O vow!

I will get up on time! I will wake up at 8! I will not let myself break this!

Too late! Seemed so! As I started another day with the feeling of "catching up", instead of "getting up".

With my eyes encumbered with dose, I managed to get rid of the layers of blanket on me and reach my slippers.

I left the warm bed with wrinkles on it and its pink imprints on my face. To my belief, it’s one of the worst feelings in life. Especially in November, when everything else seems cold but that bed.

Reaching in two steps to the washroom, I realized I had left my mind back under the pillow.

The enlistment of the vows, the promises I made to myself that I’ve broken, seemed extensive and guilt-inciting.  Categorically scrambled, the list referred to so many things that I had just stomped over and forgotten.

It’s rather heartbreaking to see my camera biting the dust in its classic leather attire. Remembering the time when I was dying to hold it in my hands and “shoot the world” with it and “learn the jazz” to please myself.

Penning down the scripts, treading down to make the shows worthy and cool, what I lost is life. I blame myself for not doing what I’m ought to, what I bloody well should be.

I’m always with my mentor, who asks me to look above. He is always pushing me to stand up and walk tall. Losing out on making a better team player out of myself, I feel shy. Standing for myself and then questioning the injuries, I look back. Leaving early to reach on time, I struggle and I breathe away too much.

He is always causing this. Or at least, in a rampant style, shoves the truth in my face.

The truth that tells me I need to forget. And start anew. The partaken meal of guilt is only raising my appetite. Living in the lust of experience is old-fashioned. Hell, experience is over rated anyhow.

Eternal Sunshine is fresh every single day. And that spotless mind is everywhere but the mirror.

I’m human! Only one of us invented the clock.

This challenge can blind me.

My struggle is not with the set alarm. It is in fact with me.

I controlled my losses, I controlled my lessons. Let me try for one last time.

I will get up on time! I will wake up at 8! I will not let myself break this!

Wounds Of Mediocrity

Monday is, perhaps, a bitch.
A platform for this can be sketched out as a grandeur and obscurity driven show that was on since last week.
The last time I felt like greeted was roughly 6 days back, as I shared a hush-hush puff with a friend from high school.
Only the fact that I took pride in my job, of course in front of her, is as much appalling as it is a lie.
The peeking winters in Delhi must be the reason to this mockery of a rendezvous with her.
Apparently, since I left meeting her I have been dealing with this translucent layer that has grown over my smile.
If I could, I would diagnose this as a hangover from the past week, that has left me high, dry and in a wry.
In fact, the entire week or so at home, has been such an outstanding rejuvenation without going on a Dharamsala trip or the trip that my cousin offered me after taking 2 drags himself.
However, this feeling has been bitter, boring and beguiling. And as I say beguiling, I mean eye-opening.
To what precedes, but isolation. How did I reach? Alone. Did I meet someone on the way? Almost none. Have I been with someone all this while? Maybe my roommate. Who has been covering for his sleep, while I puked my mind out at midnight. Poor guy, needed a dream more than he struggled for sleep.
Coming back to the present, I have been obsessed with how the new age has outgrown itself. In the times of WhatsApp.
Somehow, being an addict to the “Information” and the “Technology” was not fruitful to say the least.
What it did to me is equal to polishing a rusted picture frame. Just that in my case, the picture is not that pretty.
The polish is incomparable to the varnish of humor or just the expression of the picture as an accomplice.
Cry baby as it may sound, I have been away from the lavish drives in Delhi, my life is nowhere close to normal. The animal that I am is disguised with a beast of the jungle. The beast whose natural instincts are second to none.
But the Golden Apples in the Garden of Hespirades seem too far for now. My leaps seem short sighted and the clan of these 7 days seem like a bunch of carnivores crossing me with ease. I may not feed them with flesh and please with gore. Nonetheless, my principles are endured for such parasites. The wounds of mediocrity I will let them lick.
And the skin with bruises of setbacks shall be shed as this animal smells and gnaws.
Monday is, perhaps, that bitch.