In all probability this is not really me who is speaking, but a weird concoction of feverish delirium, a swig of expectorant and some mind numbing congestion that is shining through in the words that I write down right now. The past two days have been something of a revelation, not as much as a new one, but something on the lines of further proof and clarity that something is not quite right. All of a sudden I have come around to this stage where I have almost impulsively started looking at almost everyone around me, especially the ones from the past, with the utmost derision. I cannot quite understand it as it is of no fault of theirs, they have not changed, I have, but a voice constantly screams in my head now "I hate them!"
Trust me on this, being the 'tortured soul' holds no attraction for me, but knowing what paths you do not want to take still does not mean that you know which is the path you want to take. I am tired of these expectations of epiphanies, maybe the only epiphany is that in fact there is none and that you have to choose from the available options and be happy too. In all honesty that is nothing short of a sort of death for me. It can't be that impossible to find that tiny little niche in this entire universe for yourself, it can't be that difficult to do your own thing, say "fuck you" to the rest of the world and be happy. The only sour point in that observation that smacks of 'I-think-too-highly-of-myself' is that I have no clue what that niche is.
Moreover, there is this tiny but significant possibility that all this is driven by nothing else but my desire to run constantly afoul of my middle class upbringing. For someone who has spared not a single nice thought for those who have made every aspect of their life a statement, I might also be guilty of the same. I have nothing in common with almost all the people that I meet, work or hang out with and even in the case where there is a lot in common, I have nothing to identify with in either case. It almost always ends up being the case these days that either I end up tuning off midway from a conversation or others do the same when it is I who is doing all the talking. Call it clarity or call it delusion, it does exist and quite clearly too.
All that leaves me brimming with conversations that I want to have. Ones where I don't have to provide solutions, answers or address the umpteenth variation of the parental insecurity that is a constant thorn in your side. I want to sit and not have to talk about movements in Delhi's journalistic circles, I want to have hour-long conversations about the most inanest of things, laugh openly and childishly only like a child can do. I want to feel the high of being in the middle of a dance floor, in a rhythmic conversation with the multi coloured lights, and I don't want to come home, neither here, nor where I was born, only if my moorings and my memories would cut themselves off me and set me free, forever.