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.







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.

Disney, knackered, prose

Disney’s tales – Knackered.

Before I was even born I had dreams bigger than the world could ever imagine. Then as a three year
old I met Disney. Dear old Disney- he was a classic man dressed in a tail coat- as smooth as water in a
calm stream – and a whites dress shirt and black shoes to match. The tails floated behind him leaving
trails of candy and spices and everything nice for all the little children. He lured me in with shiny
candy disguised as Mickey Mouse and promised that I would forever be young like Peter Pan. His
words were clouds made of cotton candy upon which if floated on, deeper in to his lies or tales – as
most would call them.
For hours I, with innocent fascination, would watch him weave stories with the same characters yet
different storylines. They all had the same ending but the start would promise a different ending. I
was young and the fairy tales became my sustenance, my solace.
All the while reality went on undeterred by my lack of interest in it. Soon enough I was expected to
tie my own laces and eventually I was allowed to choose my attire. Then the training wheels were
removed from my bicycle and soon I could ride unaccompanied to the local diner for ice-cream.
Disney, however, he was good. When I asked him why my life was not like Peter Pans, why I had to
grow up, he brought about the “Looney Tunes” and the “The Fairly Odd Parents”. In these shows all
children tied their own laces and rode bicycles just like me. Disney remained my oxygen.
Reality still tried to avert my attention to itself all through my junior school. It failed. I had no
interest in the tormented life where Jerry would be caught by Tom and brutally mutilated before
being eaten. That was until Prom Year. Realty Succeeded that year.
Up until then I had absorbed like a sponge all the happly-ever-afters. Their scripts were etched onto
my heart. That night like a tire with a slow puncture everything Disney had ever taught me spilled
out, piece by piece, story by story, scene by scene.
Prince charming had no horse nor a trusty stead or even a mere sword. Prince charming was reality.
As I was yet again about to question Disney, the stars aligned themselves and everything made
sense. All my life the mouse was never caught and the cat was never thrown out for being a bad cat
and not catching the mouse. And Peter Pan- oh peter pan- he was a thief who lured a girl from her
Knackered of hearing, believing and consuming Disney’s tales, I gave him back his candy, stopped
following his intricate trail and grew up. Entering reality I will be beaten, bruised and eventually
buried by the truth and that will be my fairy tale, my happily ever after.