Sometimes I am simply full of words. After all I am an Indian, trying
to make sense, like any other youngster expecting likes on his blog
post, statuses and attracting wholesome amount of attention. Students of
psychology may call it mania, I rather stay to it. After all so little
sources of relief are there actually.
Trying to make sense is another form of creativity, but not always it works. The furious blabber of a beaten kid may make sense in his own defensive format or may be the most formatted speeches may make little sense. Wordplay is an art, which writers, from legendary Shakespeare to someone as clueless as I am, intend to achieve, but ultimately goof up trying to make a statement, a commentary on may be something that might be pinching us somewhere in our subconscious.
The whole problem lies in the programming, we are fond of the Father of our Nation because of what we know, yet the cruel reality might be terribly different, after all most of us are ignorant of the politics. Still we have an opinion, on everything, bird’s eye view they say it. And perhaps from politics to love to life, we have an opinion and so we speak. Simply to show everyone probably that we are sensible, we know a lot and thus we have so much to speak, so much to prove that whatever is discussed it does makes sense yet so little to make sense really.
This, probably, has made its way in our normal conversations. Perhaps that’s why we know when someone says “Hi, what’s up?” he is being rhetorical. Hellos and His, and greetings are so simply, a formality, just a way of telling someone, “Dude, I know who are you and I hold some importance for that”.
We probably continuously talk, simply to push in our importance. We want people to know that we are noticeable. Going on without getting noticed is probably the worst to happen. Perhaps that’s why as we grow old we have too many stories to speak of, of being important at a point of time, and hence we are afraid of that situation, and we know it, it is inevitable. This is hence a dichotomy.
In an unfunny manner someone else is told that someone had loads of fun doing something, even if by chance he/she didn’t, because everything is relative. Someone is no longer happy because someone has achieved something that he desired, but because he/she is happier than someone else, when compared, and that is said, never felt. Or rather forcefully felt, or whatever.
But ultimately, everything, that said, written or communicated, exaggerated or subtle, really makes little sense. We stand here, and then we reach somewhere and nothing truly happens, unless it is a disaster. Because nothing truly happens, we try to convince us that stories are true, ours is one that does exist and it must be gossiped about. Pleasure an outcome of relativity, and at the core of it, we are not really happy. It’s just that we fake it, and keep moving forward, thinking, it’s done, and we are guilty of it. We live in such contrived societies built upon this, because I have a longer car that people may see and admire, and hence talk about it and thus I will be pleased, coiled mentality. And that happens inside, and we don’t really know about it.
Therefore, too much to speak, too little to feel and far too little to make sense. Hence all that is written above is just a part of that mania, expecting likes and appreciation and criticism (that is just another formality to write), hoping that did make sense and got noticed. Or all that simply dwelled in too much romanticism?
Trying to make sense is another form of creativity, but not always it works. The furious blabber of a beaten kid may make sense in his own defensive format or may be the most formatted speeches may make little sense. Wordplay is an art, which writers, from legendary Shakespeare to someone as clueless as I am, intend to achieve, but ultimately goof up trying to make a statement, a commentary on may be something that might be pinching us somewhere in our subconscious.
The whole problem lies in the programming, we are fond of the Father of our Nation because of what we know, yet the cruel reality might be terribly different, after all most of us are ignorant of the politics. Still we have an opinion, on everything, bird’s eye view they say it. And perhaps from politics to love to life, we have an opinion and so we speak. Simply to show everyone probably that we are sensible, we know a lot and thus we have so much to speak, so much to prove that whatever is discussed it does makes sense yet so little to make sense really.
This, probably, has made its way in our normal conversations. Perhaps that’s why we know when someone says “Hi, what’s up?” he is being rhetorical. Hellos and His, and greetings are so simply, a formality, just a way of telling someone, “Dude, I know who are you and I hold some importance for that”.
We probably continuously talk, simply to push in our importance. We want people to know that we are noticeable. Going on without getting noticed is probably the worst to happen. Perhaps that’s why as we grow old we have too many stories to speak of, of being important at a point of time, and hence we are afraid of that situation, and we know it, it is inevitable. This is hence a dichotomy.
In an unfunny manner someone else is told that someone had loads of fun doing something, even if by chance he/she didn’t, because everything is relative. Someone is no longer happy because someone has achieved something that he desired, but because he/she is happier than someone else, when compared, and that is said, never felt. Or rather forcefully felt, or whatever.
But ultimately, everything, that said, written or communicated, exaggerated or subtle, really makes little sense. We stand here, and then we reach somewhere and nothing truly happens, unless it is a disaster. Because nothing truly happens, we try to convince us that stories are true, ours is one that does exist and it must be gossiped about. Pleasure an outcome of relativity, and at the core of it, we are not really happy. It’s just that we fake it, and keep moving forward, thinking, it’s done, and we are guilty of it. We live in such contrived societies built upon this, because I have a longer car that people may see and admire, and hence talk about it and thus I will be pleased, coiled mentality. And that happens inside, and we don’t really know about it.
Therefore, too much to speak, too little to feel and far too little to make sense. Hence all that is written above is just a part of that mania, expecting likes and appreciation and criticism (that is just another formality to write), hoping that did make sense and got noticed. Or all that simply dwelled in too much romanticism?
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