It’s been a while since I have sat down with a pair of earphones and stared outside the window typing away a new piece simply because it’s been a year almost and a couple of 9 billion oscillations of the caesium atom since I decided that it was better if I sold my soul to a few rather than a dead hollow Instagram page where validation was equal to the amount of unoriginality my piece contained. I did however stare at the sky in awe today and was immediately pulled back to my first therapy session. My first question to my chosen therapist was “Do you know Sir Quentin Tarantino?” Predictably I spent the next hour trying to get him through how my life feels like a Tarantino protagonist, of course without the charm, the looks, the humour, and the sheer fucking subtle brilliance. But then at the same time, I almost drowned explaining how each stream of conversation ends with a half-baked apology which is burnt to my vocabulary. I also expressed how I willingly throughout the day let go of the ownership of my body at least a couple of times. I guess the hardest part in its entirety was explaining the ridiculous notion of my mind rejecting photographs before the thought of them was even conjured. I explained diligently yet predictably that I despised my existence and under no utopian stroke of serendipity could I justify my existence in a photograph that is meant to create nostalgia.
However, that was years ago. Today? I opened Snapchat and sent a stupid photo to 3 people. Then I walked to the local wine shop which likes to sell “angreji sharab”. Picked up the whisky and headed home humming the scores of my favourite German composer. Here is where it gets conspicuously nauseous for me. While Gen Y is worried about how their blurry face makes them look and Gen Z on the other end of the spectrum cries unemployment I sit and gaze at the cathedral arches of the house I am not supposed to exist in and wonder starkly how does a dude end up wondering dark necessities at the wrong end of the generational spectrum.