I will turn nineteen in a little over a month. So we've already approached the end of our teenage, have we?
This is depressing. So very depressing. Yes, this is the post where I complain about how I absolutely do not like growing up. Its all well. Just the reaffirmation of certain things is a tragedy. Who wants to age and find out they were right about life all along when they were a sulking young teen, right? I don't. I don't like it. You find out how all the cliches you'd been avoiding like a plague? They hunt you down in the end. And attach themselves to you. Like they did to the others. Because, lets beat it, in a population of millions, you're just another disgruntled face. Same old story. And repeat. Repeat.
Perhaps, if you'd met with a different set of experiences. That hadn't been set off by the triggers they had. Because some or the other event had prevented these triggers to actualise. Then, you'd have turned out different. If that boy in the fourth grade class hadn't had that fight with his mother that day, hadn't spoilt her mood to provoke that tiff with his father she'd been putting off for ever resulting in their grisly divorce damaging him enough to act out on the first thing he saw after his drug-addled sister called him up to let him know in her cackly voice - You. You would have been different. Maybe, you'd have even retorted on his face if only you'd told yourself, believed yourself, lied to yourself that you'd have gotten away with it, without that ugly bruise on your face. We are truly the lies we tell ourselves. Its a lie the first time. Its half-truth the second. And then suddenly, it is, the only truth that could be called upon.
Oh. I am a struggling journalism intern now. Fack. The hierarchy that has developed progressively since when I was a kid to now, in the set-up really overthrew me. You're an intern first. If you can score that. For a few months. You're a trainee journalist next. For a few years. If you're lucky. And finally, and many give up mid-way, if you're really that good, and you're well-to-do/engage in other side jobs to sustain yourself, do you become a journalist. Just a journalist. Just the title. And that was and still is the start. Phew.
So not before 25. In any way. To count the minimum. Unless you're a hotshot, then you're "fitter" than us, the rest, to survive.
Shit.
This is depressing. So very depressing. Yes, this is the post where I complain about how I absolutely do not like growing up. Its all well. Just the reaffirmation of certain things is a tragedy. Who wants to age and find out they were right about life all along when they were a sulking young teen, right? I don't. I don't like it. You find out how all the cliches you'd been avoiding like a plague? They hunt you down in the end. And attach themselves to you. Like they did to the others. Because, lets beat it, in a population of millions, you're just another disgruntled face. Same old story. And repeat. Repeat.
Perhaps, if you'd met with a different set of experiences. That hadn't been set off by the triggers they had. Because some or the other event had prevented these triggers to actualise. Then, you'd have turned out different. If that boy in the fourth grade class hadn't had that fight with his mother that day, hadn't spoilt her mood to provoke that tiff with his father she'd been putting off for ever resulting in their grisly divorce damaging him enough to act out on the first thing he saw after his drug-addled sister called him up to let him know in her cackly voice - You. You would have been different. Maybe, you'd have even retorted on his face if only you'd told yourself, believed yourself, lied to yourself that you'd have gotten away with it, without that ugly bruise on your face. We are truly the lies we tell ourselves. Its a lie the first time. Its half-truth the second. And then suddenly, it is, the only truth that could be called upon.
Oh. I am a struggling journalism intern now. Fack. The hierarchy that has developed progressively since when I was a kid to now, in the set-up really overthrew me. You're an intern first. If you can score that. For a few months. You're a trainee journalist next. For a few years. If you're lucky. And finally, and many give up mid-way, if you're really that good, and you're well-to-do/engage in other side jobs to sustain yourself, do you become a journalist. Just a journalist. Just the title. And that was and still is the start. Phew.
So not before 25. In any way. To count the minimum. Unless you're a hotshot, then you're "fitter" than us, the rest, to survive.
Shit.
True. Nice wordplay here. ALso, congrats on the intern! : )
ReplyDeleteWhere at? Really, 25 till you become one? O_O
Plz explain
Also, did I ever tell you I LOVE your tattoo?
ReplyDeleteAt 25, you'll still feel the same. Don't get lost in the future, learn to know what you want.
ReplyDelete@Sadhana.. I gueesss? T.O.I, but you already know that! :] And yes you did. Countless times :D Thankful as ever.
ReplyDelete@Pranav.. Well, I'm trying to figure it out. Ain't I? And sorry for the very late reply. I shall be mailing you soon. :) Your feedback is much appreciated.