are submissive. You are dismissive. You are submissive. Can you grow up and get off the roller coaster ride for once? For once! Can we, ever, peacefully amble across the beach instead and just marvel at the beauty of the ocean? But no, even in this supposedly tranquil stroll, you will find a way to be an absolute retard anyway, won’t you? No, don’t drag me here! Why blame me? I am the heart and I want what I want. It’s you who doesn’t know what you want. Fine, I understand it’s not easy being you. You have inherent hardwire problems that can’t be rectified. I get it. But can we strike a small deal? I promise I am not going to ask too much from you. Brain, if you can’t help but be a mess, then fine! Be a mess. Be the calculative, commutative, contemplative and the overly caring prodigious mess that you are. But then there’s another side to you. The wilder side. The dangerous side. The careless side who isn’t concerned about the pollutants dispersed in the wind, pending projects threatening you with a possibility of an eternal life, pending mails that are yet to be addressed, the mild headache and the grotesque possibilities it might entail, the long queue of problems knocking at our door, the uncertain future or the regrettable past! There’s a part of you that doesn’t follow the plan; there’s a part of you who looks at the present and says, “Gosh! It is so beautiful!”

My dearest, dearest brain! Let that part surface a bit more often! Stop being guilty about it! You are eccentric. Learn to accept that. You are not perfect and why should you be? Who the hell knows here what perfection is!  Stop being concerned about how you may or may not be a savior. You don’t even know what and whom to save exactly anyway! And that’s okay. You shouldn’t be concerned about this. Screw protecting and being protected! We are catastrophic. You are catastrophic. And that’s the best part.

Yours affectionately,
Heart

*

Inspiration, Musings from the coffee shop, Poetry, random

A wasted vocabulary

Words give away, you know. The snitch. Ratting bastards. Force your detachment, a vehement denial or a secret acceptance for a fiction juxtaposed on a non-fiction and yet they would make the forbidden revelations anyway. Tell them not to and they would confess loudly and openly your hitherto secrets even before you could confess it to your own self.

Words give away, the treacherous cartographers! They would shamelessly plot a map of your vulnerability; leaving it for others to discover and explore. Don’t use them on drawing books. They’d sketch and re-sketch your nakedness in all its ugliness.

Words! Don’t know how to handle them! Such confused creatures! Make them too simple and they would convey your message as a cacophonous crow’s call. Coat them with luxurious vocabulary and instead of glorifying the beauty of your thoughts they would fashionably accentuate your dishonesty and pretentiousness.

Words give away! Oh dear! Don’t trust them! The ultimate occupational hazard! Once you let the valves open there is no emergency button to shut them down. Keep these deceptive creatures away – they have several pathways leading straight to your heart, welcoming everyone, sparing none.

Words give away, the misleaders, the irritating fuckers!  Once the chosen ones hit your head, no synonyms can help you. Replace them with all the fancy syllables you know and yet they would stay out of tune until you use that clichéd set of musical notes that you had meant to avoid all along. Words leave you at odd times! They wouldn’t appropriately describe that amazing moment you had so desperately wanted to capture. And yet they would perfectly document the embarrassment that you resolved to forget permanently.

Words give away, don’t trust these babies and if you can still runaway, RUN! But if you can’t. Then welcome comrade! How have you been? Lie back. What can we do? Let us write a poem together. Don’t let someone else read it though. If you do, we would forever be trapped in the act of differentiating between false appreciation and honest compliment. Nothing would ever be good enough. But nothing can be bad either. Nevertheless, stay here, don’t go! Let’s marvel at the innocence hidden behind their maliciousness instead. Let’s watch them catch our ugly truths with infinite gracefulness. Let’s bloom without wondering about the odd colour combination of our petals. Let’s watch them make way for our idiosyncrasy carefully peeking out from the blanket of our sentences. Let’s swoon to the awkwardness of the lyrics that we just penned down. Let’s dance to the sorrow it conveys. Let’s share the tears at the joy it expresses. Aren’t you amazed by these supernatural abilities? Words give away, the lovers. Once they connect with you, there’s no way to break that bond. Words give away, the interpreters, they would translate the message that can never be spoken or seen. Words give away, the saviors! Even with all their treachery, how do we learn to live without them?

