Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

Slaves Are Us

Posted: September 12, 2018 in Life, Personal
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What is the definition of a slave? I Google it and it says “a person who is the legal property of another and is forced to obey them”. In my head, it wasn’t any different either.

In ancient times, Pharaohs had people do their job for them. In return, they would be given food or shelter – their idea of a currency.

So let’s say they had a Sphinx planned up in their next quarter. To build that up you wouldn’t see a Pharaoh bringing rocks from the bottom. No. He is the apex, the CEO of his company. He doesn’t move. But sits in the most comfortable chair the planet has, with his hands steepled as he overlooks the progress.

Right underneath him stands the Vizier, the Vice President, the next guy you wouldn’t see bringing rocks. He is a Pharaoh-whisperer. Then come the nobles and the priests. The higher level management, the delivery heads and managers, who make sure the job is being performed correctly. It’s hard not to imagine a guy with his hands behind his back as he monitors people from an unsafe distance. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty but he doesn’t mind occasionally stabbing someone in the back when he perceives leniency.

Then come scribes and soldiers who have chosen their jobs very carefully. They didn’t want to be a part of higher level management because that would mean being in direct contact with the Vizier and the Pharaoh, in short, a lot of balls. But they are fine with taking orders. Because what they get is what they deliver to the bottommost strata. You know, maintaining the order of emotions.

The team leads are in direct contact with the bottommost level. They are the merchants who report their produce to the lower level management. Thus keeping them in the loop about what’s being done, whether or not the rocks have been lifted and what are the problems and challenges being faced while execution of the job. They work alongside the slaves thus confusing the lowest level people about their stratum. They are not on anyone’s side. They are two-faced serpents who can twitch on either side, dissing you nevertheless on encountering slightest of pressure from above.

Finally comes the slaves, the farmers and the craftsmen who are at the bottommost level of this whole job cycle. The order has been passed that a piece of bread will be given to everybody if they work hard. They work the hardest, despite the weather. Getting their hands dirty in the muck for a job that is not going to give them anything but a piece of bread. They are whipped by the lower and higher level management if they do something wrong, flailed if they fail and replaced with a stronger hand. So even if they are constantly crumbling under immense pressure, they stand up nevertheless with the heavy rock and carry it like it’s the only salvation they know.

They are treated like insects, because hello! Aren’t they at the bottom already? They are the ones who actually do the job. In our world, the one who perseveres is the one who is scorned at by everybody. Are we so blind that we don’t see it? That despite the apparent flaw in this age-old system, we are still following it, eyes closed?

In my six years as an employee in IT, I have felt no different. I am an insect, treated like one. Pushed around holes that I never wanted to enter. I can’t get out because my life depends on it. There is nothing else around that pays the fodder that I can have to go on without hiccups. It is an “honorable” living in the minds of the society.

I am bound by this invisible contract with the company, the pharaoh, that I lose my importance the moment I wish to quit. Even if I did, there would be yet another pharaoh in line waiting to dig his dirty hands in me. I go from one Sphinx to another, but nothing changes. The face on the Sphinx remains the same. The slab that I put in this gargantuan edifice gets lost among a bazillion others. And I have no clue if I contributed something. Scorns and insults have become a part and parcel. While the upper order earns their fat checks, they throw down bones at us to feast upon.

You might think there is a way out if you stay good and play everything by the book. But no! The longer you persevere, the more experience you get at perseverance. They give you one grain at a time and then ask you to keep moving for another. And you do, like a brazen person, because you have no choice. You can’t go anywhere. They have you by your balls and they will squeeze it the moment you try to throw a tantrum.

I cannot call that sphinx my creation at the end of it, because it wasn’t my dream, to begin with. I didn’t know why I was gathering rocks apart from the fact that it was ending up becoming something that fed me. I cannot call it mine because, Hey! It was everyone else’s effort. When it got built, the Pharaoh turned toward the world and said he made it. He even branded it with his name saying it was his property. That it was his hard work that paid off. Now the world will remember it as something that’s his.

Then I can’t help but imagine what if the Pharaoh is good and he decides to feed all the people working for him? You know with perks and incentives.

Here take a bite from this awesome fruit and then pass it down the line.

By the time the fruit reaches the slaves it has been devoured so badly that the poor slave could only have its seed. And then the slave decides to grow one for himself using that seed. Because you know slave is, after all, a human brain. He is smart! He sows it in his backyard. But then he has no time to look after it, and the plant eventually ends up dying because in the morning when it needs the sunlight and water to grow, the slave is out there toiling.

But then somehow the plant grows despite a world trying to stop him. Its growth happens slowly, so gradually that the slave sees the toughest of all times. By the time he is ready to have his fruit, he realizes he is left with no teeth to truly enjoy it.

