Skip to main content
The undecided being
Our tracks were never made. We will never make them either. Paths aren't  created for others to walk on. And no one, I swear no one will ever walk the same path that you have. Our lives are as vast as this land. Our paths will be just the same way.
Do you make your path to walk on? You don't. You don't have a path. You don't build one. You don't follow a trail.
Life was never about having a path.
Life was always, always about getting lost.
But life was never about losing your purpose. It was never about looking at your past or future.
Life is, and will always be, about finding peace.
The true meaning of existence, of becoming a human.
Why do we spend hours trying to figure out what is wrong with us? Why don't we stop in the middle and realize that life is just a part of the existence? That mistakes are not worth sobbing over if we don't have much time?
Do you know how close you are to death?
Do you realize how mortal you are? How little time you have? That you have no trail, that you are meant to be lost?

Why, then, are you so divided? Undecided?



- अनुश्रुति  अधिकारी ( Anushruti  Adhikari )
Labels:

Comments

  1. Bhaskar DhakalMay 14, 2018 at 11:57 PM

    Bloody Brilliant.

    "Life was never about having a path.
    Life was always, always about getting lost."

    And everything that followed after these lines..

    WOW!!
    ( I even tweeted the lines)
    Do write more of these. :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Squiggles and Scribbles of Sashi

Sashi woke up today, annoyed and at 4 a.m. Her thinning blanket somehow turned over and her oiled-up feet were exposed to the ruthless chills of Magh. She angrily switched on the light, as if to scold the walls and windows of her room for the restless night.  Her belongings in the one-person rental flat are quite minimal, although symmetrically pleasing, like something straight out of a Wes Anderson movie, only, without the colours. Her clothes, from her mother's sarees to her work uniform had to put up a fight with her undiagnosed O.C.D; even the softest of the fabric was disciplined into a neat pile.  Her bathroom had nothing more than a single soap, dry on one side and slimy on the other. Her toothbrush, however, looked more worried, for the woman brushed ferociously, disappointed at her slightly yellow teeth which were now accompanied by often bleeding gums.  Her kitchen was completely empty, as she had decided not to eat in her room. The ventilation in the tiny flat was awful,
2 comments
Read more

When Charlie decided

When Charlie decided to die, his bagpack lost its painful weight of monotony and helplessness. A man standing behind him shoved his way to the front, nearly pushing him out of balance. Strong stench of tired armpits spread across the bus, mixing with the smell of diesel and something rotten. But Charlie had decided to die. So it was okay.   So how should he die?   When he reached his room, he undressed himself to nothing and looked around. His clothes were either dirty or unfolded. Ramita didi who would have to clean them tomorrow. Surely, she’d be the first to know about dead Charlie, but why would she clean the clothes of a dead man now?   He washed his dirty clothes and hung them to dry. The rest were ironed and folded neatly.   The day they find Charlie’s body in the room, Paale dai might look around and see these untouched pairs of shirts and pants, then decide to take it for his son.   He opened his fridge. The old broken machine smelled of milddew,
1 comment
Read more

She blamed for and I had

It’s better to write, because no person will read it further than three lines. It’s better to write, because somehow I can talk about why I think we are at a continuous crisis, why I believe that there is no free will, and I can leave it on a piece of paper with my bank account number scribbled right in the middle, and I can walk away, with the paper still at the restaurant table, hot and waiting for the customer who will sit there next, and somehow, the next day, next week, next month, my money will still be untouched, unbothered, asleep.   I may not be a writer, but I call myself one because that’s how I get paid. For me, the definition of a writer is as confusing as the definition of feminism, and somehow, strangely, I believe I become less of a writer the more I write.   My concepts aren’t tempting, my opinions aren’t critical, and I become a slower reader by every passing year, trying, desperately, to make meaning of what I just read: She   blamed   for  
2 comments
Read more