I ended up becoming what i thought I’ll never be. A coward.

My mind is my prison,
Where I force my soul to yield

What if I’m not meant to be one of those big shots? What I’m just an idiot who thinks he has something that shines, like a shard of glass?
And maybe he’s holding it too tight that it is piercing its own body?

We’ve always found a way. Always.

People say that to live is to live in a society. There are expectations, there is a standard staple of family, values and other constructs which gives that power of life to the idea of a society. To run away from home is easy. To run away from society is tough.

That is the case because society – despite all its evils – has these commodities and services and condiments to offer to anyone who can buy them. And the prices are reasonable, high enough for someone struck with poverty but low enough that he thinks he can attain it.

I admit that im in a society and am reaping its fruits, but don’t take me for a hypocrite. Actually, I am.

But I have very disruptive ideas and tendencies. I imagine doing things which should normally raise the hair down the spine. For instance, killing your own parents by sprinkling lye over their faces and stuffing it in their mouths.

But there are less gruesome tunings I imagine doing – like stealing or pilfering.

And I’m fine with all of it as long as I’m feeling happy and content.

I ran away from my home and there’s not one moment where I regretted it.

I tried running away thrice. Did it right the fourth time.

I get lost sometimes. I just wander away in my thoughts, sometimes reliving my memorable moments and being amazed by myn audacity.

And at times, imagining the worst of my situations, like being found and dragged back to the hell hole called home.

Dragging me back home won’t be the worst. Losing myself and my life would.

What I’m saying is not some metaphysical cliche.

My words are to be taken very seriously and quite literally

I do believe in a higher power among us, with us, and watching over us.

Some may argue that God and its idea helps us because we can transfer our deeds to his name effortlessly and blame him if we go wrong.

I don’t believe in a higher power because of that.

I believe because I feel I have experienced his presence, in the blowing winds, in the falling petals, in the omens around us.

Freedom is such a funny notion. We believe we are free, but we aren’t. The claws of society and what not is so deep inside that we can’t imagine a life otherwise.

I felt happy because it felt like home. Home is not built by people. Home is built by values, traditions, culture, and habits. In that case, I never ran away. I had my home with me always.

At times I wonder, what is the point of being nice and good mannered and ethical and all? I mean, I am angry (now) and I have no way to expel it out of my system. Ssshhh, don’t you go on about yoga and meditation. I want to smash a tile, break a cup into as many pieces as there are in this world, I want to shut the door so hard that the resulting sound reverbrates through the farthest corners of the universe. But, I can’t do it. Why, you say? Because, it is not right. It seems.
I can’t vent out on a human, because it is not they who caused the anger in me. The one who caused the anger in me is inaccessible. Even if he is, I am not in a position to show my justified anger to him.
I can’t vent out on an animal, because what wrong did an animal do to me? So, animals and beings are out of the equation too.
I can’t vent out on imaginary creatures and Gods because, frankly, I won’t like to take chances. What if they’re real? Even if they are real, they are not to be blamed.
I can’t vent out on inanimate objects, because I’ve been taught to even treat a rock with respect. So, no smashing the doors, no cracking the windows, no bashing the window, no breaking the bricks, no burning the wood.
The question remains. Who do I vent out to? I’ve been occasionally drooling out my anger like a rabid dog on my mother. But, that is not the right thing to do. I know it. And the guilt turns my stoamch from inside.
I can’t even vent out on myself. I’m too scared to hurt myself. I’m too scared of the consequences. I’m scared that if I draw the first blood, I’ll never stop.
For now, I write. I pour my heart out, and hope that the poison evaporates harmlessly. But, many a time, it is like an eternal cycle — water to vapor, vapor to cloud, cloud to water.
I caught myself laughing.