There's a light in the room, but it's still dark inside.

When we were taught how to write an essay, they told us that we should always have an interesting beginning. Add phrases, quote famous people we don't give a shit about and a lot of other pretentious crap to make the reader think that "wow this is a beautiful essay". The aim was to build a positive judgement even before you get to the part which contains the essence of the essay. 

And since we are conditioned to think like that, I made it a priority to have a good beginning to write ups. But that's a sham. Because in actuality, the begininning is a just a lie. It's the pizza pamphlet that promises a discount with a coupon but then denies it when you order for a pizza. It's a false hope that this shitty write up will lead to something beautiful. 

Well guess what, it won't. Just like life. And the other pathways of life that are so intricately detailed with lies. 

Cleary, life hasn't been a series of sunrises for me lately. I feel like every time I write a rant post my life has changed drastically. Which it has. I'm just tired. I'm getting to a point where I'm perpetually tired of life. 

What is the point of doing things? 

*cue existential crisis* 

I think I'm writing after a good three months today. I remember writing the post "death of a skill" where I talked about slowly losing writing as a part of my being . To be honest, I'm very close to that. I know this because I still haven't finished the book I was writing. A few months ago I was so invested in it that all my life goals and plans led up to being a writer and getting my book out there. 

A few days ago I thought, "what's the bloody point? Books these days mean nothing. They stay around for a month, maybe a year and then someone decides to kill the imagination behind it and make a movie adaptation. After which people compare the book and the movie, which is fundamentally wrong. And then people forget and move on. Words like everything else are losing their value. So yeah, why am I even writing this book? What do I get? It'll be a failure because a book like this won't survive in a country like mine. I won't get any money for it. So i'd have invested a large amount of time into something I'd get nothing out of." 

The minute I thought this I realized how dead I was becoming on the inside. How I was leading upto becoming an adult. How I was rationalizing my love for writing as a good or bad investment. 

And that's when I realized, this is it. I've lost it, because if I can't do anything just for the simple pleasure of doing it, then what's the fucking point? 

Writing in itself has been my favorite because of the ease with which I could express myself. 

I'm slowly being exposed to the world outside and I don't like it. I can see myself turning into a mechanical being whose losing their essence in chasing things that don't matter to me. 

College is getting difficult. It's not what I expected. Sure, week one was great. Beginnings are always promising. But I see now how the school system works. It's hard to grow in an environment where everyone is trying to mold you into something different. I've never been good with following and obeying. And I'm slowly giving up on free will. 

It's scarier because now I'm alone. My family is separated into different parts of the world. I'm estranged from my closest friends and my best friend is in another country. It's not that I can't talk to someone else, it's just that I don't want to. 

It's like being a shadow. Constantly following this image of me that's doing things and I just stand there watching. I miss home. I miss watching late night news with my father and ridiculing the world. I miss hearing my mom talk about her day. I miss chilling with my sister on the terrace at midnight and talking about things that don't matter. I miss laughing with my best friends. 

The only reason I even get up every morning and go out is to be surrounded by  a select few people who have recently entered my life as saviours. 

College work and being around others keeps me busy, so my mind often forgets the details and thoughts that are screaming to come out. 

In all of the mess I still somehow managed to find the courage to do something for myself. For just the simple pleasure of doing it and no ulterior motive. 

I bunked the Friday public discussions and just decided to go find the band 'Coldplay' who were rumored to be in the city. 

I took a friend along, we stood outside 'four seasons' without a plan of action and ended up meeting a group of fantastic high schoolers who were almost equally excited to find them. We ended up going inside and ALMOST met Chris Martin. But even though the day ended up with disappontment, I was glad that i met these people. 

They were so hopeful. Even though there was no chance of us meeting Coldplay they still stuck around and waited while my friend and I just gave up and left. 

After that we spontaneously took the train to the other side of the town and roamed the streets. We went to galleries, ate at a small cafe and took great photographs of places that we missed so much. 

At the end of the day, when I returned home I felt a sense of peace. Like something inside me had just given a sigh of relief. I didn't get anything out of the things I did that day. I pretty much just got into trouble for skipping a discussion and lost a day of work, but you know what? I don't give a shit, because days like that is what I live for. 

Spontaneity and unexpected events is what runs me gears. 

So yeah. Even though life can suck and at times I feel really hollow and I can't figure out who I'm missing because I'm missing so many people and maybe in all the fuss I'm missing myself, but still I can find a moment of peace in being squished on a local train to church gate and feel at home when this city I've loved for so long, feels so foreign to me. 

Here's some picture I took: