I feel like an Idiot

Its 12:17 A.M. I've just had a smoke without really wanting to. I had it coz I felt like an idiot, chasing something I don't even know I feel for right now. I thought of writing this in word and stashing it in documents folder, never to be seen on read again till a few years down the line When I would have looked at it and thought well!!! I wasn't such an idiot after all. But here I am posting this in a public space coz the sight of a blank word document staring at me brings out what all I have been seeing inside me. A total void, a seething confusion, a complete forgetfulness of who i am and what i seek from life.

Lately I have been in two minds. Its no novel situation for me. I have always been in double states, always looking at the greener grass on the other side and invariably at all times when I have moved ahead I long to gaze back as i realize that the pasture i so despised and wanted to flee was the one which was my fold. At times I feel that I realize things later, later than they are to be understood and lived for and in this wanton mode i always miss to stay back and live in the present. Am too much of a past guy with eyes always set to some future which am not even sure of. Life has turned into one incongrous oxymoronic experience.

I love to write. I have always wanted to write a book and each and every time i read a moving piece, I think I could have written it. They all start speaking of my life, my meanderings and my poetry. I get so obsessed with the idea that I dream it often. I dream of writing, ideas springing in my head aimlessly. I would dream of plots and characters and in my dreams i would take a resolve that as soon as i get up I would pen it all down before it sinks back into the oblivion of my head. But with an uncanny ability of procrastination, I always leave it for some future date when am calm and composed and settled and when I could have all the time I wished for without the hurt and rush of accomplishing and striving for. I while away my time in wait for some day when all signals would be green and I could drive with the wind in my face and tears in my eye.

I take chances. I have always. Life to be is never stagnant but in pursuit of the unknown that i desire and hope for I never take an opportunity to sit and see life as it is. Am always torn between 'what is' and 'what ought to be' and 'what could be'.

I always want to write and say each and every thought that bubbles but i restrain for I don't want to sound like an idiot. Guess this is the reason I am one. In my pursuit for that tiny bit of happiness, i have often let gone the spontaneity and innocence I have so cherished.

But it all isn't about my desire to be a writer. It's about my soliloquy. At times I have glorified it, considering it the note that makes me who I am and pulls me back from joining the herd in some frantic chase of some ideal or state everyone is running after. On the contrary, I also have considered joining that herd, losing myself, forgetting who i am, forgetting who I want to be. The debate is always conventionalism v. conventionalism. It's the battle between succumbing and succumbing and resurrecting. It's between who i think I am and who I am not. Its between my fixed perceptions and my hatred for dogma. As i said it is always an oxymoronic existence for me.

I feel tired, sucked out of life, waiting to be resuscitated, waiting to be pushed over the cliff so that as i get into the free fall I could fly.