Right now I wish so many things. But almost all of those wishes are impossible. The day has already almost turned to dusk and all my wishes includes how I could have spend the day. Thus to console my broken heart, hurt and heavy after lots of over thinking followed by throwing tantrums crazily in my room to myself, I surf internet and try to go through my favourite blogs. Almost all but one hasn’t been updated sadly. And I try to read a new blog – of my boss (I joined a new place this July).
And as I try to write, nothing comes to my mind. It seems like I haven’t updated the blog for a long time as well. And I haven’t written a poem ever since I went to this competition which now seems like a lifetime back. This saddens me a lot and I wish I could write few stanzas if not a complete poem. It doesn’t have to be performable (this reminds me that lately all the poems I have written is spoken-word and not written one).
I wish not to cook and clean. But I do, slowly as I wander off thinking I could have been doing something far more better (but I always end up on Facebook) than cooking and cleaning. But I do, because I look at how tired my mom is and I wish to make it easy for her. I am becoming everything I despise and I can do nothing about it. I wish I could though. Only if I was living alone, I would eat out every time or stay hungry than cook and clean. I wish that my brother decides to cook one day or at least one night. But he doesn’t. And because I feel guilty, I end up cooking at nights some times; end up doing things I do not want to at all.
I wish I could stop waiting. For people. To come online. Because all we do is talk about how our days went by which are always almost similar. Also because when I have some really big news like how I fell down the stairs and killed my skin cells or how I made a stranger smile or how I went somewhere and did something that made me feel awesome, these people say they are busy to talk. They feel sleepy. And all those waiting I do for them goes to waste.
I wish I was globetrotting right now. With no one but books, diary and music to accompany me. I would be telling stories of fathers and mothers, grandchildren and grandparents. Of teachers and preachers, of best-friends and lovers. Of poets and politicians. Of ordinary people like you and me. In poetry and in short-fiction. And I would be writing letters everyday. To the one who waits for me to come home.
But today most importantly, I wish that when I was young, my parents didn’t buy me more chocolates every time I threw tantrums because they didn’t bring one home as they had promised. Instead, I wish they had told to straighten up my face because in life people are going to break their words and promises.