Sitting alone everyday, I have this growing concern that we are so much into ourselves, our lives, our neighbors that we tend to really forget what's happening outside us, outside our homes, our states, our countries.
I really wonder, what a girl in Afghanistan would be doing at this point in time, when I am busy ranting this thought process of mine. How different are the people of my age outside my orbit? What is it that they like to do, how is it that they like to spend their time on earth? I am thinking of starting this little project, Project 2 Lives, where I'll search for people of my age and look around what really concerns them. I believe females are more vocal and expressive about their personal lives than men, so I'll track species of my gender. This is something I really wanted to do, and with the advent of blogs and twitter, I know the task won't be impossible.
Let's see, wish me luck !!
PS: The image that you see here was the first one I got, when I typed in Two lives on Google Images. ;P
The image is courtesy : Flickr
It's such a fluke I know,
You love me and I love you,
there are better things to do,
money and velocity,
admiration and jealousy,
issues of heart and soul,
better left to the poets and philosophers,
I would never be able to bridge that chasm.
Age of innocence,
like gaudy colored candies, dancing in the eyes of skimpily clad cousins,
hysterically jumping at the drop of rain on their noses,
carols and hymns getting lugged up with the school notebooks, like the dried roses,
age in evanescence
Pencils so priceless, rubber bands so precious,
all gone like a whiff of smoke
a window of black clouds, looming large over my tiny treasure,
In ways more than one, a woman's life is interesting to the core. Sprawled across the green, the vast expanse of a sky whose length and breadth is governed by someone else, they chart their life journey.
The moods and spirits taking cues from the whimsicals of their men. The earth beneath at the mercy of the gods. A beautiful picture of contradictions. Locked inside the prisons of their own volition, they have to demonstrate a ballet of pseudo freedom and emancipation. Give someone, the full rights to sell your soul to his twisted desire and tell the world that you are liberated.
Laugh at her, because, she doesn’t stop at this. The entire episode of portraying herself as the free bird, which she isn’t pushed her into a pit of make believe emotions. Power becomes ample use of your beauty, ignorance can pass away as pristine innocence, and lack of authority can be replaced by your pseudo satisfaction of bowing to your love.
Ayn rand says, “Existence is identity, consciousness is identification.”
Absence of the identification that you are worshipping nothing but street smartness. Your god isn’t the all knowing, omnipotent vehicle of your emancipation. The absence of this consciousness will lead to ugly games of forged power .
You know the result?
You are the winner and you are the loser. You win spasmodic joy and lose bits of what was deemed to be your perpetual partner, your own self.
Who asked you to give away the power and the authority to own yourself to people who least deserve it? And it’s not about deserving, no one, except you, deserve every atom of your identity. Don’t conceal your weakness in garbs of love and respect. It’s time to burn the urban purdah.