Flipping through the dusty pages of a ragged book, I found the petals of a rose I had plucked several years back when I was still in school. I remember how we were forbidden to do so and how thrilling it had been then. Breaking rules has always been exhilarating, isn’t it? But how often does one make attempts to conceal the nasty side of oneself. Trying to paint rosy pictures, trying to please people, trying to be what we are not.
And that is when I wondered if the stories that I read are honest depictions of the ink stained heart of the author. Do we read the truth? The real feelings? Or is the real version of the scenes in the play camouflaged behind the cakey extra-foundation makeup of the author’s soul? Ever wondered how it would have been if you wrote your story without any pretention. Is it not right that we would have at times, or more, come across as a self-centred pleasure seeking biased piece of species flogging feigned concerns?
And what is this ‘fear of being judged’ that you talk about? To put it in a better fashion, doesn’t that mean being called what you are? What is the fear in that? Panic when they don’t get you right, not when they do. Only then can you find inner peace. The world is certainly not a wish granting factory and neither my friend, are you a slave. So while the drama around you is unfolding, try to be yourself, even if that means being foolish because there is no better fun than to be stupid in a world full of people trying to act sensible (and failing miserably at it). It’s a short life after all. And you aren’t escaping it anyways.
Let everything happen to you. Taste the bits and pieces. While you’re at it, have fun.
Don’t seek answers. Neither do you owe one.