Superficial cravings

What we haven't been taught is learning to love. But can we be blamed if we were ushered into an era where soccer was marketed to a point that it became glamorous and where the hemline of your skirt was discussed more than any sundry talent that you may possess. 

Unconditional like voyeuristic has assumed a larger definition, more in lieu of unreasonable. Drama dictates our lives, for technology inflicted boredom which it frequently attempts to crowd out by more apps and innovations, can more satisfactorily be broken by external manifestations like a fit of rage or glittering pools of tears. Happiness then gets subsided into one of the many ingredients, sliced and grated, and put aside to be sprinkled  whenever needed.  

You exist in emails and conferences, in a 1 para write-up in a magazine placed in as a filler between the advertorials or at a party over a glass of wine. Of course sitting by the window on a moonlit night, mulling over whether you should get out for a walk doesn't let you derive the pleasure of existence. 

Selflessness is now defined in various proportions. And it leaves many of us wondering if our parents were deeply disillusioned or supremely insane when they chose to become private chauffeurs and  part-time cooks to see little blotches of human flesh jump with joy. All this, when they did not know if the tiny fairy will sit pretty with silky commercial-worthy hair or be so repulsive as to make others draw out pitiable laughs. 

Also our cosmos does not operate by the same set of rules now. Truth can be debated, as many truths can co-exist. Subjectivity is the order of the day. I cannot be cursed anymore if I decide to break-up with my boyfriend if he gets his head shaved without giving me a clue. The same way a man can justify his extra marital tryst with the girl who smiles too much because his wife became an oaf. 

Love loses meaning backstage, while under the spotlight we still wait for a prince charming. Why should he be bothered anyway if all we have on offer is company for- those trips to the mall, Friday movies or luxurious vacations. What if hes signed up for a companion; one who can- listen to a soulful song in his crackling voice, greet him with a warm hug when he is too tired to take you out and give him the remote when hes gets restless. If that happens, we're screwed!

P.S the waters are draining out. Shallow will soon take over.

 

Perfunctory Pain

Think yolk yellow, sorbet pink, galactic blue or neon green and you're thinking of it all together or side by side; very few picture these in isolation. Life is preferred in ombre, with a tinge of teal, a dash of shimmer and a hue of eggplant purple thrown in as accompaniments.

And yet people are stunned when an Eighteen yr old doesn't have an answer to what he/she wants to do with life. And it leaves me aghast when Indian employers mock at the mention of the word sabbatical.

What are most people in their mid-twenties doing? implementing, taking down minutes of the meetings, hearing out why that new innovation will take a toll on efficiency, backing up meaningless ideas with data and hypothetical rationale, finding out why whims are more important than consumer insights, taking inputs from peanut-sized-brains whose claim to fame is 'colour-sorted' spreadsheets or simply making presentations on things of extreme gravity which get buried in unopened emails. And then theres the afterclap, with shriveled hope they go about doing the motions which define life as they know it, which is a never-ending wtf moment, interrupted at times by a series of blahs.

That's what a burn-out is-- not the extra hours under dim lights in front of a laptop or the living out of a suitcase-- it is a clan of imbeciles sucking up the fire between 9am to 6 pm everyday. Well there certainly is many a slip between the cup and the lip; this was not my answer to what I want to do with life. But if we really noodle around, there can be no one answer. After all, Why should your gusto for measurability and returns to cost hold you from researching hand-looms or writing a book on life with its confections that most women dream of or creating a curriculum for crazy minds.

If only people like 'death'* (*I'm referring to Terry Pratchett's Mort) are kind enough to an apprentice... I would hop around more often...for I know unlike my job, my life is not watertight.