Time flies, it sure does. And in the realm of realizing yourself, you look back, year after year — every year. Beyond shame, you cradle your head in your arms, embarked on an orgy of self-pity. You summon the strength of character to put up a good face on the last fucked up year, maybe years. Beyond pride, you smile. Your face radiates energy like never before. It wasn’t bad at all. You just think it was because it makes you want more, never satiating thy self. You are strong, atleast, you think you are. You spin around time, hours slide by like seconds. The accumulated clutter of day-to-day existence, the lapses of conscience, the bungled oppurtunities, the inescapable prison of your genes — all of it is temporarily forgotten, crowded from your thoughts by an overpowering clarity of purpose. “Purpose”, you think. What is it? Your greatest paradox, your quintessential question and your forbidden truth — Purpose. Your reasoning, if one can call it, is inflamed by the scattershot passions and a literary diet that feeds your everyday proteins. You breathe in this belief. Your personal morality — the idea of your own life is still largely within your conceptual grasp, intact. You cannot let it go because it’s growing on you. Let the judgement forbid as it may, you are not bound by the same cause-and-effect relationships that governed actions of others because you have your own thoughts, intensely profound for so long. You want to preserve them. Make babies out of them, atleast two. That reminds, you wanted that amazing partner in your life. You wish you could, you tried, not once but many a time. You dreamed of a happy home. You wanted to greet them with joy thinking that life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs. You thought you could be more elastic, more starry and you think that this could lead you to a more immortal path to success – in a blend of mind and body. But you laugh at yourself. There is no fucking thing like a sweet-scented herb. It’s your illusion. The true harvest of your daily life is somewhat as tangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. You crave for something which you thought was plausible. You miss intelligent companionship, but there are so few with whom you can share the things that mean so much to you that you have learned to contain yourself. It is enough for you to be surrounded with beauty. Beauty? You have seen many, cherished some and wanted to conquer a few. You have known depths of it already and would prefer anything to an anticlimax. But then, like this thing, like many other things, your thoughts vapourize into thin satin sheet of dreams. Shamless you are, you dont stop. Today, you think, a new awakening begins. You think you’re reborn. Real life has just begun. Conscious attention to the basics of life. A better job, a better peace, a better partner and better every-other-thing. You have no fucking clue why you dream of a better-everything, every fucking year, but you do so. One week. Two months. Things don’t change. Of course they don’t. You smile, with that grin on your face. You’re not cynical but they think you are. You know you’re happy but you don’t tell you are. You don’t want to. But you little know until tried how much of the uncontrollable there is in you, urging you year after year to dream with a dangerous passion, let the time warp as it may.