Comfort Zone

Emotions need a resting place. They flow around, carrying thoughts and memories; drawing essences from the times that were once the present. The eyes moisten with every recurrence of words that become language, that relate to the people who were once a part of my life, painting a poignant picture of the place that was Madras.

Life now feels like a thin design: a flawed book, from a story that almost always does not end well. It does not have structure, the roles are assayed with imperfection, where interest and ambition are often mistaken. It begs to get back in time to the prequel of the mystical past. There should be a reason why the human mind wants to mingle with its own kind. The ambition was never certain but this definitely is a forced overkill. The stamp of mediocrity is not a one that I like to treasure, but what if I stop striving for the impossible? Try making amends with the world as it is or catapulting back into the past, or to the state of mind where I find happiness and solace. Forced recurrences may not work with this world, but it is probably the only way to get happiness the way it was designed to be.

The clock wants to tick back. It want to get back to the days I cherished the most, the people I love; to the mornings that I felt safe because of the surroundings. Out of a fairytale indeed, but I should wait two months, and then forever for the cycle to get back. The sense of deprivation I feel is enormous and it is not worth it, at least for coins.

The comfort zone is omnipresent; lest the mind is deprived of a feeling of wonder, and thus fails to catch its presence. Then who is the loser?

Makes sense to move on. The world demands it: but what does the heart want?