~Musings from the coffee shop

P.S. You can find more posts on the musings from the coffee shop here .

 

 

 

Inspiration, Musings from the coffee shop, philosophy, Poetry, theturquoiseink quotes.

How are you?

What do you mean? I mean I know what you mean but I don’t know. I don’t know how to answer that. How am I? Like the “W” in the word answer. Like the letters – U, E, U, E in the word queue. What’s that expression – French answer to this question? – comme ci comme ça. Like this like that. Like this. Like what? Like meaningless. Like pathetic. Like chaotic. Like not-good-enough. Like unoriginal. Like pretentious like I think that I am being all the time. And when I ask myself to be true, to be more “I” like in the word – I, I come up with same I.

How am I? You ask. Physically? Pretty sound. Have a slight head ache but who doesn’t. Mentally? As in if I am normal? Yes, Very. Thank you. Emotionally? Don’t ask. But then you have asked! Not well, my friend, not well. I am crushed. I am on a relentless ride of highs and lows. I have no clue how to stop it. There’s flood. There’s drought. Flood – when there’s too much happening at the same time and I am drowned in the haphazardness. Drought – when there’s too less happening over a long stretch of time and I am convinced that the end, despite being the inevitable entity, is never going to come.

Then living isn’t fun sometimes. Doing things I don’t like isn’t fun. Doing things that I like and then finding out that it isn’t as fun as I thought it would be, isn’t fun. Not doing anything isn’t fun. Just doing anything isn’t fun. But why am I complaining! I am supposed to be the lucky one! Be grateful, child! Be grateful! So, thank you for this life god, which you clearly created out of habit instead of necessity. Thank you for this.

But, yeah things are fine. This coffee is fine. My cellphone is fine. My laptop is fine. The weather is fine. The woman over there with the flowy red dress and the nicely tied bun is fine. And that group of school kids shouting over a game of UNO are fine. But how am I? I guess I am angry. Also sad. Also disgusted. Also disgusting. Also chaotic. Also ugly. Also clumsy. Also confused. But also alive. Also dreamy. Also calm. Also peaceful. Also inspired. Also amazed. Also beautiful. But then you don’t want to know all of this, do you? So, how am I? I am a careless and disproportionate mixture of fine(s). Of course, to put it simply, I am fine. Is there anything else we can all be?

~Musings from the coffee shop

humour, Inspiration, Narratives

The man in the boxer shorts

I wish I could tell you how happening my mornings are. I went to office in spaceship the other day. What? Didn’t I tell you my office is at moon? Or how I went on that long drive with Eddy (Edward Norton insists that I call him that) last Sunday morning.

But no, my mornings are woebegone faces of the broke industrialists drowned in enormous debts or politicians locked up in jails under the corruption charges that they didn’t really commit. I drag my legs to the bus stop through the dusty road and silently wait for bus like a goat waiting for butcher to get his knife. My legs, tied with so called responsibilities of building my own career and a respectable life and fear of what I might lose if I run away from this routine, find no pleasure in these morning strolls. My mornings are just outright bland like boiled potatoes that don’t even have a pinch of salt sprinkled over them. The only pleasure that I get is when the radio hits a peppy song and if, just if, I am not sleepy or grumpy enough, I might, just might, imagine myself dancing on it and a smile might peek from the back of the wall on my face for a split second. But music eventually fades away and I return to myself. I don’t mind being here – in my company, but when you make your grand entrance without being aware of it I realize how hard I had been missing you. You are the great rescuer! Breaker of chains from this mundane monotonous thing – you don’t know it and you would never but I will give you the credit anyway.

Sir, I don’t know you. It’s been a while since I last saw you and I hope you are doing okay. I am not sure if you have noticed me (though obviously I have) because I can’t really remember if we ever exchanged a smile or even a proper glance. But this is fine by me because you don’t seem like a person who care about these things. So, don’t mind me if you find me stringing along the words of praises for you. Because I cannot resist doing this. You are counted among the brighter parts of my day, one of the interesting elements of my fucked up mornings – Why would I hesitate from appreciating you especially when I know that this message would never reach you? That is how it usually works, right?

