Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

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.

The Perpendicular Universe unfinished

Been a while, I haven’t penned anything on these leaves. I have been lost in the humdrum of the mundane. A job that sucks me in, and eats away my precious hours. Takes me away from the world of writing. But these special leaflets are always there. In the backdrop of my head. Silently calling me. Making me feel the void. Trying to make its presence felt. Then life manages to put me in front of the screen somehow, as if the croons of this blog get heard.

I wish to press these leaves with only the best. Maybe that’s what takes a lot of time. To only fill the easel with quality work. My brother had asked me to keep it as a wont, when I am in the right zone. To him it is one of my best collections hitherto, a magnum opus weaved with a keen wisdom. I intend to keep it that way. It lets me unspool myself, the real me, into validation. An introspection of sorts that might reflect the real me to a reader if there is one at all.

Today, I am squeezed into work so much that this blog stays hidden from me. I distribute myself to others, so much that I forget my own identity. But this right here, this, lets me appreciate myself. When I take a step back to look at it, I realize it is nothing but my mirror. It lets me behold the real me. It lets me fathom myself more. Words smeared on these blanks tell me that I am different. It lets me dig deeper into a head of a writer, a poet who is insanely in love with words, with a brain uplifted and a head that reeks of beautiful and sentient thoughts.

What is unfortunate is the fact that he barely has time to cover ‘em all. There is so much beauty yet to read, so many wonderful people yet to encounter, so many experiences yet to experience, so much land yet to cover, so much love yet to shower, so many unknown faces yet to scan, so many enthralling creations yet to marvel at, and there are so many gorgeous thoughts in his skull still embryonic, veiled, that can only unfurl with time. It’s a shame that it’s running out.