I sat down to read my blog after a long time. I have always enjoyed reading my own stuff. I'm funny. But it was different this time. I could see the different bits of my moods showing through each post.
From the marijuana-induced neverland thoughts to the society clean-up obsession; from bitterness to apathy and from humour to nostaligia- each transition is blatantly apparent.
Then I realize I have grown. And for once, not in size. By definition I am still young. But in essence, I am not so sure.
Young was when we thought we could take on the world. Young was when we would come up with new tunes and lyrics in a 60 minutes' lecture. Young was when we would make an award-winning anti-tobacco campaign while smoking our lungs out. Young was when we would quote literature in the BUsiness Strategy paper and then boast about it. Young was when we were dreamy, irrrational and spontaneous.
Young was when we were fearless.
Does growing up have to mean losing your zest for life? Is this reality I have a feeling I have succumbed to? I never thought we would. Not us, not this bunch. Yet, today after a mail from the past, I see this routine I have become.
So now at almost two in the morning, I am stepping back into the old shoes. I am tossing my schedule out of the window, I am digging out the long-stashed cigarettes. I am tiptoeing up the stairs and then noisily opening the door to the terrace and I am lighting up. I am lying on the dirty terrace floor in my t-shirt and shorts. I am star gazing and I am freezing. I am writing for the sheer love of it and not caring if I sound silly. I don't even care if I am scribbling on the sheet or not.
It hasn't left us after all, Khattar. Not yet.
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