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.
x
Genisha
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