Incoherence
It’s 6.30 pm on a Saturday evening, one of the last Saturdays of 2023. Another year has flown by and I sit here typing and sipping my coffee, so taken by the ineptness of time and it’s cruel incongruity.
Where does it take us? The cycle continues again and again for decades before we abstract away as a concept, as a memory. What we do today, what we do all our lives, is all for that memory, which we hope will stay after we dust away as ashes.
Every individual leads their life moulded by the ideas and expectations their society sets for them. It involves the simple hypocrite tale of leading a sublime life where you are expected to be extraordinary without actually being extraordinary. The ‘extra’ term in ordinary is basically your monetary gains or other typical examples of societal benchmarks of some staged life.
What makes us different from animals is our consciousness, but somehow, we manage to chain this freedom provided by nature into a sad hole of a mundane routine mirroring that of a machine.
How do we allow a particular norm to dictate our lives has always troubled me. Love that could originally be seen as a liberator has now become one of the hardest shackles by damning it with the notion of an institution that one must enter regardless of affection, to fulfil some needs of this rulebook of the societal state. Your passions that supposedly should be your vocation are now measured by the amount of money it could earn, which would then trap you in a vicious cycle of tardiness.
And what do you get if you deny it? Nothing. Society will reject you. Like an alien, you’ll roam around these very lanes. You will co-exist with your fellow beings yet feel substantially absent from their tiny little worlds.
The world you see and the world they see is vastly different, and in that you’ll be forever alone. The irony, that perhaps, you are most akin to being a human instead of these society-driven shells of human forms, will forever haunt you in your self-induced cage of being different.
But what will you achieve? You, too, are awaiting to become a memory, but who’ll remember an idea, an unloved misunderstood soul? It is then you realise that you won’t be able to achieve even that, and so dust is all there is to your future.
It’s 7pm now.
What can I do if I, too, feel different from my fellow beings? Sip my coffee and write this article, and stay deluded in my tiny little underground, a world of books and blabber.
