All day long I walk amidst a sea of faces, many a plastic smile, many a muttered pleasantry, civilities galore. We share a dingy elevator always making space for one more, united by nothing more than intermittent beeps and bright numbers mechanically blinking at us. We run together, the ceaseless race to reach our respective destinations, none the winner, none the loser.
A wizened gentleman stands before me, expounding the theories of microeconomics, hypothesizing and infering and concluding in turns. I twiddle my pen, intently searching my neighbor's face for a clue to his thoughts. I gaze at the blackboard ahead mildly amused and largely unaffected by the symbols and numbers scrawled across. Random words that, if strung together, might unravel their mysteries issue forth and float past me. My neighbor stirs, our worlds crisscrossing for a brief moment, time enough for a polite nod, for a meaningful shrug at the futility of it all. The professor draws elaborate patterns in the air, his voice rising in excitement. Maybe it is passion, a deep love for his job, if you will. Maybe it is just an ethic to do his job well, to earn a living untainted by the guilt of shirking.
"Passion", I wonder. But where is mine? Does my mind wander away in search of that very passion or does it wander for the pitiful lack of it? Why not meekly submit to the "flow" as they call it? Why the unending quest for fiery passion, lofty goals, perfect love? Why this obsession with elusive superlatives and high ideals? My hands have gone clammy and cold- Fear wielding its power, perhaps? But the seas of home are a million miles away, the welcoming roar of the waves a distant echo in my ear. Those eyes in my mind have lost their spark. Those familiar smiles are fading away, shade after shade. My bookshelf has reduced to the impersonal touch of cold metal. The yellowing books have crumbled in my memory. Pages from Jane Austen and Wodehouse and Voltaire gently superimpose and melt into each other.
Here I am, having relinquished the defences I so painstakingly built. Here I am, a tortoise with no shell to hide beneath.
A wizened gentleman stands before me, expounding the theories of microeconomics, hypothesizing and infering and concluding in turns. I twiddle my pen, intently searching my neighbor's face for a clue to his thoughts. I gaze at the blackboard ahead mildly amused and largely unaffected by the symbols and numbers scrawled across. Random words that, if strung together, might unravel their mysteries issue forth and float past me. My neighbor stirs, our worlds crisscrossing for a brief moment, time enough for a polite nod, for a meaningful shrug at the futility of it all. The professor draws elaborate patterns in the air, his voice rising in excitement. Maybe it is passion, a deep love for his job, if you will. Maybe it is just an ethic to do his job well, to earn a living untainted by the guilt of shirking.
"Passion", I wonder. But where is mine? Does my mind wander away in search of that very passion or does it wander for the pitiful lack of it? Why not meekly submit to the "flow" as they call it? Why the unending quest for fiery passion, lofty goals, perfect love? Why this obsession with elusive superlatives and high ideals? My hands have gone clammy and cold- Fear wielding its power, perhaps? But the seas of home are a million miles away, the welcoming roar of the waves a distant echo in my ear. Those eyes in my mind have lost their spark. Those familiar smiles are fading away, shade after shade. My bookshelf has reduced to the impersonal touch of cold metal. The yellowing books have crumbled in my memory. Pages from Jane Austen and Wodehouse and Voltaire gently superimpose and melt into each other.
Here I am, having relinquished the defences I so painstakingly built. Here I am, a tortoise with no shell to hide beneath.
