Tuesday, December 11, 2012

A raging war and saved bullets

Freedom is a limited thing; there is only so much of it I could make use of until it started to rhyme a lot with boredom. If boredom was ever a middle name, it would fit in right between my first name and my last name. I am partly a meaning of monotony, even my dull hair clearly lacking in hair treatment, nutritious elements and color highlights says so. I believe a person’s hair says all of a person’s life, just think about it – if it’s unkempt and oily, or if it’s soft and silky. There is no logical way of explaining this phenomenon of mine, and so, I am not going to make the tiniest attempt to clarify my thoughts and no, this is not boredom talking but the mind of a very frustrated analytic being.

I am completely losing it staying at home all day, not exposed to the waves of people and creative thoughts. Day to day, I have been doing nothing but the usual thing that just robs the joy out of living and life, honestly to this point, life is just killing it for me. Being a human being is tough. You have to talk to people when that is the last thing you want to do, you have to make a living to survive, you have to write because people are waiting to read something and the worst is you have to please. Unlike our pet dogs, Tommy and Snow (I still hate this name), who just sleeps all day and play with each other and if they don’t feel like doing anything or seeing anybody, they just get lost and we just assume, they will come back home and they always come back home. If I were to just disappear from the face of earth… its better if I don’t go on. Life needs to give me a break. Oh, eureka! I have a passport, a couple lakhs. I need to run away! I can run away.

But, we have got to just get up and do it. Again. Again and again. Be with a broken arm in a sling or a stinging hot fevered head or the third sleepless night or stitching up a fragile broken heart that just gets torn up again, we just have to get up and do it again. No excuses, no amount of scratches and bloody sore muscles gives a break. Those are all signs of weakness and like boys as they were growing up were told to not cry because big boys don’t cry, in women, parts of those traits have been instilled, involuntarily. You don’t show vulnerabilities to anyone because if you show, no amount of strength you show before or later will ever be remembered. Life in all its essence tells a tale of a war and we are all in it, tugging every might in us finish the fight.  It is not about rewriting history as the victorious one or to prove anyone, anything but only to get through yet another ordinary day and price up your worthiness.

I am not a decorated soldier and I have no wish to become one. I have survived too many gun fires and saved too many bullets of mine that I could have just shot and let out bloodshed but everyone has a moral sense or at least I have a moral sense that tells me they are just another human being and maybe, like me, they just want a break. Fine, I will give them a break if that is what they want but I calculate and weigh things out. I might not be good in mathematics or physics but the more bullets you shoot out, the lighter the gun gets and then, it gets a little easier. Maybe it is time for yet another genocide I will take charge of or maybe I will just sit still and count down the days. Just carry the heavy gun and just soldier on because those times when you were brave, those counts for nothing but a small sign of weakness, weakness is always remembered. A war always has an ending and mine is coming soon, I know. If I just keep my bullets to my side, I should win and I shall forget it all and forgive but any war veteran will tell you, you are never just normal after coming back home even though life gets back to normal. 


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