More than anything I loved his ideology about life and education. He used to mock and expel students who attended his lectures five times in a row and spank those who didn’t do his work because of absenteeism. It may seem he was ridiculous, but I think he was the kindest soul alive who for the good of humanity wanted the human race to go extinct. But that was then, and this is now! Now wretchedly I’m in college and have enough certificates to justify that I’m an ignoramus creature. I believe the more degree one possesses, the dumber one becomes. For those desiring proof, a five minute chitty-chat with any collegiate would do, but nothing would justify this hypothesis like a sober conversation with lecturers.
In my semi-charmed kind of life, at the juncture of blossoming 20’s – my counterparts, peers, teachers, family, strangers, Prime Minister of India and aliens from Mars have embarked on a journey to give me counsel on the road to my future. All I can say is: “How can I think about future when I don’t have one?” And sometimes depending upon weather, I retort to “I will think about the future when I get there.” Now and then they clap like a retarded seal after listening to my second-class dialogues, but more often they clap on my acne prone skin. Nothing amused me in recent times, so much as the reaction of my English Dramatics lecturer, he knitted his brows so high that for a moment I thought it would form a part of his bald head. He alleged that I was cynical about education, and confided about my murky outlook; in reply I said he was bang on target about the whole thing. But, he wanted to continue our dramatic tell-a-tale and enlightened me that I was wrong about him being right, and in genuineness that I was a perplexed person. I believed that too, so he hurled me out of his class because I agreed too much instead of arguing, and that didn’t make for a high-quality theatrical scene.
Over these rebukes of late, I have a gnawing pang in my chest. It feels like Dave Grohl from 90’s has left Nirvana and taken a permanent residency to rehearse drumming inside my feeble heart. I endeavor to eavesdrop on the rocking tune, but my ears only perceive a vibrating sound. I aim to look what’s inside, but my irises are focused on controlling the deluge of nonseasonal rain. It’s so contorted that I can’t help but express amusement over such ants in my pants. All this while earthlings scream: “Life is short!”, and squabble against each other with “Being Human” tees. I recognize the fact that I’m a nutcase, twisted beyond repair but I need an explanation how a human-being “Being Human” is so legendary? And what the hell’s freaking pasta is the babbling about “Life is short!” when every moment and action one contemplates about a future full of security while living a book full of lies and never daring to live a moment. It’s only short when one has fun, otherwise as a wise man idiotically put, “Life is the longest damn thing that anyone ever does. Pray tell, what can anyone do that’s longer?”.