If you're reading this, please do so with a pinch of salt. Because it's that time of the month when hormones range and every other thing seems justifiable cause for tears. Or alternatively, a post like this.
Let's cut to 2012, when I was working in a Hindi channel (obviously, it wasn't the right place for me) in an insignificant job with no interests except finding love, getting drunk and occasionally writing fiction and poetry. It was a scary period in my life because I felt directionless. Then, I found a better job in a better place and at the end of the following year, I found love as well, though I was lonely otherwise. I was still drinking, writing and having spiritual epiphanies now and then. Life wasn't all that bad.
2015 though, was a euphoric year. My job wasn't living up to my expectations but I discovered travel writing. It ignited every recess of my soul and the few readers I had, encouraged my humble, dreamy travelogues. Then, I went on a trip where I met many 'professional' travel bloggers and my perception of the vocation changed. I discovered possibilities that could possibly turn my little blog into a career and leave me free of the obligation of having an unsatisfying job. The sad truth is that jobs rarely make you happy. At times, you have an enjoyable work culture and colleagues. At other times, you have a job description that is supposedly everything you ever wanted to do. But the indisputable truth is that you will always be following orders. And at some point or the other, there will be a dissonance between what you want to do and what you are expected to. For some people, this kind of discord is matter of course. For me, it causes deep-seated and long-lasting anxiety, bordering on depression.
As a child, I was always sure I wanted to be a writer. I also wanted to be a novelist. I thought I'd find great success and live with love and nature around me. Today, I find myself devoid of the motivation and inspiration required to be a novelist. The readers of my blog berate me for having 'sold out'. And my job is in jeopardy for reasons I cannot reveal. My personal life is all right but that was never the focus for a driven introvert like me.
I was a topper throughout my student life. I've heard a lot of people say it's only about rote memory but I thought I was intelligent, not just in the scoring marks kind of way (please indulge me). The impression I usually left, was of one who'd pursue success. But I haven't, have I? Success for my soul means writing only the good stuff. And that's not going to pay the bills. To be paid for writing the good stuff, you have to be f***ing brilliant - path breaking journalism, talking to the locals, delving deep - that kind of thing. Me - I'm only good for waxing eloquent about the light between the leaves and the sweet curves of a ravine. The worst thing about all this is that I'm not even free to vent on the world wide web. We're all being monitored. I always thought that was paranoia earlier. I know better now.
In spite of all that has gone wrong, I know deep down that I'm responsible for most of it. And I do believe in guardian angels. They keep us afloat even when we make bad decisions, fail to listen to our hearts or see the big picture. Best of all, they remind us that change is always possible. I could remedy most of what has gone awry. But many questions remain. And I've begged the Universe for guidance.
