I had been pulling my hair a while ago. I was thinking about how I was letting my life go down the drain. I do not feel like I have done anything in a year. And it frustrates me. It makes me feel useless and unworthy of anything. It makes me feel selfish and ugly and everything that could make me pull my hair. My father had just dismissed the idea of journalism. I know he will come around to accepting the idea, but he believes I can do better than that. So I was reassessing the ideas I have built in my head. And I questioned everything I have been doing for the past year.
I know that I am not the person who wants to do “hard-hitting” journalism, nor am I a person who believes in spending half of her life buried under files or computers or wasting away coped in a cabin where I have to sit all the time. I think of travelling all around the world. I want to feel the warmth of the sun in Greece, with water as blue as sky, and sky bluer than itself. I want to walk in the streets of Paris; I want to see the snow fall in the busy city of new York; I want to watch buildings go by as I lie in the boats in Italy; I want to fall in love with a beautiful man- inside out, tall, with a sharp nose, high cheekbones, beautiful deep soulful blue eyes, ruffled black hair, and an accent that could make my insides melt, just like Gone With The Wind promises Rhett Butler to every woman; I want to help poor children, bring them to my home, teach them all good things so that they never stray from the path of good, so that they can become as successful as the privileged ones and be happy; I want to feel the fine sand slipping away from under my feet when waves retreat to the vast sea as I watch the sun setting in . I want myself to remain happy forever, so that I see no pain and feel no pain.
And then my thoughts come back from my private paradise, letting me know that I study in college, that I never bother trying to earn so my account remains to a shameful balance of Rs.900, that I will have to work really hard and remain grounded to be able to do all of the above things. But then again, I cannot stop myself from picturing those beautiful bright small white houses built alongside the blue sea, dull lights spilling onto the silent gray streets, white snow covering everything but the barren brown trees of the playground, the beautiful sculpted image of a man, the happy faces of the children, because as much as it hurts to come back to reality and fill me with longing, it makes me aware of the fact that all of these things could happen to me if I worked hard enough. All of it makes me happy and protects me from the harsh biting reality that yawns before me, baring its ugly sharp teeth. So I dream, dream, and dream, and a smile plays on my lips as I think of it all over again until sleep lulls me and takes me into her arms.