Abstractions

But life, since he had first begun planning it, had always to be this way – without a particular direction and without any aspiration for attainments to his name. What an easy way to lead a life had it seemed back then. Almost blithe. Something that totally made sense where the matter of one’s existence was of prime concern. Money was important. But, living to the full, as the characters of some books manage to do, mattered the most. Nature Mattered. Trees mattered. And, when demanded of him, even people mattered.

Aspiration meant a path leading one to a mundane life, a life away from his town which meant his family, he had seen that happen to a lot of people, who had to leave their parents behind, their friends behind. Does a person remain the same when he leaves his roots?; and accomplishments meant a facade that these people used to hide their blameworthy selves. What all not the people around him had to give up in the pursuit of their own aspirations and still worse in the pursuit of aspirations that seemed too fake and made them feel all the more senile at later points in time. They all must have lacked that planning, he used to smirk sitting alone. He was not going to be like any of those. He was firm, or perhaps, he was young, and that is what youth does to people. It infuses in them abstractions. Of invincible love. Of impregnable hope. And even immortality; no young person contemplates their own death.
Death didn’t make much sense to him just yet for he hadn’t lost anyone. Love didn’t make any sense for no one ever broke that barrier and budged the strings within his heart. Love stories in the books were better than the ones in the movies, but neither felt any more relatable than the other. There was a girl but she laughed at his perception towards life. When she asked him how would he, the man of great ideas, express his love towards her, he replied that his love was like that of a soil’s to a seed. She might grow in him, and he wouldn’t mind his identity lost to her grandeur. But that was it. He never understood what was wrong in being someone’s soil, it seemed so romantic and smelt so good in the right seasons. After that, he stopped expecting.
Hope, to him, seemed like a beggar for when you don’t expect much out of life you kind of look at hope just like an urchin, befuddled at the grandness of luxurious hotels, looks at them. It was all so easy. Glib.

And then, despite being so circumspect about the ways of life all the while, life happened. Notions shattered. Believes dishevelled. One doesn’t, then, get to plan one’s life. That one person coming to your life is as marvellous and equally remarkable like a petal from a tree bearing scanty dew on its surface falling on your hand. Both touch you. Making life bearable and more livable. And, on the contrary when you sit beneath a tree and aspire for a leaf to fall on you, the crow shits. This was life. Aspirations and expectations bore shit. He was not there to take anyone’s shit. Job started. People came and went. Days began to be counted by the deadlines. Months by the paycheck. And years by the appraisals.

He seldom thinks of life now. Some lives, no, almost all the lives are like this. It all begins with some egocentric ideas and love. And they all end in some pursuit and a craving for even more love. Work is the constant force that drives him and his passion incites in him an enthusiasm that makes him go to the work the next day. And on some days he manages to note a thought or two by switching between the browser’s tabs briskly.

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