What makes a human being great? Is it money? Is it great ideas? Or is it knowing the nuances of the world? The ideal human would have all those things. But they are not what is needed to be great. Greatness doesnt need a barometer. Greatness cannot be measured by all the achievements of a person. It comes from how you choose to live.
Even with all the things he did, fighting crippling illnesses for decades and fighting everyones assumptions for a few more of decades on top of that, he never gave up. He never gave us a reason to doubt his decisions. He did a lot to prove others wrong, but most importantly, he did a lot more to prove himself right.
To the future that ceased to exist
Present taking a different direction
To the songs which lost meaning
Lyrics dematerializing into silence
All i wanted to happen
All that never did
All which made me happy
All that never will
I still think a lot, yes i still do
As much as i do not want to
We all know it makes it worse
What i call the thinker’s curse
When the cacophony outside
Cant drown the silence within
All the unanswered questions
About the unlearned lessons
Reminders of all those failures
Highlighting usual behaviors
When all the correct answers
Cant convince the conscience.
And there he stood, ignoring a million faces to seek hers, hoping she looks back, and knowing she wont.
Just a few right words, and the walls of silence crumbled
We start with a core. Primitive. Rough. Instinctive. Just the essence. Going only where the flow of time takes us.
As soon as we can, we add layers. Creating. Polishing. Honing. Gathering the surroundings. Refining it. Flow of time no longer guiding us. To stand firm, we choose. Picking our traits. Selecting our paths. Defining our boundaries. Moulding ourselves from within.
Standing against time, not possible forever. As the years catch up, the layers wane. Weathering slowly. No cracks. Edges still smooth, but the gathered contents diminishing. All those years, slipping through as we fight for a lost cause.
Hi. You guys have probably heard me. I am a simple guy. Not too shabby and not even a little exorbitant. Rest of my brethren are actually making quite a name for themselves. The title probably took all the fun out of the ‘mystery’ of who I am, right? Anyways, I am a Guitar. Dark complexion. Slightly on the chubby side. Singer by profession. Little older than 7 human years. That is more or less 35 in guitar years.
Now enough about me. Lets talk about my most prized possession, my eccentric and quiet 18 year old human. So much to say about him. After all, he has been with me for almost all my life! Imagine that. We met in the shop. He was just a little taller than I was. And boy did I give him a hard time. I never did what he wanted me to do. Even bit him on the finger tips! Why shouldn’t I? He doesn’t own me. He couldn’t even keep me in tune. How can someone sing well without being in tune? That’s so bad on the ears.
Whenever I look at the my grandparents, I see the two sides of age. It is a thing Shakespeare called the second childhood. Justifiably so. With all the experience and all the time they have, comes so much more. The fatigue. The helplessness. The denial. And very rarely, the acceptance.
They are many things. Apprehensive. Restrictive. Over-cautious. Stubborn. Irrational. Worst of all, they are unaware of their actions. I hardly blame them for any of it. Experience is a double-edged sword, after all. On one hand, it guides us through all the decisions of our lives and on the other, it blinds us to what doesn’t match our outlook. Where at times it makes us feel so powerful and in command, on so many other times, it leaves us vulnerable and helpless in situations well within our control. Without making us realise, It dictates our lives, and binds us to it’s will.
Well, there will be so many quotes today about how everyone has the best mothers and how everyone loves them so much. I am not an exception to the rule. Honestly, this is more or less exactly those same things being said in a different way. First things first, happy mother’s day. And now i will move to saying simple things in these extremely long emotional and serious paragraphs. So, umm, deal with it people. Here it goes.
I love my mumma. More than anything in the world. And that includes my computer, my camera and basically anything which is of any value to me. Jokes aside now, she is one of the closest persons to me. And the best part is, she plays so many parts in my life, i hardly feel like i am missing out on any of that.
She is at times the typical indian mother, pestering me about food, asking me to clean up, getting worried at the tiniest of things and panicking if i get scratched by a feather. Waking up early so i can have a breakfast of my choice. Spoiling me at every possible opportunity, making me feel special for existing and fixing things i don’t even know are wrong in my life.
I know this is not my style of writing. Neither is it my current emotional state. An old poem. Doesn’t feel as profound as it used to anymore. But still feels good enough to share. Oh and yes, it is cheesy as hell
Why still doing
The duties no longer yours
Why still searching
for keys to broken doors
Why still repeat
What is not meant to be
Why still ignore
what everyone can see
Why still persist
When all was ripped apart
Why still? Why?
Asked my broken heart