There is no point in lamenting why others are not like us

 A few years back, when we dreamt together of an unseen and obscure reality for us, it was still inspiring. Our fingers trembled with an invigorating exhilaration. It felt so liberating to be free from the tethers of innate narrowness, to escape from the limiting beliefs of our acquaintances who clinch our trailing shadow and clip our wings of desire or to run away from the maddening fiasco of fools and brain-killers.

It was so until we realised we are a part of an entire narrative that society writes for us. Denying them is denying the fundamental, everlasting tussle between the desired apple and obeisance. The choice is, of course, ours. But so is the responsibility of choosing one, staying truthful to our capacity of reasoning while never pining over the all-pervading power and apparent victory of the choice-not-taken.

There is no point in lamenting why others are not like us. They are not because they chose to, the way we did. This reminds me of Sankha Ghosh — a fool doesn't acknowledge him to be a fool; so how do you know you're not one as well?