Musings

हम तोह दुनियादारी के चंगुलों में फस्स कर, ज़िन्दगी को ही भुला बैठे, जो चाहा था की कलम से हो ज़िन्दगी , उसी कलम को सजा ए मौत सुना बैठे... हम ऐसे अंधेरो में बस चुके है, जहां दिये जलते नहीं, फिर  भी यह ज़ालिम दिल ने, दिवाली का इंतज़ार करना सिख दिया... अरे कलम से निकलती शब्दों की दरिया सूख चुकी है, पर यह कमबख्त आँखों ने आंसुओ से लफ्ज़ बयां करना सिख दिया. 

The problem with life in general is that we cannot stay for long in this self-generated quasi video game emulator type of a setting. Inevitably, we end up coming too close to reality than one might want to.  As you age, the cocoon within which you are comfortably nested slowly peels away and the world expects that within its safe confines, you’ve successfully transformed yourself into a butterfly. But what if you could not become a butterfly? What if you ended up being some sort of a deformed or mutated version of a butterfly? Wouldn’t you desire to return to that shell of security? Won’t you crave to get back to that illusory world wherein everything seems to be within your control? You realise that life is different for butterflies and deformed butterflies. Deformed butterflies cannot fly as high as their ambitions, they cannot reach their goals, and they see their contemporaries rising far above them, spreading their beautiful wings and enjoying ‘reality’ much more than its form