Lost

We pinned our hopes on an opportunity, to redeem ourselves of a lacklustre professional existence

Tinsel town waited, and all this while we dreamt that it would embrace us, its imperfections and all.

But the universe works in strange ways... it was not to be.

Being a place we both believed we would be happy... it was not to be.

What is to be, then?

Is it about accepting the pains that sear through us like hot metal...

Is it about finding our peace in the storm that our professional lives have been?

When does one know that one has achieved something brilliant...

When does it happen that you feel you have gotten somewhere?

Why is it that that feeling evades us, like men avoid the plague...

Why is it that I feel a deadening stillness in our lives, suddenly...

Were we getting used to chaos, and suddenly miss its exhilarating lack of stillness?

Or are we simply looking for happiness in the wrong places?

Have our troubles blinded us to what is good, true and real?

Can we forgive ourselves for our mistakes...

And love ourselves for our place under the sun?

Summer

Beating down...
With no sound
Walls of oppression, suppression.

Beating down...
With gasp of heavy air
Sore limbs and tired eyes.

Beating down..
Without kindness nor compassion
Making me delirious

On sharing

Holden, from The Catcher in the Rye, said that the more you tell people, the more you miss them. And thus, you shouldn't be telling much to people.

The expansive soul in me couldn't fully fathom what he meant. Of course, it is only but natural that we all are ransom to the human condition... that we must perforce feel the chilly winds of loneliness when torn away from the people who meant so much.

But Holden's slow and contorted ejaculation sparks thoughts of a distant but related understanding. It makes me wonder about the things we say to people and what we don't. Perhaps what we don't share speaks volumes about who we are. Like the garbage we throw away. Like the letters we hide away from prying eyes. Like photographs in our wallets.

Gibran speaks of the wonder of not telling people and truly experiencing something alone. While I have always been the one to revel in the joy of sharing with people, I am, these days, more pre-occupied with fully digesting my experiences, myriad and colourful as they are. And the sanctity of doing so sans judgement as well as the freedom from the impotent joys of validation and affirmation have given me my own crucible of existence. A crucible that I almost selfishly guard, knowing that only a few, if at all, have the right to see and feel what I do.

Which therefore begs the question - is this the end of an era in my life? Or is it the start of a new one, where my own, contorted ejaculations are in the form of bursts of meaning, finding their own in the form of a stray photograph that I put out for the universe to dwell on?

While I can't say I enjoy being aloof from the world these days, I feel a sense of thrill, excitement and quiet passion in being invisible to the searching, judgemental eyes of the world. Only the chosen ones can see me.

They also say that it is these very lines from the complex life and times of Holden that fired the bullets that ended the life and times of John Lennon and even President Kennedy.

I, thankfully, have only my inner demons to fell.

The End of History Illusion

As you grow older, a few things start becoming apparent.

How the number of people you call your own shrinks, but conversations with these very people take on the flavour of an aged single malt; you savour every sip.

How people understand you less, assuming you are on your own trip. Perhaps you are. Personally, sometimes I thing I've been on other people's trips for far too long. Suddenly, looking out for myself has become everybody else's uncomfortable truth. At least its the truth.

Moreover, you fall in love with yourself. It's perhaps the only route to learning how to truly love and give. You know when to give yourself that pep talk and you know when someone needs it the most from you. You show yourself some tough love and know when to give yourself that space. You're okay, with you.

You gain perspective. Even if just saying that makes you sound 85, the fact of the matter is that many bridges have been crossed and while thousands more remain, you start looking at things a certain way. For instance, you know now that not everybody has a jovial heart and wants to laugh with you. And you also see that not every one is suffering in silence but rather, relishing every second of it. Suddenly, you know what Art Garfunkel meant. You crave silence.

You find someone who pushes you - you knows your deepest, darkest fears and your highest moments. And loves you enough to be there and hold your hand through good times and bad. Somehow, you feel you've known this person your whole life, and she you. Unlocked.

You will have disagreements of many kinds. Unfortunately, parents are among those people who will give you a hard time - maybe for no fault of theirs, or maybe because they simply don't understand. You take the first few steps to distance your hopes and dreams from vitiation. For they perhaps know not what they're doing to your soul. But you walk that thin line, trying not to fall short of your own dreams and those of the people who raised you. You let go.

Work is work. But the love of a craft or an art is different, and you know that. Don't give up on it. It's never too late to become that maestro.

Fulfilling a childhood dream could just be that figurative high you desperately needed. And not just a high, but a reminder of who you are. Like she once said, a reminder of things you hadn't even realised you wanted. It can still happen.

On that note, perhaps my biggest learning till date is this - that the end of history illusion is real and that things are going to transform way more than you've ever imagined. And that this is probably not the last time I'll pen my thoughts on things I've learnt from the vagaries of time..... feeling a lot older than my short but colourful 29 years.

And hence, while we are about it, you had might as well take that flight of fancy.

For you must.

Run

I run. To stop and catch my breath. To see the man idling away on a bench. To see the gravel giving away on most parts of the road. To catch someone's eye to no avail.

I run. To feel my heart settle into a rhythm. I feel my feet hit the ground. To find a patch where the air is fresh in this hard city. To hear the crick of my spine as I stretch. To wipe my sweat off my brows.

I run. To my favourite songs. To the applause of silent trees. To the scorn of dusty tracks. To the wishful thinking of abandoned buildings.

I run, just to live a little.

Secrets

Secrets. Never more exciting than to have them spoken about in hushed tones, steeping oneself in the convoluted thoughts they inspire. Almost as if they exist merely for the thrill of passing them around.

But is there a beauty in keeping a secret? Something no one else really knows, save for that one person who shares it with you? Are the both of you, in that case, the sole custodians of a thought... a feeling... that only you recognise.. somewhere only we know?

Today, I was unwittingly alerted to my folly of not keeping some secrets. I argued that they aren't meant to be secrets. Rather, points of happiness and delight you'd want to share, in that beautiful quest to connect with people, spreading your wings far and wide.

But to say I can't keep a secret? For the common fool, an accusation. For the one at least pretending to be otherwise, something a tad deeper.

It wasn't long before it dawned upon me. You don't do any justice to a good secret by  subjecting it to the cruelty of a tempestuous memory - if anything, doing so spurs an almost desperate desire to share it like free candy, hoping for a few thank-yous. On the other hand, perhaps the magic lies in the everyday living of it - quiet yet intense, visible only to the chosen ones.

A secret is kept when it is lived. And is lived, when kept.