Fuck it.

No, really, fuck it!

I want to go:

I want to go to a place where furry dogs and furrier pandas are universally acquiesced as the only fit rulers of the universe!

I want to go to a place where stars are strewn across the sky every night.

A place where I can look at those stars every night.

I want to go to a place where the sight of an endless green and gold does not melt into the ubiquitous lottery of birth and blood;

Where there is no lottery!

A place where propriety and affectation for appearances are only doled out as punishments for criminals.

I want to go to a place where a filthy hatred, familial as well as societal, does not claw into my existence.

I want to go to a place where the hours late illuminate not the depraved human traits.

A place where guileless conversation is the only currency of barter and trade.

A place where I can unabashedly declare the untoward fantasies that twist the spaces in my stomach;

Where I do not stifle the sporadic mad impulses of committing interstellar perversion for the sake of a system,

Or where there is no system!

I want to go to a place where dreams and fears weigh more than grade points and competition.

A place where employers treat tattoos and the state of my clothes with indifference.

A place where every excess is shed.

I want to go to a place where more numbers of olive ridley sea turtles exist.

A place where our misguided need for nomenclature (alongwith the despicable rungs of the social ladder) can be discarded to waste.

I want to go to a place where my feet never tire of walking;

And where Pablo Neruda writes more poems.

And I will.

Why? Why do we have to be proper? Why are we so enslaved by that which should be done, by a duty that we needlessly swear to abide by till death does us apart? What about an unfettered soul? And an endless field of dandelions and sunflowers: yellow, red and orange? Imagine running through such a field until your lungs choke you with a fierce burning and then you collapse beneath the clear spring sky, convulsing for all the right reasons. Why are our slates so unclean that we’re entirely cooped up in the little worlds we build for us? Why not be open? Why not smile at careworn strangers with the purity of a thousand silken moons while twirling around metaphorical poles of our fantasies? Who are we but the impressions of all that we have touched, felt and seen? Who are we but the consequences of everything around us? We look to define our consequence, add it to the world, but do you ever wonder that maybe we are the consequence of others? But what sort of consequence have they left inside of you that culminated into your being tonight? Good? Bad? Surely the nature of our experiences that make us who we are, transcend such petty nomenclature: Pandora’s box. Why not be one with the stars above us every night, and be infinite for those moments every night? Ever wonder Bill Watterson was wise as fuck? Why settle for one place when the world remains untrodden? Why not pursue that which spreads warmth inside of you? Why is comfort a threat? Why not fall? Why read books and poetry, and be touched by the stories, lives and romance of the imagination of others? Ever wonder if it’s to vicariously live all the lives that we don’t allow us to live or even the lives that we weren’t allowed to live? Why not be free? In words. In sentences. In paragraphs. In prose. In stanzas. And every single thing beyond? We’re the collection of our past experiences, insecurities and timid dreams for the future, curated, consciously or not, by us. But ever so often, we are inspired. And in those brief moments of pure inspiration, we look to find meaning. We look to tear down brick by brick the walls, mazes, trapdoors and skylights to take us as close as possible to a clean slate. And then you begin. Again. There’s so much to weigh us down. There’s so much to set us free. What kind of negotiated freedom would it be if we’re somewhere in between? Why not be either 0 or 100%?

You only live once.

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