The End Of Determination

Dear time,

I know we’re not even, but you've shown me a lot. It’s been a long time; my grandma died who was worthy of values and nobility. I always wanted to be a part of her region. I was never close to her, but she used to tell me the bedtime stories and fables which seemed to be real. The morning had a better deal at her place which appears to be an ecstasy of paradise. I was intrigued by the fabled aroma of ink and the oh so heavenly smell of old paper which took me to the path of writing. I used to sit under dawn and combine my imagination with the rising sun and wrote all her fables in my defined way. In spite of being a grammar dunce, I wrote all the stories of the night. No one cared to rectify and argue with me on my linguistic behaviors. I loved the way my granny admired my creativity and escalated my faith in writings. She kept all my write-ups in her cupboard, and hence I started liking her.

“Writing releases pain without any substitution of our efforts, it depicts the concealed pain and agony and elevated pleasure, all you need is the proper word which can define every corner from your square. Thus, writing is like pursuing the best of yours and the less of your fatality.” Sage words, I must say.

But one day she died, leaving those stories and that affection in a locked room. My parents and relatives had a desolation which made me hollow. Thus, I started hating that place again and was stubborn to leave.

I never came in contact with pen and paper after my granny’s death. I tried to enhance my enthusiasm in the creation of writing, but they all were aborted.

“Time, you never counted yourself, but you always compel us to do so. You always jeopardize our situations onto us which leads to delinquency.”

Every day I intended to write more but burnt them by night. Grammar had a severe drawback; no piece ever fit my puzzle. Perhaps, I was sluggish enough to find some better synonyms for my writings. Moreover, I believed that the concept of writing should be better than my semantics. I was proved to be wrong and discouraged by the fact that none attempted to acknowledge the impression of my writings. I was halted due to the conjunctions, preposition, and punctuation which kept mocking me. Piles of papers turned into weightless ash. While grammar was enjoying the party on my failure, I encapsulated into a shell of my former self; into the necessity of physics, chemistry, and maths.

“If you ever asked me, in what way I would like to define you, Time, I will say ‘a hypocrite’ because your morality is futile and your so-called virtue is doomed. First, you let us deduce according to our situations, and in return you allow situations infer us.”

I remember the time when everyone around me used to snigger on my writings, censoring my language and claimed me to be an ignorant connoisseur of literature. I never enjoyed my English class because teachers constrained us to write those prominent words of poetry in their perspective; fruitless to me! Every day, after my school, I spoke to my diary, about the phases and faces of the world, people pretending to the other people, the truths as lies and the dark as light, everything with which the world was covered. By the end of the session, I burnt those diaries and watched my creations turn to ash with such an intensity that even Hestia would be ashamed of her powers. With such acts of mine, the writer inside me fainted due to the emotional fatigue. I walked around in the playground, silently covered by the dusk as my mate. I kept asking questions as to why I can’t look happy like others. I started reading novels and plays, all an old version, Dickens, Galsworthy, Shaw and many more. They didn’t write the correct grammar, they wrote the exact emotions, and we translated their words into the universal English language.

Language became the new IQ measure, while emotions and impressions died in vain. I lost the fact that words and ideas can change the world excluding our language.

Time, I wanted to tell the world that writers don’t write stories and poems because it’s cute, writers write because they are filled with passion. They don’t need a skillful artist to add their verse to the dominant play because anyone can do that. People are living inside a faithless and endless train, which runs on the fact that every literary word has a single meaning. While reading, don’t consider what author thinks, find what you think.

Every day I get up with the new trust that my beliefs and ideas are unique, but I lack the way to impress using language. Sometimes, destiny doesn’t allow you to perceive your fantasies, perhaps you don’t deserve it, or maybe you were silent about it. I stayed calm, analyzing the wars of prejudice and diplomacy around me. I always aspire to write about such scenarios around me, but the words I wrote don't sound intelligent enough to others. Somehow the writer inside me died in agony, and I convict my deeds for that.

Life is a farce and is utterly absurd. We are a catastrophic premonition and have lost our visions to the world. I kept myself inspired by the fact that in this hypothetical world, I am the only realistic creature. I had my misery, my irrationality, my doubts and my fears to accompany me everywhere. No one attempted to rescue the depth of my imagination I attained once and again the best of me was lost in the dark.

Time, I need you to realize that despite being the strongest one, you proved to be a coward because you threatened many dreams and flamed many inspirations. The silence enlightened me to the path of misery; the best I could be was killed by my deeds. Perhaps, in the end, I wonder if I could return to my past, sitting beside those gardens which were covered with valleys and hills and wrote those fables again in my creation without any devastating effect on the way, how different life could be. I wish my granny could reach me back with her smile and appreciate my most beautiful works, that one bliss moment where I can stop you, Time. Because sometimes an hour feels like a minute and that particular second felt like a decade to me.

Time, I hope you’ll not negotiate my dreams because if someday I die, I want you to meet me beyond all dark and all light. And once you reach me, you’ll get to know what scares I redeem.