It’s way past mid-night and sleep is still trying to play hide and seek with me, and I must say she’s very good at it. Don’t you think sleep is a ‘she’? As she’s deceptive and playful; easy come easy go, fickle minded, hard pressing and one of the bare necessities; you can’t live without her.

I really don’t have a title or a topic to write. A protagonist, a subject, a story is missing. Peace actually rusts and dulls your senses. Still, it’s good to be in peaceful times. Even though it causes an anxiety, an anxiousness which you can’t simply shrug off. But then, this peace is momentary. The dawn of a new day would bring thousands of new possibilities with it. Not every new condition would necessarily be a favourable one.

This awareness of the immense uncertainty etched deeply in consciousness is terrifying and addictive at the same time. It’s a thrill which gives a rush to both your brain and your heart. The confidence you gain when you could see yourself evolving through the rapids of time is forever.

There are things we did in the past, which act as the accumulated experience we possess. Your actions could be judged on the parameter of right or wrong, but not your experience. We all sometimes face a situation similar to one faced in that past. Should one use the experience to do it right this time or should the experience be used to accept that avoidance is the best option?

The night provokes me to think, to dream. I am surrounded with people yearning for someone who could understand them. I see them everyday. And the funnier thing is, they have chosen someone in particular to whom they want to explain themselves repeatedly. Funniest thing is, I was once belonging to the same category. Everybody wants to be heard, to be listened, to be taken care of, to be asked if everything is al-right. Strange, nobody wants to listen.

I don’t choose to listen on a regular basis. But then what is more exciting than non-fiction? Fiction after-all is man’s creation. Something which may sound so bizarre and out of the world, but ultimately is a figment of human imagination. And non-fiction? Naked truth. It exists. Still out of bounds of human imagination. People gasp and open wide eyes but could not digest it. So are these stories which I choose to listen. I can imagine a magician shooting spells flying in different colours, from the tip of a wooden stick called wand. But it feels almost unimaginable for a mother to discard her own son.

The truth is, we have drawn a line between fiction and non fiction, labelling them. Whereas there is no line. It’s simply divided between what makes living our life easy, thinking that it exists and what makes it a living hell. Or what catastrophes we think can be bearable and which delights are too good to be true.


But these stories have a weight tied along with them. The listener shares it with the narrator. Suddenly your perception towards the narrator changes. It’s not always bad, but not always good. Now that you are privy to their stories, they want to be judged by you. And they want it to be in their favour. Some just want to share their excess burden so that it could be possible to carry the burden of both, their story and their pride. It’s difficult being a listener, being a mute audience, being unable to point out the problem when you are staring it in the face. And mind you when I say it doesn’t do good even if you tell them it’s there.

Now I understand why silence is golden.

So even if your life is without any ripple, you can cause storm in it by listening. But then, it should be done only if you want to be high like me.


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