Why me? Yup, I too have often asked that question, in vain. When the honest part of my brain knows it's all been my making. It’s been almost more than a year that I have not earned a penny, not worked a day and have been waiting and making futile attempts in writing to magazines and newspapers to hire my unworthy typing services. The result:
~Am lazy as a lump.
~I sleep in the afternoon.
~Eating is my only exercise. I wake up, eat, watch TV, eat, sleep, surf the net, Facebook the world, eat, sleep.
~I haven’t seen the sunrise at all!
~I haven’t seen the sunrise at all!
~Every time I travel, I feel like a firang who is being taxied along with a swarm of smelly people.
~I can not anymore travel to three destinations in a day. One trip questions my age and my stamina.
~There are weeks at a go, that I do not cross the inner court yard to feel the uneven tar under my shoe.
~My shoes are biting me – for I have not worn them for over a year!
~My fuss quotient is unusually high.
~My skills are getting rusty, haven’t written in a while.
~I now seriously believe I am not good enough.
~I have become that fat mule, I thought I would.
~I am now the maid; cleaning, swabbing, rearranging my wardrobe. Folding and unfolding my clothes.
~The easy way out seems to be: hunt for a rich husband, shopping, and filling my womb. (I can't even get myself to strike that deal!)
~Self deprecating humor is on a high. I often hear myself calling me a 'numb skull, goof ball, simpleton....
~I, now, do not want to be rescued by another 16 hour job.
~My consciousness is becoming more hostile to every thing that is Alexandrian - every thing ambitious, every thing preposterous, every thing that demands labor from me.
~I am with utmost persistent snail pace working on the path of the Gymnosophist.
~My mind is becoming increasingly naked, my lard is oozing out of my clothes and I am mutely resistant to everything that I won't see myself doing another year from now!
~Somewhere (in some part of my haughty soul) I mock people for their desires, their clock-in clock-out hours, their cyclical workaholic routines.
~Somewhere I vicariously live in NY/ NJ, walk down Liverpool street in London, eat a smoked salmon, drink wines, guzzle beers, sing in the snow...
~I yearn to be what I want to be...
for that I have to be come who I really am.
And that is fucking scary, for it will take a lot more effort that typing this out.
