A smile was forcibly carved on this scarred face of mine when I overlooked the earlier entries to my diary. Once upon a time ago when I stated with much enthusiasm and zest; I WANT THE SCHORLASHIP TO UK! somewhat seemed so bland and like an arrow just shot and falls miserably on the ground after hitting a stone, this arrow of foreseeability and so called light, struck this stone hearted of mine and it just burnt in flames.
Flames caused by regret, guilt, despair, hope, lost love, a warmth, a need, a form of comfort once trusted, felt and embraced by every sense of my well being which is now kept in the refridgerator, freezing to death, and just waiting on for someone to take it out and shatter it into pieces with a spike.
Like a guitar left idle, keeping all its power of rhythm that when once plucked will outshine itself from the rest of the crowd. Like a guitar laid on the bed, seemingly comfortable, I sit here, wasting precious time and of total, voluntary ignorance of an exquisite gift in me. A gift once unwrapped open, it will be a talk of the town for years to come. Like a guitar laid on the bed, I continue to be in this aura of ignorance of this gift. And as the absence of plucking that same guitar left idle, I am in the absence of confidence.
The basic, pure confidence of being able to carry my leg and stretch it to reach another step to walk a further mile. The genuine meaning of the word confidence where I know I can throw words into mere jokes or simple sarcasm, with the intention of not hurting anyone and just creating a light mood. Every sense of the word, CONFIDENCE where I know I can go home and meet Angel, Bear and Her for solace and unconditional love and support.
Yet, just one downfall is needed to crush this whole entity of friendship, acquaintances, relations and most importantly, family. Just this one mistake, that doesn't even seem wrong in my eyes, is being poked on day by day, forming new wounds and aggravating old ones, like a kitchen knife cutting through your skin, slash after slash. The thought of a knife cutting through my skin seems to be of a less heartless thing to do as then, I could literally lick my wounds. It differs widely if the weapon was words and the target was an individual's emotions.
Every moment I try to get back the old times where there was nothing but joy, laughter and happiness, reality strikes the Lords of Honour and Purity and they remember all of a sudden that, "Hey, wait a minute. You committed this immoral and disgraceful act. A taboo! Now, zip that mouth shut and know your limits". Words hammer me down 6 feet below, showing me where I really belong - 6 feet under the rest of the crowd. As words are the crux of the very existence of writers, they are undoubtly mightier than a sword.
In this midst of darkness and desolation, one should not lose himself and drown in this disastrous path of a broken future. Optimism kicks in, substituting the lost confidence to lighten this burden (if there was one in the first place) and encouraging one to carry on with life because there is more to life than this. This is just one phase deemed to take place in one's journey to revolution. The world is out there! It is just waiting for you to join in and feel the diversed culture and different colours offered in silver platter before you.
"Future, not a popularity test of the past" - James Reaston
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