Dear Life,

It’s been 38 years and counting, and it will soon be 39 in another 7 months, and I can’t really claim that I have deciphered you. I guess such is your nature, that people twice my age and still counting, would probably say the same thing.

I have not really understood what you want out of me – and yes, I am being selfish when I refer to just me. Do not, even for a second dear life, try to justify your difficult and obstinate nature by saying that you hear the same grouse from 7 billion other people on this planet. I don’t know all those billions of people – heck, I can’t even claim I know myself. Which is exactly why I have depended on you to reveal your grand design and plan in some rare show of mercy.

I know I am a journalist and curiosity is our calling card, but that goes only so far as our professional commitments are concerned. Extending that to the personal aspect of our existence is really annoying, irritating and damn tiresome. Gimme a break, will ya, dear life!

Letting go is probably the hardest part – and it doesn’t matter whether it’s a person or an idea one is talking about. It’s also probably the most painful process of living. Some people come in to your life for a reason, some for a season and some for treason. I guess though even you, dear life, would be tongue-tied if you were to explain this to a little child asked to choose between him and her.

Or the slow death of an idea that has burned inside each one of us, a dream we hoped we would realise, only to see it wither away with time. You realise that your dream is no longer all-consuming one fine day when, in a brief moment of respite from the daily grind, you just wonder how the hell did you land up at that stage of your life where all that matters is getting through the day, paying the monthly rent and utilities’ bills, pleasing your boss, etcetera.

Sometimes, to assuage the self, you start nurturing a new dream, knowing fully well that it’s just a compromise, like a marriage sometimes is when you choose to live with a person not out of love, but because you are getting on in years, feeling lonely or just plain, crazily desperate to meet social obligations.  At times, you start chasing a new, impossible dream much along the same reasons.

And slowly, you realise that you have refused to grow past a certain point, reaching a stage where the mind and the body don’t see eye-to-eye and pull in opposing directions, tearing you apart from within till the grim reaper calls. That’s how, I guess, tortured souls are born.

Maybe, dear life, it’s not your fault we couldn’t understand you – maybe, like the rest of us, you also have no control over yourself.

In which case, we can just raise a toast and drink ourselves silly – whatever our poison is. Mine’s non-alcoholic, but don’t let me spoil the fun. Cheers!

best regards

One-in-a-seven-billion

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