Gone with the Winds
To say that everyone is equal and to say that we aren’t—is as naïve as asking of the clouds not to break when it can no longer hold. There has been, at the pinnacle of our lives, with everything that makes us humans—the desire to stand out from the rest of the crowd.
Some choose to be swept away by the currents while the rest decide not to. It’s the only conditional that differentiates us from each other. The world is as chaotic as it could ever be, and with it, survival that forms the pertinent instinct in each of us.
It’s quite disconcerting to image the society—the elaborate ‘welcoming arena’, all but a rainstorm of rocks, each time a kid tries to do something different. The case rests on the so called ‘leader’ who will want to command everyone unto their path, one that, for the least of this imaginary life—is but a tiny fraction of what ought to be.
And to the soul who wanted to walk the different, feel all that could never be felt—has his image separated from everyone else’s. Such ‘artistry’, says the immediate society, and there goes his mind—one that couldn’t explore his own parameters to connectedness with the world.
But just as we try to judge, the sun gives up on us and we are all, but a race living our last few minutes here. Everything has to end, those that ‘could have’ been explored, and those that had always been dictated by the society.
And in that crowd of desperation, a 21 year old bursts into tears of blue. Nobody cares now, even if he were to act differently or think like he always wanted to. The race, our kind is about to fade and that is when we realize everything should have been done the way our minds always wanted it to be.
The 21 year old reminisces his teenage years, when he wanted to just be himself, which of course was such harshly reciprocated by the society. And that day, under the red violets and the pleasantly tipped valley which had his mind occupied—he did imagine, that he could fly, and the rest played like an endless tape.
It had to be, but what kills him now, is the inability to express when he could, and to have been dictated by the society, which is not a thing—now that everything is but a little thing. There is no wind, and everything is, but a miss-step of our own-selves.
To have been washed away by the winds, on that day during August, is what misses him most. There is a different compulsion, to act like the mind wants to, and to have achieved, is but the greatest victory of our lives. When the winds hold us, and take us with them, not even the elite of the race could re-trace our steps.
People never like it if you try to act different, but who needs approvals when you don’t owe them sh*t. The purity in solidarity, the mind games and the chance to think for oneself, is but a victory each second—as everyone continues to fall but you dwindle with ecstasy.
-Yogesh Chandra