Slaves are us. We have been born and bred into it. Trying to get out will leave us bruised. Hopes to become a Pharaoh one day, we secretly fuel our wish to continue this age-old cycle. But have you ever thought about changing the inevitability of this cycle, making things right and just?

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sketch of the future me seeking complacency

I wish to peek a glance into my future. The clouded timeline that patiently waits ahead. I wonder what it has got in store for me. Does all my backbreaking struggle really pay off? I wonder if the “future me” thanks me enough for building stepping stones that seals his fate in gold. Or do I find him cursing me for not doing enough? Or the worst – Does he still struggle?

I wonder sometimes if any of my dreams make it. That in the long run I have found myself a good listener. Someone who speaks my language. I wish to have a look, just a glimpse into his world to see how am I really doing? Maybe chat with the future me, to tell him how I have felt crunched under a shit load of dreaming, worked for nightly exhausting hours I came to terms with. How I have worked my ass off every single day so that he could live in peace. So that he could enjoy a bright brimming rewarding walk in the park away from the menacing curdling of constant exhaustion.

I at least wish he gave me a sign or something saying,

“Hey! You could take a day off. Things are going to be just fine, you know. Just do nothing for a day! Muse away in your musings. Go sit by the beach. Travel for a while. Go look at nature. Stay slaked for a change.”

I could really use a reassurance of sorts that his world is simply mind-boggling, and that every stair I built, am still building was worth it. I wish that squiz, just one morsel of hope that makes me feel good about the quagmire I wake up into every single day.

This sweet death would then feel abated. I would relax more, rejoice more, take wild turns, and go places. All I need is just one vision, one vision is all I ask.

image of a guy asking did you stop dreaming

Showing up at weird intervals of time, my deferred dreams flicker akin a broken light. Some dreamer does that to me. When I forget that I am a dreamer too, out of nowhere comes along something or someone with a dream to tell me – what lurks inside me is more than real as well. That it is possible, that every success story was in fact a dream first, a mere thought in the head of a thinker that just got acted upon.

I believe this holds true for every winner out there:

He lost too. Hope. Despair gnawed at his soul too. But in the end he never stopped believing in himself and the idea that tagged him all along. He won because he worked, toiled hard, diligently to get there, and that’s why he’s there.

Every stride I take in the right direction fills me up with rejoice. It is nothing, but hey, it is something! It makes me believe that it can be done, that the impossible journey can come to fruition with one step at a time. Even though I give less of me to it, it is filling up nevertheless. One day it shall brim up and be complete.

I have never truly stopped believing. I do succumb to inevitable indolence at times, or get distracted by things I shouldn’t lose my focus on. But I have come to believe that it is okay to lose time, as long as you are invariably coming back to to the spot where your hiatus lies.

Trust me, it’s worth fighting for. Your dream. The colossal image that you bide by every single day. Nobody has seen that image but you. Even though the world says it’s impossible to get where you intend to be, remember dreamers have always been intimidated. But despite all odds they make it because their belief beats mouths. Their vision beats norms.

Be a dreamer. Be a silent worker. Keep at it, and never stop!

Image of a dreamer who wishes to create his own story

The Dreamer

We are made up of stories. Each cell in our body is carved by our own action. Every thought in our head is moulded with experience. We become what we do. We are helmed on the anvils of our surroundings. Others in our lives hammer us into an ineffable contour. We bend, we twist and we cringe. That’s all we do. Stories we become. Millions of stories that form with every fraction of breath we inhale. A walking, talking embodiment of gazillions of tales.

  1. It becomes impactful when some wander out of their written page and append to their own story. They become the real dreamers, who abhor the stagnant of the life. They like to go out and explore. They defy those sledgehammers, and stand against the world if challenged. They work, and work in pang to bring stories in their heads to fruition. They stay in control, hate to be controlled. They have their own ink to pen the poetry of their life. To embellish their words with a vocabulary of their taking.
  2. Then there is the rest whole lot, who wait like shriveled pages for pens to wet them. They want others to happen to them, and wait with sanguine eyes for words to enter their lives. They always choose preordained slots meant to herd them into queues, and never question why. They let the world pass them by in their sheer torpor. They are left to the mercy of everything around them. They do nothing. They let nothing do them.

Those are the two kinds of people we are. That’s all there is to it. We are stories. Now it is up to us to choose our kind.

image of a child dreaming underneath a starry sky

I wish my life could be as erratic as Charles Bukowski changed jobs in Factotum. To be able to quit apathy as it gnaws upon my soul. How magnificent life would be! To be able to do anything, absolutely anything just for the heck of it. To feel everything, to experience wonders that nature and man have so eloquently curdled all across this planet. There are so many exciting things to do, so many dreams to pursue and so many lives to live. Unfortunately, all have been classified under the categorical pigeonholes of life. It is really sad that we have to find our place in the world, when we could explore untended territories like beasts from the past.

