A letter to the future me…

Dear Future Me,

Hey, you there. You. Yes, you. I am talking to you. I see your masks have become healthier than before. They are beaming with confidence. Exuberating radiance, that you lacked some six years ago. I was passing by your office two days ago, just then I found you hopping out of your car and frantically running towards the gate. You were late may be. Yes, I know some habits die hard.

It seems the masquerade is going on well. By the way, what happened to your plans of leaving civic society and moving to a hill station where nobody knows? Are you still on it? Or, the cosy armchair, the upholstered car seats and beds have made you a slave of the capitalist masters? You knew it from the beginning I guess, that you are a slave of materialistic pursuits and a narcissist massager of your own ego, ready to pounce on anything to salvage your ends. Look, your masks have helped you in this pursuit.

Do, you still cry on your living floor when our parents are out. Oh, I am sorry you moved out to achieve your dreams, leaving them behind. Still, do you cry like a child when your rival channel edges you out on TRPs? Don’t just smirk at me. I am not writing this to haunt you of your hostel days, where you found the bubble burst within just days of initiating your adventure. But with a hope that these words would hold a mirror in front of you reflecting the monster that you are, and your idealized visions that you spun in hour eyes some six years ago.

You always wanted a secluded life, away from the din and bustle of the city. A community where people do not run. A place where people have the time for each other to get down from a bike and talk for five minutes rather than putting up a fake sophisticated “Hii”, with an equally artificial smile. You wanted to know people by chatting with them, may be by sitting under a banyan tree with an earthen cup of tea in your hand and indulging into their deeper recesses of mind, by accessing their myriad of experiences by making them talk about them. Yes, you have been doing the same things just in a very professional way. A pen camera has become your aide, in digging up things secretively and bringing them up to public eye. People trust you easily, therefore they let you in their private spaces and what you do, you make business out of that. You ride your luxury car by decimating people’s trust, their expectations and belief.

You hated to go to parties, remember? You didn’t even attend your freshers, because you thought reading again Kafka’s Metamorphosis is better than immersing oneself in booze and psychedelic lights. Now, it has become customary to attend weekend parties, where you drink up to the neck and dance with other’s wives. But you have been a lecher since school, so it’s nothing new to you. Do you read books, nowadays? Or watch some movies just for the sake of watching it, and not to find out any controversy that can feed you with more viewership? I know you want to throw this letter away, right now and again bury yourself in one of those work files. But, try to finish it. It can act as a photograph of your distant aspirations, as now you don’t look back. Only the next milestone beckons you.

You hated to work at home. Do you take your ppts to your bedroom now, or leave them at your office desk? What about your childhood buddies? Do you remember their birthdays? Care to give them a call once in a while. I know you are in touch with your sound designer friend, that is good. At least you get rid of that mask for some time when you are with him. But what is there behind that mask? Or has the mask itself has become your face? I dread the second possibility, if it is true. I know you will touch your face now to feel the softness of your skin and again be assured that you are not wearing any mask, and the allegation is false, just to pacify yourself that everything is alright.

Get out of that bubble. Burst it down, even if it means to lose your armchair in office, for which you have toiled your brain and brawn, day and night. I know you cried when you did not feature on the best writers podium in your undergraduate days, but you did not lose that sensitivity which edged you from others. That cannot get lost. Remember your favourite that all you need is a bed and four square meals a day. Why do you remain perennially irritated with yourself, and why is that your joys last for only a day, even if that comes from achieving the prestigious award that you craved right from the day you walked into your chamber? Try to stand in front of the mirror once again, just as you used to do when you over-burdened yourself with unnecessary work that did not appeal to your aesthetics and you still had to do because of the tyrannous professor. You refrained from doing them or even if you did, it would lack your hallmark. Question yourself, did you pursue your passion only to be dominated by some stupid numbers. You believed in art for art sake. You did not care if the mass did not like your poetry or thoughts, because you believed that self-enjoyment is the sole purpose of any creative exercise.

Tear down that mask and set free yourself of the inhibitions that shackle you. You are the Rintrah of Blake’s universe who is an eternal rebel shaking fire into the burdened air. Step out of those Alberto Torresi formals and step into those hawais that have gathered the dust of neglect. Live out of that bow, which tries to strangle that vibrant soul and wear an old loose jersey, once your favourite and now lost in one of the lower trays of your wardrobe. Start ransacking the ordinary for, therein lies the extra-ordinary. Everything is not lost, as that child in you comes out everytime Madrid wins a match. Underlying that mask there still remains a caring husband who makes it a point to drop her off to office every morning.

Hope I have been able to cheer you up again and has persuaded you enough to follow your nascent dreams and not the plastic ones manufactured by the proneness to adhere the common wisdom of the world.

Yours lovingly,

Left back self

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