I sit and dramatize my life, every insignificant detail infront of anyone who would listen. With a deluded mind, I go about telling “life’s so rude”. Everyone seems to see eye to eye with that one.
I start telling myself stories, the minute I realize I don’t have what it takes.
Whatever you do, creates your story.
And it’s not clichéd.
It’s you. All you.
The world will want you to come to conclusions.
What If Bruce Wayne had never tried his Batman suit because he felt he was not cut out for the job of protecting Gotham and sleeps?
What if Harry Potter didn’t fight Voldemort because it was too much work and he’d rather play Quidditch?
I’ve always tried to fit into the “me toooooooo” version of events; of words and of life.
Then I realised, those streaks of black on white doesn’t speak about me. It speaks about the writer.
While reading Anne Frank, I remember thinking, This is Amazing.
It wasn’t the writing that was amazing. It was the writer.
It’s never about the photographs by photographers.
It’s about his ability to see beauty in everything, even in the most lifeless objects.
It’s not about the pretty landscapes made on a canvas by painters.
It reveals nothing about the landscape.
It says everything about the painter.
Those music escapes we keep talking about, it’s all about the lyricist’s free, wild soul.
People reflect a deep, sincere, beautiful connection to the feelings they try to express.
What is it about beauty?
Beauty in the eyes of the beholder ? Something we have been conditioned to feel?
Beyond our understanding?
Perhaps it’s just us, and our heart.
Much of what we take for granted about day-to-day existence is merely a figment of imagination.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled to make sense of the terrifying gap between words and life and me.
I was fearless, alert, a dreamer, an achiever before.
I didn’t even realise I was being one then.
I know all these words by heart, and pretend to be all of them.
I tried to be all today, ended up being none.