Posts Tagged ‘destiny’

image of how to remove a bad teacher

Sometimes I think every failure we encounter is nature’s way of warning us, its way of adjusting us, putting us on the scanner once again till we find a better path. Maybe where we were headed in the first place wasn’t supposed to be our destiny, and that universe furled itself knocking us out of our elusive surefire resolve, asking us to do something else altogether. In a way correcting our moves with its very own ‘Reset’ button.

When you begin to do something that is in line with nature’s big plan for you, you will find yourself succeeding at every juncture. The Universe drops you hints right from the beginning saying:

“You were good at this. Why don’t you keep doing it? You will succeed all the way. You will keep getting results.”

To exemplify it better I could array it with my very own chords – Writing was my first affair. And the reason I consider it my ultimate salvation is owing to all those clues I received growing up. It was inbred in the form of emotions, and it gradually straddled out with my instant love for literature. I swooned over it and lost my heart somewhere between its words.

My first official letter I wrote had my heart out on an application leaf. I was quite young, yet brainy in a way. Its subject read: “Complaint to Remove a Bad Teacher.” It gushed with emotions, pointing out everything that was terribly wrong with the teacher who did everything but teach. It traversed meaning of life, our existence and what not. It digressed a little with lines like: “Children are supposed to be the future.” etc. Pah!

The counselor who had picked it, was giggling stupefied, wondering how could a small child be writing big words for his age. I laughed along with her, believing I was stupid too. But to my surprise it was acted upon, taken seriously. And so began an unending regime of getting things done via letters. Every time I wrote one, the response was always good. Either an action would be taken or my wants would be positively satiated.

My convincing letter was the first inkling I got that had me believe, nature wanted me to write more, that it was nothing but a mere pen and a paper that would get the job done for me. I distinctly remember thinking out loud reassuringly saying, “I write convincing letters!” I would often boast about it – “If you want something done let it pass through the mouth of my letter.” Surprisingly the results were always positive and in the favour of my words.

Those letters took a more tangible form when I began enjoying what I had written at a later stage by rereading them in future. That it was a product of my head made me extremely euphoric and satisfied. I would turn the pages around to read an old written account and would marvel at myself wondering,

“How did I manage that?”

With that it became more than a wont, now my life; my only resounding satisfaction when I pen one good.

Somewhere deep down I think those letters were responsible for hammering that nail in me unknowingly, and for that I am really grateful. It has made me the writer I was born to be. I surmise, it has paved the path that Universe had for me all along.

The perpendicular universe no hands

The world around me is crumbling. People are falling down. Breaking bad. Failing. Collapsing. Ending up in beds. Twitched. Contorted. Distorted. Disfigured. Bleeding.

Whilst all of this is happening, I am right there in their center, standing, watching them go down. My eyes read disbelief. Looking at them go down. One by one. I feel helpless. As if I am a plague. A dreadful contagious one. Wherever I go, birds drop dead. The globe darkens. The sun slips into an eclipse. Animals moan and fall. I feel horrible.

I am watching them turn. I can witness their change amidst unmatched rejuvenation. One moment everything is fine. We are having a time of our life, the next we are devoured by the unprecedented jaws of chaos. Time stops by when they are converting like a zombie. In those fleeting seconds, I can see them lose it. An inexplicable fallacy swallows them up. They become bitches to it, and then they are not here. Here, yet not here.

Somewhere I feel responsible. Like I could have saved them. I had the chance gawking at me, mocking me in my face. Something tells me if I had just tried harder, if I had used the right words….if I could have just stopped them! But tragedy always lurks in the shadows, waiting to happen. No matter what you say or do. You can’t stop the inevitable.

People wouldn’t listen. They have a mistaken sense of honour, a mistaken sense of discernment, that can never be overpowered. You feel powerless in front of them, trying. That’s what happened. And then I am left up with a world of thoughts, and a sky full of what-ifs.

Tragedies are written. We are just living it.


It is so weird how I get so much involved in my life, I rarely get time to do what I love doing the most. Writing is hard. But it also is soothing. It brings me back to awesomeness. It makes me embrace reality. It pinpoints me out from the rest and escalates me to a level I wish to stay forever in.

Writing is hard for me. Just like it has been for Moody from Californication. But my words are just thoughts put into a piece of paper. How hard could that be? English isn’t my mother tongue either. Yet I feel like I have a connection with this language. I must have been deep rooted into this shit. Or maybe I was destined to fall in love with it. Maybe in my eyes it’s much appreesh……!

It turns music when you come into the same frequency as of your thoughts. Then you love your words. You marvel your brain for the beautiful music it creates. You sway to it then. You feel the depth of your words. You feel that twist in your guts. It is beautiful. The sheer knowledge that it emanated from you, fills your bosom with pride.

Ever wondered how impeccably an author describes his characters and gradually fills life into them? You are compelled to put them into your imagination. You create them with your thoughts. They become as real as they get in your head. Every writer is an artist, a creator, who breathes life into inanimate objects.

I am such a big fan of writing. It brings out the best in me. Without it I would be just so ordinary. It excels me in my own eyes. I don’t care what people say. I like being my own judge. My creation brings a smile to my face. That should suffice.

Some story I am, from a book unknown.

I am just so involved, I overlook what makes me. Words. I have been carved with words. My soul was written with words, of some great writer with a simple pen yet with a good heart. For that I will be extremely grateful for the rest of my life.

I have been written and described in a book, just like gazillions of people all across the globe have been penned. We are all stories, our features described, our stories narrated. All we are supposed to do is play our parts and be our writer’s story.