“Every morning in South
Africa, a lion wakes up thinking it must run faster than the fastest gazelle or
it will starve to death. Every morning in South Africa, a gazelle wakes up
thinking that it must run faster than the slowest lion or it will be killed. .
.
So the moral of the
story is, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a lion or a gazelle, when the sun
goes up, you’d better be running”
There is
this small part of me, that succumbs to desire. There is this part of me, that
defies laws of nature. There is this part of me, that refuses to accept
mediocrity. There is this part of me that abjures and abnegates the discretion
made by these lines. Far away and deep below, there is a part of me that wont
go unnoticed. The shallowness shall confine itself to the absurdness of the
peaks and will melt into the darkness only until this whole scene gets
dissipated.
“If we assume that
human life can be ruled by a reason, the possibility of life is destroyed”
Not that
much of a Hercules I am,
I’m blown by
winds, swept by tides;
Generations
that follow me are revived by authority,
Serenity for
me lies deeper than the frenzy;
Exclusive is
my bounce back,
Repulsive is
this apathy.
“Every morning I ask
myself, why am I here,
why am I not dead to the world like everybody else?
Why
do I put myself to this constant pain and suffering?
Why?
Because I can!
Because I choose to!
Because I care to!
So who am I?
I’m the wrecker of
steel
I’m the crusher of
mediocrity
I’m the face of destiny
I am an animal.
Can you handle me?”
The echo of
the winds is not enough,
The
trailblazing tornados need more practice;
As I stand
here undefeated, unshaken, undone,
There is a
small hope that burns within,
There is a
bigger challenge that lies affront;
There is a
deeper shore, the one they say unsailed,
But bigger
are these arms.
They’ve
never been inside the sleeves.
“Bura jo dekhan main
chala, bura na milya koye
Jo dil khoja aapna,
mujhsa bura na hoye. “
The sins of
the past,
The deeds of
today,
The lessons
learnt and forgotten again,
The invasion
of privacy, the hatred of mankind,
The dust in
the desert, the drops on leaves,
The drops of
rain, the smile of a baby,
Were all
meant to cherish. But alas! Look what I’ve done!
What have I
done.
What have I
become.
“Its not the critic who
counts, not the man who explains where the doer of deeds lacked and where he
could have done better,
The credit always
belongs to the man in the arena. The one who tasted blood mixed with sand. Fell
down, got up and tried his lungs out. For no petty soul living in the grey
twilight can recognize victory and no doubtful soul can ever taste the
sweetness of failure”
Randomness
becomes order and order becomes a picture. Its like the game of connecting dots
on a paper. You begin with a random pattern of dots but slowly as you keep
connecting the dots, there emerges a picture. A connected one, a clear one, a
brighter one and maybe a better one as well.
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