I am sure that I am never ever going to come across anyone like you again. Of course, there are people who are far more eccentric than you are but to me, there’s a class in your craziness! When I see you, I kind of brighten up from inside. Your odd sense of dressing is inspiring. Yes, and that was what that mainly drew my attention towards you in the first place. Your abnormality restores my faith in humanity. You, wrapped in a striped black blazer, your pink shirt, your Michael Jackson hat, your boxer shorts (that you are not embarrassed to show off) paired with calf length socks and your polished black formal shoes, are a walking story demanding to be told. No, I am not making fun of you. And I don’t think even if I am you would remotely be offended. You see – you don’t care. You being one of the rare gems who really knows how to do that. That’s amazing. Your consistency and commitment to maintaining your oddity doesn’t seem odd now. Everybody around is used to your misplaced presence; the guy at the tea stall, the sweeper who can’t stop smiling, the old spectacled beggar whose futile efforts to sell me pity are endless and in a way commendable, the lady whose weird way of walking makes me analyze my own in front of the mirror to confirm that I don’t walk like her, the lady who sells milk packets by the char-rasta with woolen scarf tied across her ears and below her chin looking oddly childish even though she must be over fifty, the fellow goats sipping tea and smoking cigarettes at the galla with their ID cards dangling over their necks and finally this borderline anorexic tall girl with a black bag swinging upon one shoulder, white earphones chords swaying with her steps, with her hunchback and messy hair hurriedly tied as a bow, spectacles unsuccessfully trying to cover her dark circles, her small tired face sometimes lost in thoughts and sometimes lost in series of stupid self-conversations, sometimes smiling, sometimes impassive, sometimes trying to mouth the lyrics of her favorite English song which she doesn’t really remember or a Buddhist chant ; none of these people find you odd anymore. If you become what they call “normal” that would be the thing that would be most abnormal.

Every piece of your clothing is a fashion apocalypse. The answer to why you dress this horrible way will always be food for my imagination. But the fact that it doesn’t deter you from flaunting them off is incredible! Every wrinkle on our face is an evidence of how your age might have taken a toll on you. And sometimes I can see sadness in your drooping eyes. Sometimes your impassive face seems like a potential threat of how at any second you are capable of doing anything, even something gravely dangerous. What is your story, sir? Is there any way you can tell me besides the conventional mode of communication?

food for thought, Inspiration, philosophy

The two assholes in our heads

Every night I sleep with a different state of mind. Old plans are screwed, new plans are made. There are new criteria for judging myself and there are new reasons to be hopeful. Everyday, I wake up with a different head. Sometimes there is a perpetual smile on my face and I keep wondering why am I even happy. Sometimes, I am destitute, I can’t find sources for my dismay and the day gets worse and worse. I love roller coaster rides but life takes my love too seriously. I mean I don’t mind these hellish rides, but I would like to get off of it sometimes. I would appreciate it better in its absence. It’s complicated; I know it doesn’t have to be and I know in my heart that life really is kind of simple. But it’s hard not to be the way we are.We expect too much and we stress too much, we are sad about things that don’t deserve our sorrow, we are bored but we do nothing about it and then we are sad again, we are annoyed because we don’t know really what to do, we are meaningless because what does a drop mean in the midst of an ocean, we are not genetically superior- not too smart, not too beautiful, not too cool, not too talented in any area, we are just there! Just there! Our reason to exist- an utter mystery! We look at the greener grass at the other side, meanwhile someone else mistakes the grass that we are standing on to be green and we weave up our escape plans, scrap them next morning realizing that we are just not that passionate. What are we passionate about then? We turn to our heart for an answer. Of course he doesn’t speak.We long ago threw up our hands because no matter what we do, no manipulating technique can convince us to pursue what we seem to love. We will never be good enough. People will tell you, they will encourage you – Don’t you underestimate yourself child! Well, what if we are not? What if our ‘underestimate’ is actually an exact estimate. And this is how the second person who resides in you will never get convinced. He will remain skeptical. He will shut the other person up every time. Every dreamy, enticing, glamourous plan will be scrapped by him right away. There he is, the other dreamy person in your head, residing in the dustbin now.

