Author: reveringthoughts Page 1 of 4

People want more. More than they have. More than what others have. Isn’t always materialistic. The need isn’t always satiated through a click-and-buy. A bit of peeling through windows, perhaps.

More the merrier. Ye dil maange more. We’re all consumeristic in our hoarding needs.

In deccani we say, hiris. It’s a version of the urdu word – hirs. And like most things deccani, urdu words get a totally differenntttt enunciation. Its meaning in everyday usage is more for yearning (not in a good way).

There’s a blurry line running between ambition and what I always refer to as hiris. Thin, almost non-existent and easy enough to not see and cross. The heart wants what it wants, they say.

The question is, who’s heart is it? And do we not have any control over it?

Foregoing a moral science lecture and to think of this is a note-to-self, I wonder if the attainment of a content life lies in letting go of our hiris?

When checklists start to dictate decisions, the romanticism of living this life ceases to matter. Questions, answers. Umms and aahs. All filled onto the timesheet.

The heart craves for meaning. To be appeased with the gift of time. Let it cook. Let it simmer—a maybe, at the end of it.

Trauma of yesteryear, seeped in, ingrained, refuses to move. Stubborn. Is that true? For, I overthink, O’dear.

Free fall is scary. But what’s a life that hangs in a calculated balance moving nowhere. And still, see-sawing through.

Throw away caution to the wind. For it’ll blow away the dirt. Of today and before. Bringing with it, the fragrance of tomorrow.

It’s futile to wish that life will ever offer a blank canvas to repaint. Those of us, who, from time to time, indulge in such childish fantasies need to absorb this truth.

The least you can strive for is a fresh batch of paint. A paint strong enough that makes the painting look anew.

Sure, there will be shades of what it had before too. But that’d probably add a bit more depth. Take that depth in your stride and paint away a newer life.

At least try to.

The quickest recipe to get disappointed is notching up our hope. Worrying too much about a plan to succeed only to see it crumble. Either all at once or gradually. Like a sand castle.

You shouldn’t plan. It’s not in your control. What’s in your control is to make a decision. And that decision is definitely not about building your castle in the air. It’ll get blown out.

But, what’s the alternative? Sit back and let it happen on its own? Perhaps.

I mean, let it happen without any worry? How is that not ‘too hopeful?’.

Our mind is always running through multiple overlaps. Tricks. Playing, toying with us.

Stories, timelines, what ifs, and what wills. Throwing them as puzzles that won’t ever finish. All we’ll do is sleep away. One way, or the other. Some beds will be comfy. The last one, not so much. Maybe.

Linearity isn’t something our brain likes. Imagine, compartmentalizing it all like a history book where chapters bring forth new kingdoms and their history. But, imagine they all overlapped through each other. That. I know right? Confusing.

It lasts for a few moments. Feeling in your head where you seem to have decided that this is it. This is the moment I’m going to change my life. That rush of optimism flowing through as you take steps towards. Towards, where you want to be.

This momentary feeling if it could be bottled, would be the Red Bull for times you can’t crawl out of your own bed.

The difference between those who do and those who think they will do it is probably just this. The ability of stretching these moments and turning it into a drive. Excelling in a form is more about being at it. In all it’s ebbs and troughs. It isn’t about a graph that linearly just keeps going up.

It’s easy to blame others for your own inability or zeal to go after what you want. The easiest of it all is probably ‘life’ that gets accused of not letting us get to where we want. More often than not, it’s the driver of this life that isn’t looking at the road ahead but is still in the parking lot, waiting for the road to become better.

The flow of life, at times, is similar to a puddle. Stagnant. Seeping slowly down in a drain. There’s hope that it eventually sashays itself into the vast meaningless void of the ocean. Brooding through motions of mundane.

There’s a wait for rain. The one that comes with a thunderous roar. Pushing through the openings, clearing blockages and jumping into the same ocean to fill it with meaning.

The flow remains the only change. Everything else is constant in the equation of life.

Gushing downwards with a force isn’t the goal. There’s a calm in ease too. Like a friendship where you don’t have to talk. Silence is flow too. Not controlled. But, flow with ease.