creative writing, life, personal, prose

You always like to be “Different”.

Shell-shocked, that statement incinerated my world – of skyscrapers, buildings, lights as bright as the sun echoing names of hero, heroines, stars and valiant men, and with streets paved in gold with not a piece of debris in sight. Where once there were yellow perky flowers and crimson rose petals lining the polished marble paths are now shards of blackened glass and singed plastics of a dirty green. In the places where my dreams- like pre-school children- danced on tunes of their own accord is a cold, bitter and merciless wind. The towers that caressed the sky were replaced by mounds of brick and metal weaved together to form a monstrous contortion with jaggered arms.

Within the desolate streets lined with growing dark and dreary nightmares, I searched for answers.

“Was I always trying to be different?”

“Was my entire life – my existence- a façade?”

Turning to my dreams, I found that I was greeted by a cold memory of what once was. My nightmares only mocked and scorned my melancholic state for were only concerned about their own existence. The more I festered and fretted, jerking from one side of the street to the other- walking up and down- the bigger my nightmares seemed to grow.

The seasons, oblivious to the current conundrum, went on with its busy schedule of waking up the sun on time for the day ahead and putting the moon to sleep after a good night’s work.

It was during one of the rants of the nightmares that I realized what I should have uttered in response to that statement.

You see I don’t always like to be Different. I can’t help being different. I was made different and so was everyone else. The striking difference is that everyone else is desperately trying to fit into one person’s mold of “normal”.

Ungluing my face from the ground, I faced the nightmare that was now no more bone protruding through the skin awkwardly but rather a fully fledged healthy beast glowing with unphathamable darkness.

For it took years to nurture, nourish and nurse this beast, it would surely take just as long to reverse to process.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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life, profession, prose, teacher

The World’s Heartbeat

Most of us- those who are deliberating on a career or have already chosen a career- blacklist being a
Teacher like it is a crime to shovel priceless knowledge into the chambers of the human brain. And

those of us who are teachers suffer at the lashing tongues of those who belittle this profession.

Teachers almost always have to answer the vile question “why did you become a teacher?” that is

spat like the venom from a Black Mamba from innocent mouths of pupils.

Sure, doctors save many lives every day and farmers feed people by the millions. Without the doctor

I would have probably died from Malaria. Without the farmers, you would have most likely been

murdered by Starvation. Furthermore without bankers, who knows if we would even have a cent to

our names?

At the end of the day when the world is healthily snug in their blankets with a full stomach as money

accumulates in the bank, it only makes sense to wonder. To wonder who taught the doctor how to

save and the farmer how to farm and the banker how to count and save? Only too soon, like a wave

of fresh air rushing in on a windy morning, do we realise that it was the teacher. To count the banker

owes his kindergarten school teachers who were the first to make him sing the numbers one to one

hundred- even if he learnt his numbers faster than everyone else. To cure the doctors owe their

noble prizes to their high school teacher beckoning them to study for that biology test comprising of

cell structure- a topic as dreadful as death itself. Last but not least, the farmer owes all his applause

to all his teachers for he learnt to count population, save nutrients across acres and to cure a nation,

a world of Starvation.

In essence teachers are to the world its heart. Just like humans are non-existent without the

pounding heart, the world is non-existent without teaching teachers.

life, yarn

Life – when the yarn ends.

We are all born as a ball of yarn whose only detail is the brand- your name personality, what makes

you who you are. The tapestry of the sky is ours for the taking and ours for the making. Or maybe we

are the type of people who are neither overtly intricate nor grand and we much rather prefer

making the small things such as trinkets and promise rings. Maybe yet still we are inclined to string

our yarn along and see where it takes us.

Whatever we decide to do with our yarn is entirely a personal decision. This decision however must

not be deliberated upon lightly as not one soul knows the length of their yarn. Once it ends. There is

no undoing the garment at the seams.

Some of us are like the yarn unwound by a kitten. We have elaborate plans that twist and turn in all

directions. We help people here, make others happy there and listen to someone else somewhere.

For a moment life is good and like an excited kitten with yarn we drive forward, sure that we are

making a difference- and even if we are not we’ve got the drive and we are happy. Then there comes

a point when we face one failure too many, when the people we helped neglect saying “thank you”

and the ones we listened to won’t hear us out. The sun does not go to sleep in our world but stands

high in the sky reminding us of our past glory days. The steam we had with in us becomes water and

we move more slowly and deliberate like an overfilled wine glass. Our energy runs out as the kitten

tires of the yarn and walks away. What then do we do? Do we sit wallowing, drowning, suffocating

in misery until the owner of the yarn comes to realise the mess the kitten has achieved and severs

off the damaged piece of yarn? In the end all that would have amounted was a half chased dream, a

half built house or maybe even a half made sweater that does no justice to its owner.

On the contrary when the hard times hit and we have no one else but the heart in our chests

pounding for us against all odds that is when we should knit even harder. We should knit our

troubles into our yarn masterpiece. Turning a different direction, changing the pattern or even the

purpose of your yarn is neither a sin nor a problem. It only goes to show how creative an artist we

are when we’re done with our piece of yarn. Thomas Edison changed his patterns 99 times before

his piece of yarn said, “light bulb” in the right style, font and colour.

Leonardo da Vinci’s yarn probably resembled the Last Supper painting. When we look at his final at

his yarn masterpiece we smile and marvel in its beauty, majesty and grandeur. Michael Jackson’s

piece of yarn staged a singer- one who will never be forgotten. For a child already with the angels

their yarn says ballerina or judo master. For others it may say “great mother”, “loving teacher”,

“welcoming workmate” or “helpful classmate”. When the yarn ends what will yours say? Will it be

the severed piece of yarn from a displeased owner or that of a finished sweater glorifying its owner?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/yarn/