When the sun stops shining

Can you imagine how tiring it is to shine constantly? To be the beacon of hope; the bringer of life.



Can you imagine how tiring it is to be the sun? The world may fall asleep, then rise, go about their day’s work, and then sink into bed again. But the sun, no, it never sleeps. It never stops shining. At every given second, there’s one part of the world covered in its golden hues.

But can you imagine how tiring it is to shine constantly? To be the beacon of hope; the bringer of life.

And that’s probably why, sometimes, it dulls down. Otherwise, how could a few clouds manage to dim the great ball of fire; it’s magnificence unparalleled? Neither could a puny moon eclipse the solar god into dusk, right?

No, the sun sometimes gets tired of producing one yellow stream of thought after another; another golden ray that sets another life alight. And so, it lets the monsoon play for a while; or allow the dust winds to gear into action small tornadoes that make everything seem brown. Sometimes, the sun even drapes a shroud of cold, dull smog—a small win for the polluting mankind.

But only for a short time.

Because its very soul is fire; sheer flames with the potential to burn everything down in its path.

So, after a short break, the sun gets up like a dog or cat from its nap; shrugs the dust of comfort and compliance; yawns to shake away the misery of drudgery, and then, trots towards its feisty spirits that wait in patience, slowly gathering pace.

Sometimes, it’s assisted by cheery friends called seasons. They swoop by and supply the necessary dose of energy, bringing with them loud noises that shatters cars’ windowpanes. Other times, they materialise in silence and simply exist in tandem.

And then, just like the sun, your soul breaks from its dull reverie and shines like the fiery spirit it is.

If life were an ocean, I would be a rudderless boat

Everyday is a struggle. Me against myself. My conscious mind against the unconscious fears that clog my mind; weeding them out is task, for they hide in plain sight, just not visible to my foggy vision. A thousand anxieties weigh down my thoughts. What for, I know not. They both jerk me into action and yet glue my feet to chains unknown. I am at once action and inaction. It is most disconcerting.
There was a time when I knew my heart, my dreams, my aspirations. Now, I have leeches sucking the very colour out of them. Today, those dreams lie untouched, gray and lifeless, their presence long forgotten. The sad part? Those leeches are not strangers. They are part of my own skin and bone.
And a heaviness sets in my bones, like the body of a tired 70-year-old.
I set about my monotonous chores, like a machine keyed to a default setting. Drifting along in the river of time, with no anchor, no sense of direction, rudderless and worse yet, no determination to set my own course. For you only fix your journey once you know your destination, and I know not mine. Even short-term stops defy me.
Until then, I submit to the shallow whims and fancies that catch my attention, each lasting a mere seconds in the wider scheme of things. It’s like the boat goes right when the current wants, and then left when the wind blows through the sails. The ship is left onto the mercy of nature. Who knows where it will all lead to?
And here, I lay in the deck, watching through unseeing eyes, all the while thinking:
Where am I? What am I doing?
Who am I really?