Oh! The thrill! The sheer thrill of it to run down that meadow of promised elation. Image the possibilities your life would throw at you then. Try this! Try that! Try everything! To be able to call quits the moment you feel indifference sneaking up on you. To be utterly unpredictable in what’s imminent. Isn’t that the dream?

I think everything in life boils down to moving on; not stopping and becoming stagnant at a place. Growing up I have seen change, a constant cumulative spinning wheel of augmentations that never ceases to exist at any juncture. Maybe I see myself smothered by life’s torpor today, but tomorrow might sway in winds of change. With that hope, I bide by slithering into my persuasive indolence. I let time kill me.

I wreck myself beyond limit, knowing that I am surefire debris in the making. A labour so impossible that I could only take so much. Yet I am at it, forever at it, looking at dreams like a child wondering his thoughts out loud at the night sky.

I wait patiently, listening to the ticking of the clock, giving more than what my body can give or endure, waiting for that change to come. That elusive big break where the universe nods at me and lets me be everything all at once in this stock-still life.

The Perpendicular Universe Conveyors of Doom

I have always hated my job. This isn’t the first time I am writing of the insouciance I have for it. The idea of spending, nay, slaying 8 hours a day doing something that hardly creates a ripple in life has always peeved me. I look at it as outright slavery. Bearing whips after whips to fulfil someone else’s dreams. The fact that I stand at such a puny corner of an organization that barely cares for my existence is another bummer. It is like how it makes me feel when I think about how akin mote I am to the galaxy. Unseen, my struggle barely displaces a stone, whilst unperturbed the company I work for grinds its gears to churn more like me. Robots, we are! Stark robots we are, only working to recharge our batteries.

I get this empty feeling sometimes like I have been sucked out of life. That I am being pushed by people behind to keep me moving or I will clot the line. But what I don’t understand is why am I going with the flow in the first place? Why can’t I just step aside for a second, find my own way, and create my own lanes instead?

I wish to quit at once, start with my own personal ambitions. My creative hands keep fidgeting for creation. But unfortunately they need more time. My job doesn’t let me live enough to spare a few hours for my dreams. It scoops me like I must be some kind of personal serf. It uses me thorough and good, and drops me lifeless and hollow.

I am a sucker for time, but I feel it’s running out. The time with me, the sole crux of life, is slipping out. I am on a conveyor belt doomed to take things into the crusher. It is going to eat me alive, I know. I am well aware of its awaiting jaws. But I can’t move. Even though there is a will to jump off the belt for a second, people wouldn’t let me. They are holding my legs with feigned responsibilities, fake love and faux care. What I truly believe is “If you really care for someone just let them go.” But they are too stupid to believe that.

When will I do, what I am supposed to do? Will it take another lifetime?

 

crazy hopeless reader
Paper listens to me. Talks that never make to fruition, that don’t find an ear, they all lodge in there. So many things that keep hogging my little space of creation, they all end up there. Words that don’t find a good eye, voices that don’t reach a soul, only resound empty in the innate hollows, they all get inked. The meaningful. The meaningless. The general whimsy. The occasional flimsy. Everything goes there.

Sometimes I wonder if I would ever find a reader, or if I have already, will I ever have a glimpse into the world of my sentient admirer, the one who can distinguish each syllable spoken, every letter written distinctively and approve of it to be a magical blend of the extraordinaire. That lover who would hold the genius that lurks in it to a complacent caring heart, and speak volume just like I do with mind-boggling creations of others. Then I am hit by a sudden splash of vexation.

“What if I am not good enough? What if my words weave a mask over my own face to cloud the judgment I give? What if everything that I see is just a lie, and the world really doesn’t give a shit? What if in their menial dictum they have been right all the time? That their crossing me out the millions of times I rose was some sort of poetic justice intended? That what I see is just a feigned globe, and that what they gawk at is aloof from virtual? That I have been wrong all my life? That the beauty I considered beauty was as ugly as a negative vibe? That I shouldn’t have been a dreamer, rather a realist lost in the mundane like a crowd in its din.”

It bothers me sometimes, when I don’t see what others compel me to see. It hurts to know that I am all alone in a world full of people, that it is rare to find a frequency that would walk right by my side. Pretentious heads nauseate me. Lost faces don’t bother me at all. The deficiency of a real connection does. That thread that I have been trying to untangle for so long, I am yet to find its end.

I can’t be like others. I can’t be a shallow prick. If I love, I plunge into the ocean drowning. If I care, I forget myself. If I work, I am conscientious. If I notice, I focus painstakingly at every miniscule detail one is made with. If I live, I refuse to be a bystander rather a meticulous observer to fathom you in a way you have never been. That’s how I have always been. A crazy hopeless reader.

You can put me off as a profound thinker. But I am a poet. That’s how I roll.