It sucks. They suck actually.
Humour me for a minute. And look back a few years, assuming it’s been a few years. Back to the time when you were this cocky little twit who thought the world would change its angle of inclination, with but a glare. Angle of inclination, quality of public toilets, the few tonnes of gold in Dalal Street, whatever got you off.
Come back. Look again. Still that cocky?
I have a few adjectives to help you articulate what you see.
Disillusioned. Confused. Rudderless. Dazed. Stagnated. Sold out. Compromised. Married. Unhappy. Pissed.
I wonder why I, and you, relate to these wretched words. More so, considering the impossibly romantic missions I, and you, started out with.
Amnesia? Denial? Or some totally filmy f#$*ing “circumstances”? Nope. I, and you, still remember that stupid f#$*ing dream. It’s there, in the back of the head, like a throbbing f#$*ing migraine.
Then why this rut? Why this mucky marsh full of tiny green bugs with black dotted wings? And why me, and you?
It sucks. They suck actually.
EMIs. Credit cards. Petty politics. Minor irritants. Some office psychopath’s sycophancies. Insecurities. Fears. Their virulent tendencies. Prejudices.
They suck. Like a regiment, no, an army of vacuum cleaners. They suck away joyfully. Gleefully. At what I, and you always thought will define you. At what I, and you thought was indestructible. Inscrutable. Impossible, even.
I, for one, have had enough.
Know where the plug is?
