What if there was a war? A third one now?

What would I do?

Weird, isn’t it? How oil and dollar conversion rates in some far off country can change your dream, your love and all that you’ve wanted to do for so long. I hope there’s no war…

There’s so much chaos as it is. Corrupt politics, illogical customs, money, management, pressure, junk food, cement, so much of it.. that the very air makes me miserable. Sunsets, like censored adult scenes, golden light visible at the edges of those clouds, while the sun is swooped by a gray peeling building.

If I have to stay at home for another year and the year after without hope, I swear I’ll just pack a bag  and run away somewhere alone. I asked a lot from life, I had asked for both comfort and recklessness, freedom and dominance but don’t we all have to experience every edge of those emotions to understand what we truly need?

Approximately about half a dozen years ago, my brother told me that the only thing constant in life is change. And I had waited for it with a welcome heart, it never came. All those writers tell me that change is a matter of perspective, but to gain such a perspective, one still needs to explore and understand it. I agree that home is a warm place to be… but how can it ever be enough? Don’t we need to feel the speed, the excitement, and the pulse scrambling as you pack your bags knowing tomorrow you shall wake up in a world entirely different. A world that you have waited to touch, with both your mind and body, for half of your life-time. And it’s so busy in itself, it fails to notice your needs as always. You go running to it with feverish excitement, having failed to eat or sleep in the past few days and you end up being brushed off aside. There is no journey in store, the man takes you nowhere.  And  you could not let yourself anywhere away.. in the end you feel sorry for yourself and go off sulking in a corner. He just couldn’t come along, because he was too busy fighting in his dreams, lazy and unwilling to even notice your reality while you just waited for him as the hours flew by in a box hating him for all that he does, the number of times he stood you up, and yet you can’t let go, there is no one else to go to, and no place else to exist without him. You have fallen for him, irrationally, unreasonably and you continue to love the beauty of his voice when he opens his laughter to you loud. Even the memory of the echo of it in your heart can fuel your love for a life time.

You’d think he’d come after you, pleading, apologising for the stupidity and the violence, but he won’t, he’ll go on and you see him, planning to destroy himself, you know that no protests would make a difference, none of it. You cannot come in between the greed of a man and the illusions he chooses to trust in, no matter how hard you try. People stopped counting to him, they are measured by the worth of their investment. And you’re tired, bone-tired… and you just want everything he gave you to go back, just a little to the days you played in the streets, in the warm comfort of certainty believing that all adventure began with your footstep into adolescence… while the rest remained a dazzling audience. Why wasn’t it so?

I’m frustrated, why must he fight with himself, over oil, pipes and power. If only every one within a tangible geographical region like India just stopped using their cars and bikes, for one day, just one… the dollar shall fall.  He’ll start making sense. If done over a week, his arrogance might just be reduced to a joke. But who stops? Who leads? Who understands the pain of all those millions of star fish dropped over at bank… dead or dying? What sense of judgement could they appeal to?

Maybe it isn’t just change that is consistent, but apathy too… whatever the reason where could me and my sea of books explore hidden? Where would the waves dance and the golden sunsets spread to the extent of our perception. To drink from that deep blue starry sky to your heart's fill, where tomorrow once again has the capacity to bring salt spray to your lips, wind tugs at your pages like a jealous young girl, whispers and clamours in your ear till resisting no more your mind warms to peace, the lips sigh and the eyes close, and then she takes you. Fast through the clouds, laughing out loud and yet, you fly just skimming the sea, the waves assuring you of what is true and the wind filling you up with what is not. If a man dies, where will his dreams go? Into oblivion, never noticing the worth of their colours, why would anyone wake such a man, why do people wake up? Why do they not, sit back by the sea, sip a simple lemonade, read or listen to things that make them feel good. When the man had not yet achieved the equilibrium of his destiny why can’t he just continue to find out? Why must we fight?