The writer wonders over a cup of coffee, which doesn’t taste good, whether truth is over-rated. It amazes him quite often whether he is guilty of running away from this over-rated phenomenon. He wants to believe that this is one of those, “me-too” moments, which readers of this post might relate to as well. But then, it is just a thought. Out of countless ones, that bounces off the reveries of the writer. The title of the writers’ home itself resonates something similar.
Years ago, when the writer was still in his troubled teens, trying to find himself a platform to vent and to become better at writing. Incidentally, the pattern of those reasons still lurk in the writings. He is still hung up onto things in the past. The past life, people and glory.
Things have changed. For better? The writer tells himself, for the better. But then it is one of the many things he tells himself. No one knows whether letting go those things was right, or holding onto them have been. Marred by choices, the writer has always ended up taking roads which made him miserable. It ended up making sense somehow. Somehow it is still making sense. Writer is grateful for it all. The good and the Bad. There’s nothing ugly of course.
Coming back to where the writer started this post, the truth. He has a way of losing track of what he actually intended to write, but then as mentioned, in the end it all fixes itself up. Grateful, yes.
The writer always remains confused. He loses track of roads while driving. Always faces difficulty when choosing. Between people. Between food. Between Everything. For a confused soul like him, light at the end of the tunnel flickers until he is near. But is he? He never is. Until somehow, he lands up there. But that is always in the end. The journey is more troubling. It is.
Being content has never been an achievement, it is more of a good-to-have trait. The satisfaction in completing something is always brewing a mixed emotion. The absoluteness is missing most of the time, even though the portrayed version is exaggeratedly different. The need to be larger-than-life or as some would say, social acceptance. This has crept in the writer to the point that now it is all blurry. Times, when this exaggeration cozies up with the absoluteness to bring about an illusion. It remains an illusion, of course.
Nether blessed with a rosy picture nor cursed by something that isn’t like a rose, life doldrums its way towards uncertainty. The writer dislikes these uncertainties, his plans never work out and ends up doing completely different than initially planned for.
Putting on the wayfarers of optimism and constant note-to-self has helped in living. Even with illusions. Such is life. This writers’ life.