Tag Archives: ideas

Quarter life crisis


The green grass didn’t amuse her anymore. It annoyed her. She felt this surge of nostalgia take over. As a kid she’d always avoided grassy areas, especially damp grass. The texture of moist earth felt way too creepy. But with the passage of time, she’d been taught to love grassy blotches of earth. They would have a cooling effect on her mind and soul, some sort of spiritual influence and shit.

She didn’t feel the same about a lot of things anymore. She used to be obsessed with typewriters. I guess it was just a hipster phase when every upcoming instagram user with more than a hundred followers felt the need to spit a few mismatched but influential words on to a page. She tried to compete with them too. She tried to validate her talent by the number of double taps she’d get. But I guess most of the people who liked her content were either trying to cope with a virtual cult that made them feel special, or some people were going through that ideological outburst of a phase where they go through an existential crisis and question everything like freshly cut World War II wound.

So she’d rather just sit on a bench, at the brink of everything that was lofty, and contemplate all that had brought her to this point in life. Now that she was here, her quarter life existential crisis and a handful of compiled essays from people like Huxley and Durrant were fucking with her mind. Was she validating her existence well enough? Well, after she’d secured her name among the thousands of other fellow professionals with much lesser IQs, exposure and comprehension of the finer things in life, she answered that in a negative. She wasn’t a member of Mensa. She hadn’t scored any exceptional grades or done anything outstanding at a very young age.

Were her ideas even original anymore? In 2017, an original idea is overly eccentric, weird, vulgar, or offensive. You have to go out of your way to be recognized. You have to build a platform. You need approval of a significant amount of common people or a limited number of important people by catering to their likes and dislikes. Go for things that are “trending” or “in vogue” so that they could forget you in two weeks. At least that one time you were popular for that one thing. It is the best you can get. So maybe five, ten, fifteen years later some journalist who is out of ideas will dig you up during their mundane routine and resurrect your fame. That’ll validate your existence well enough. It’s the best shot you’ve got. It might help you through bad times, motivate you to achieve a mediocre milestone, and then you’ll just go through life like everyone else.

She wondered about the people who had gained fame after they died. Many people realize the worth of a person after they’re long gone. Those people are not made for their time or their people. So in another time, among some other people, they shine. Does that validate their existence? Will they ever feel they way someone feels when you compliment them during their life? Will they be able to absorb the sunlight through their senses? Or would it drive them mad. Maybe they’re better off dead. At least they’re making the lives of the mortals better.

She could evaluate her life all she wanted and she’d just find herself at square one. So I guess it would be better to look at life from where she stood, in her shoes, from her eyes. She’s the best person who knew herself. She knew where she’d started and where she was now; successful, educated, mature, diligent, kind, fairly good looking, domestically competent, socially loveable, witty, yet obstinate, moody, irritable, sensitive, distant, hyper and loud. But she was who she was. She didn’t deny her existence. Maybe she’d borrowed a few ideas from her mother, her relatives, people she’d met throughout her life, experiences she’d gone through, and writers she loved. She was a set of circumstances and traits that had brought her to this moment and she was okay with it. For the life she was given, this is the best she could’ve done while being true to herself. She’s come a long way and she’s got an even longer way to go.



There are many things one can identify instantly; colors, objects, places and names. But there are also things that take more time to identify; ideas, feelings. There might come a point in life where these two may overlap. At that crossroad, you find yourself grasping the blurred line like a trace of your finger on sand washed by the sea. There’s a concept that home is where you’re born, brought up and live. But adopted orphans have homes where they weren’t born. We may abandon our childhood homes for bigger, better houses. One may live in a dormitory and feel more at home than the place where they have to go back to every holiday. Someone’s safe place can be home, away from home; an attic, a playground, a device, a road or a stranger. Two arms can be more like home than four walls.
I have a home. It was an old, tattered chicken coup where we hid ourselves from the rain to heal our broken bones at the price of our wings. Then I found out that I was born to fly, I knew I had it in me. So I’d fly only when I could. It was never enough. I started looking forward to my flights. I grew rebelliously fonder the more I was criticized and bashed for it. It was wrong and I knew it. But I still flew but with a pet’s tag around my neck and a pebble called guilt tied around my ankle. But flying away makes you tired and this home was getting exhausting. So I opened a map of all the possibilities that could help make a home of my own. I got lost so many times and always returned to the nest, a bit more broken than before. After a while I’d set out again and learn more about these paths. But you see, everyone already has a home of their own. They’ll let you in for a while as a guest. If you get comfortable they might ask for rent. No one likes sharing their own home much. At one point of course I gave up. From all I’d observed, all the paths I’d trodden, all the people I met I could only believe there was no escaping the nest. God had assigned me this home and that’s it. No matter where I went, I HAD to come back here. My damnation was absolute.
Since I couldn’t escape my fate, I couldn’t expect to just find another home. I knew I had to make one for myself. Turns out that’s not as easy as I wished was and there was no way I could do it on my own. But when everyone’s already got a home, who would build a home with me? Someone as lost and misfit as me. The map didn’t show the way that lead to such people. From my observation I realized that these people walked among us, just a bit differently. You had to look out for the signs; a stray idea, a lofty mind, a cynic, a skeptic, a silent thinker, a loud (mis)leader. With time, I found many of these people. All of them figuring out what to do and where to go. Everyone fancied their own path. Except one.
What if you don’t even know that you’re home isn’t your home? No path makes sense because you don’t know where to go. That’s where people like me intervene. I found a lost one and showed him the sky. The infinity of the sky made him realize the limits of his home. It was unbelievable. All he knew and believed now stood up against each other in contradiction. I held his hand and we walked together through all these wondrous paths. Some I’d discovered and shared with him. Others we discovered together. We decided we needed and wanted each other in this journey to create a home. We had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
I thought I knew what home was supposed to be like. I was mistaken when the iridescent light reflected on his iris. The black cracks in his deep brown, earthen eyes directed me. There’s a road I never knew of until there was no distance between us. It was a one way path; him to me and me to him. Our home is a refuge for intellect, an emotional safekeep within the walls of realism. There’s a room full of all that we say, share, think and believe. It resonates with laughter. Smiles shine through huge windows. When thunderstorms of doubt, fear, insecurity, inhibitions and despair try to shake our foundations, we lock our hands together and let the rain of tears wash away all that blinds out our happiness. We live in our home of love.