That one word to end the meanings of all words; words that do not stand a chance in front of the façade this one word entails. Every truth, all ingenuity, all graciousness is useless when faced with the intricate web of all the shiny mendacities this word so effortlessly weaves.
Such is the cruelty of this one word. Such is the power of it upon the lives of people all around us. Such is its significance for us. Ingenuity is a lost attribute now— or as far as I can perceive (and my perception is just that; perception). It is gone, buried and done away with. No one wants anything to do with it anymore. Why bother listening to the heart when I can follow the herd. Why bother being who I am when I can be someone else. Why be myself when I can be a third rate replica of someone more prosperous/beautiful/thinner/popular out there.
This world has traditionally been easier on the normal (read: ordinary) than the different. Because being different is often tantamount to being a failure; and failure is looked down upon. Failure is a thing to be avoided at all costs. It tends to have the worst of all meanings and it doesn’t matter if you think contrarily. Your opinion simply doesn’t matter. Period. Failures shouldn’t have opinions, because how can they? If the world doesn’t recognize me, how sacrilegious it is of me to acknowledge myself! How dare I think more of myself than what ‘they’ think of me!
I find myself surrounded by pretense. Those who effortlessly adapt to this philosophy, find that they’re better off in this world. Though whether or not it’s happiness that they experience or merely the satisfaction of conformity, I can’t say.
Eventually I will succumb to the pressures of conformity as well.
It is inevitable.
The pressures are too forceful. It is very persuasive. It has survived for centuries.
Or maybe I won’t and hence will just get old… very cranky and very unhappy.
It is all just a matter of time.
But time has never really been on my side.
And I walk alone.
I sometimes think my life lacks purpose, scratch that, this thought frequents my mind more than sometimes. This thought makes me; I am it. That would be a better description of my mind. I made this blog in 2009, by the name of Random Thoughts. I was more of myself back then. My thoughts were random yes, but they were mine. I was willing to express myself. I was not afraid to be me. To be who I was. What I was essentially made of. I shared my thoughts without inhibition. And I was fine. I was a happy person back then. Not afraid of being perceived as an idiot who didn’t know/cared much about the “popular” opinion.
It’s been six years since I wrote my first post on this blog. But I didn’t know what to do with a blog then, I was just happy to have found an outlet. I still don’t know what to do with it today. But I write more reluctantly, my thoughts are more random, my crises more severe. My life seems purposeless to me because of the high standards I set for myself initially. When I always knew in the heart of my hearts, I wasn’t cut out to become the person I always wanted to be.
I’ve been looking in the wrong direction all my life and now I feel lost. I don’t feel I can go back and to go further in the same direction would devastate me even more. What to do then? Just let it be. Stay where I am and expect it all to get better miraculously. I have ample reason to believe that this crises of mine will become severe with age. And as I heard somewhere, a crises at 55 is much worse than a crises at 35.
I changed the name of this blog because I wanted to be absolutely invisible. I wanted to become invisible on Google. I wanted to delete the memory of ‘random thoughts’ from my mind. But I guess in this day and age, there is no escape from who you are or who you have become. Does that mean then, that you cannot start afresh? That you keep going ahead in the same direction and forget about where you’d want to go instead? Does that mean you’re stuck where you are and there is no hope left for you?
These are my random thoughts. And they will continue. With a new name.
Past is called the past for a reason. It signifies something that we have experienced but notice the emphasis on “experienced”. Meaning, it is never going to be repeated again; under any circumstances. Now man is a curious animal. For the first twenty-five odd years of his life, he spends his life anticipating “the future” and when that future is reached (not necessarily achieved) he feels lost. We don’t know what to do when we reach that crucial point in life, called the middle age, arguably the most controversial of all stage of life. Where our past is gone, finished, done with; and our future, the one that glares brightly in our face, is the future we never anticipated! Let’s face it. We never thought we’d get old, dependent or grey; it was not what we signed up for. We thought we’d stay forever young, forever capable, and forever beautiful. And then suddenly life meets us at this unimaginably ugly little place, called the middle age. It’s the point where our past is still so fresh in our minds that we want to run towards it, hoping to catch it somehow, to bring it back. We don’t want to our youth to abandon us. We struggle to say goodbye to our beauty. But the more we try to resist the more we move away from the remnants of what we once were. We become jealous, fiercely so; even bitter. We feel wronged by Mother Nature herself, when she always showed us all the signs. We saw our parents growing old in front of us and our grandparents die. One by one. But we never thought we’d get old as well.
But it is our choice. It is our choice to remain bitter or to make something out of the inevitable self that WILL meet us sometime in future, to meet it in grace. And no, it is not as easy as those self-help books sometimes suggest. It is a constant struggle everyday, every minute, every second. It is keeping the guards up against all the negativity that will confront us. It is to turn it away, it is to rise and shine. It is to embrace who I am, and embrace the fact that I am growing older. To stop reminiscing about what’s gone and to start anticipating the future.
Love. Hope. Dream. All alive. All scattered. All significant enough not to be significant. You tend to start thinking about it only to realise there was never any promise for anything great. This was going to be torture. Slow and painful. Only to be ridiculed by death in your face for taking it all so seriously, for daring to dream. All of this and you hadn’t even signed up for it, in the first place.
They tell me human existence is worth it.
However I do wonder if this statement has got any truth in it. Or perhaps it was said only to further ridicule our very existence? Perhaps. But we’ll never know, will we?
For all those days I could not get out of bed.
For all those nights my mind found itself shattered into a million pieces,
For all those countless hours packed with increasing pessimism,
For all those times I just couldn’t get up and revive my journey,
I notice one that alters this pointless game for me, if only for a moment, an hour, or a day.
On that one day nothing goes wrong, no obstacle seems great enough to matter, no mountain high enough.
You can dismiss me by thinking these lines to be clichéd or without any concrete meaning at all. But do we need everything to have concrete existence or can, at times, a completely abstract idea matter as well? I trust that minus hope we, the all exalted human race, wouldn’t have persisted this long. And since we are one hell of a twisted race, there has to be something profound that keeps us thriving. That one ray of maybe-it-will-happen, no matter how dubious, that makes us endure the toughest of all days. Hope is a very strong word— which is why it has never been included in my list of all time favorites. Oh but more so for people who take it too seriously. For them hope gone-wrong can evoke all sorts of unwarranted emotions in them. Since sometimes hope conveniently becomes the unpredictable existence that it is and brutally refuses to honor our trust in it….
I write something and then struggle to give it a proper ending. It happens every time I open my machine with the soul purpose of giving life to the ideas bursting in my mind. I end up feeling like a disappointment every time I am concluding whatever it is that I have attempted to write. But I have still not lost the passion; that drive to write. I still want to work on myself, improve myself, till the very last day of my stay on this planet.
My hope in myself, though gradually declining, is what helps me get up every morning.