In contrast to my previous post, I also like to believe that every man carries within him an ounce of childishness which, in moment, can come as close to its innocence as it originally is. Having said that, I happened to spot a teen-like jealousy in my partner's tone today - which rarely comes atop her visage of being a grownup.
She expressed a gentle disappointment. She asked me why I haven't written on this blog about her? Why haven't I? I asked myself and the reason was immediate to surface. Writing, as a form of expression, has long taken a backseat. Earlier, be it an incident of angst, words smelled like ash; be it a happy accident - words choreographed a shoddy sequence.
Somewhere around in November of 2016, I found myself watching The Shawshank Redemption on TV and the word that rang all through the movie and in my ears was hope. Like neural connections one's brain makes, hope always had been Futility's connection in my head.
Hope for a meaning? Futile.
Hope for a morning that doesn't bring in wrath as the day wears off? Inescapable
Hope for an evening with eyes full of tired content? Greedy
Hope for fairer principles to live by? Too human to attain
Hope for a day free of guilt from feeling privileged yet underutilized? Improbable
Hope to stand up for my ambition without giving into indulgences? Distant
Hope to affect lives in a fulfilling way? Hopeless
I've grown into this person who's terrified of smallness. A small life at the feet of a mountain city had once fascinated me - it now terrifies me for the long, unending afternoons and the associated ennui it comes with. I loathe people but love their mindless ambling around me.
Magnanimity almost entices me with fulfillment as a lure before its small cause pops up in my head. I smirk in my head when people sloganeer lines like 'do your bit', 'give back to society' and etc. The ocean of misery isn't going to reverse its essence with one drop of my charity.
So I've come to be this man - perennially trapped between an utopia I can't achieve & a rottenness I perpetuate by existing. A non-resident of either worlds and also, a person scared of dissimilarity.
Then she came along. She chose to be with the man with all these vices. She chose to take in his vices as a pickle while drinking her own peg of sour bourbon of life. She says the pickle and bourbon make a consumable combo. I nod, at lack of words.
She expressed a gentle disappointment. She asked me why I haven't written on this blog about her? Why haven't I? I asked myself and the reason was immediate to surface. Writing, as a form of expression, has long taken a backseat. Earlier, be it an incident of angst, words smelled like ash; be it a happy accident - words choreographed a shoddy sequence.
Somewhere around in November of 2016, I found myself watching The Shawshank Redemption on TV and the word that rang all through the movie and in my ears was hope. Like neural connections one's brain makes, hope always had been Futility's connection in my head.
Hope for a meaning? Futile.
Hope for a morning that doesn't bring in wrath as the day wears off? Inescapable
Hope for an evening with eyes full of tired content? Greedy
Hope for fairer principles to live by? Too human to attain
Hope for a day free of guilt from feeling privileged yet underutilized? Improbable
Hope to stand up for my ambition without giving into indulgences? Distant
Hope to affect lives in a fulfilling way? Hopeless
I've grown into this person who's terrified of smallness. A small life at the feet of a mountain city had once fascinated me - it now terrifies me for the long, unending afternoons and the associated ennui it comes with. I loathe people but love their mindless ambling around me.
Magnanimity almost entices me with fulfillment as a lure before its small cause pops up in my head. I smirk in my head when people sloganeer lines like 'do your bit', 'give back to society' and etc. The ocean of misery isn't going to reverse its essence with one drop of my charity.
So I've come to be this man - perennially trapped between an utopia I can't achieve & a rottenness I perpetuate by existing. A non-resident of either worlds and also, a person scared of dissimilarity.
Then she came along. She chose to be with the man with all these vices. She chose to take in his vices as a pickle while drinking her own peg of sour bourbon of life. She says the pickle and bourbon make a consumable combo. I nod, at lack of words.
