Stagnant.

Time stands still. Looking up at the clock on the wall opposite to me, I see the minute-hand slowly moving. TIme passes. I look out the window and see birds; birds sitting on trees, birds flying freely about in the air, birds chirping and the cool breeze blowing against their direction, and they struggle to fight against the force of it, probably losing a few feathers in the process, not caring and still going strongly. ‘Birds have willpower too,’ I chuckle as I say it to myself out loud. I am alone in my room, the laptop is heating up my thighs but I don’t really care. That’s the way I like it, pushed deep into my soft pillows with the back of my head resting against them, my laptop over me, enjoying the beauty of the world outside me, sipping on a soft drink and listening to some sweet music. On mellow days Jazz and instrumentals usually help, however I feel like some John Mayer tonight. I put on one of my favourite songs, ‘Half of my heart’, I have memories associated with it, I look at the time and the clock slowly ticks, making each second count as if I’ve to do something important and I’m still not even halfway through it yet.

Books lie about me, I look at my room and look at it with the intention of getting out of bed to clean it. To iron my clothes and to put them into my closet neatly, to go through all the junk in my drawers of yester years and to get rid of the things that are no longer usable or have no meaning in my life. I will do it some other time, I think to myself, and put on a good movie to watch. But I can’t seem to concentrate.

There is no electricity, suddenly. Why that  happens in my country  is irrelevant. Gathering in the same room so that with the small generator we have, we can atleast have a fan on, to rid us of the extra sweat and agony we’d have gone through if there were absolutely no fan without the generator. I sit and read a book, my brother plays guitar, while my mother constantly nags him for not getting a haircut even after her countless warnings. She hates long hair on men, I know, and my brother was born a hippie. He loves his messed up hair, and his guitar, and his friends who form a band and play different instruments, and care about music and food only. Boys, yes, that’s what they are, they have all the right to sing and dance and play and eat and play games all day long, and they would still get away with it.

Time passes and the electricity is back. I move back to my room, sit with the laptop on my lap once more and open up my blog. I want to write, maybe that will keep me company. So I do exactly that. Yes, it gives me alot of pleasure. I realize time was stagnant before, because I wasn’t doing something I loved. Something I enjoyed, something which satisfied not only my fingers and my mind and put my thoughts into words, but something that satisfied my soul too. I look at what I’ve written, and I smile. It is my passion, and I’ve just recently discovered it.

prisoner in a fake world

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