Passion! Where art thou?

Its been a while since I have written for nothing.

Each morning as I look out from the window through the gaps of my sheet, most often I dread the white light of the day. Another new day, another round of painful meaninglessness. I dont wake up to something or go to sleep for something. Each day goes by. One by one, like pages of a novel which you just want to finish. Like watching TV. Click, click, click..... Zero to n and back again.

"What do you want to do in life?" - the line screams out each passing day, even after 8 years it was asked. Overburdening me with a sense of guilt for wanting to do nothing. Nothing that is meaningful to anyone. Just like a cockroach.

Was man always designed to achieve? Achieve something/s during the span of his life?

And then I think of the others who spread so much love around with no apparent love in their life.

Thanks to Deloitte, my present nest, I had the opportunity to go to an old age home. Its Deloitte's way of giving back to society in a constructive way. And I respect it for that.

And there I met 'Her'. She doesnt have an eye and a leg. Through her imperfect teeth she smiles the perfect smile. A smile which pierced my heart and made me cry. She infects you in that disinfectant atmosphere. She smiles, she laughs, she jokes, she talks and she dances on one leg.

Each moment you are there with her you feel guilty of not acknowledging your privilege. A privilege that you have 2 eyes and 2 legs. That you wake to go to work. That you can come back to what you call home where someone must be waiting for you. That you see new faces each day as you cram in a bus or a train or in the mall.

Each day the occupants of the old age home wake to another long day. A day of no newness and no hope. A day of waiting. Waiting for the day to end. And whenever they interact with hope they just cling onto it like a straw in deep sea. She fed me with a spoon and ruffled my hair. It felt so nice but it brought tears once again and with it embarrassments galore. How can a man cry?

So why does each day of my existence feel like a struggle? A struggle for nothing but a struggle nevertheless. Why do I wish the night lasted an eternity so I could hibernate till the time I found an answer to the question that screams out every day to me and make me feel small and puny.

Is it because I dont have the gift of passion? A passion for anything or anyone? A passion for good or for evil? Am I damned like the cockroach who can think and will survive all?