This dominating boring person isn’t that bad though. He will console you as well. He will encourage you to accept things how they are. He will ask you, beg you to cherish your present situation, to see the beauty of it. He will ask you to be happy. Yes, he won’t let you picture the grandness. Yes, he would cut all those day dreams right in the middle. Yes, he will be an asshole! But is he? What’s wrong with his point of view? He is asking you to be happy! What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with being ordinary, what’s wrong if we are not an artist or a traveller or a photographer or a writer or a scientist or a chef? What’s wrong if we leave our homes at nine and come back at five, if we don’t have an instagram account that shows them mountains and oceans or those spontaneous weekend get aways? What’s wrong with that? Why do we have to crucify our ordinary lives? And ordinary jobs? You tell everyone to be special – Well, Newsflash! – You are not. You are boring. Your life is not glamourous. Your sadness is annoying. Your cribbing doesn’t make sense. And you, just you, not your boss or your classmates or your friends or your parents, you, with your own beautiful hands are making yourself miserable.

That’s what this person is trying to tell you. So, is he an asshole, really? Okay, maybe he is. But when you think of it, isn’t the other dreamy person an asshole as well?
I am not asking you to be happy with who you are – that thing doesn’t happen with a blog post.What I am trying to tell you is that there are two people in your head. One won’t let you do what you want to do. Other won’t let  you  do what you currently do.

Both of them are equally evil.

I don’t myself know how to handle them.But sometimes, when you are walking across the street(or maybe not), when the wind is right (or maybe not), when there are flower petals fallen on the ground glorifying your entrance (or maybe not), when your shoes don’t bite (or maybe they do), when your laptop bag isn’t that heavy (or maybe it is), when you had had just the right amount of food at your favourite food place (or maybe not), you can choose to ignore both of these idiots and just breath and realize what a bliss that is.

Fuck everything else.

Inspiration, philosophy, Poetry

I wish I had some courage

I wish I had the courage to declare myself eccentric, to talk to myself in public ; loudly and clearly, to quit my job, to truly hate it and draw inspiration from that hatred, to be determined enough to never succumb to it again, to dream relentlessly or not to dream at all, to accept the world for how it is; not how it should be, and if the world is not acceptable then to take up the responsibility of being the change, to do things I feel like doing, to live through impulses, to travel and get lost, to leave myself entirely and then be rediscovered, to criticize and not be likeable, to have my heart speak through my voice and not by my unheard thoughts, to tell someone that he is special, either that or that I don’t like him at all, to not be bothered by the fictional thoughts of others, to greet strangers like old comrades, to smile on a shittiest day, to share my deepest pain, to wail in the middle of a street, to be vulnerable, for once at least (and then suddenly find the strength), to learn things that I am too old to learn, to applaud myself if needed and not care if called conceited, to not let anything deprive me of my esteem or respect, to love without fearing that one might reject, to be visible and not be conscious if seen, to be able to say things that I truly mean,  to not heed the delusive stories spun by my mind, to revere happiness and not be scared of its disappearance if acknowledged, to not care about money, or my own irrelevance, to not hate myself or life or fate, to love the face that stares back in the mirror, to accept who I am and not compare, to be the unadulterated myself completely and be it even if it is the stupidest thing to be.

I wish I had the courage. I wish I had just a little courage to do the things I wish.

Inspiration, Poetry

Why I will never dream…

I will never leave the comforts of present ,
Or the wise learnings of my luxurious past,

Just to embrace the unknowns and variables of future,
I will never accept the possibilities aghast!

Finding several reasons, suggestions, advice based on experience,
I will analyze and over analyze, all the permutations & combinations,
To and fro, meandering , my thoughts running in circles…
Some casting a dreamy light at zenith, and many pointing to awful abominations.

Resisting, demanding, refuting, commanding,
I will never settle for being just another ordinary,
Nevertheless, don’t expect me to take the steps that lead to the opposite..
Neither dare you tell me that nothing will make me extraordinary!

I will be secretly aware but don’t bring it up,
My deceptive hopes and daydreams will always cover up,
I am content looking at the surroundings, camouflaging immediately,
hiding, adapting, crawling and smiling idiotly,
My retribution – Being just another brick in the wall…
And never accepting the same or living happily at all!
Shush! It’s a secret – let me put up a radiant smile,
If I go on about this publicly, I would be declared whiny and vile!
So let me crack some jokes, make merry, be a little vain,
And please, let me raise the toast to my blatant latent pain.