An Article

 It was a lazy Thursday afternoon. The hum of the ceiling fan, the distant sounds of the city, and the clattering of the keyboard formed a familiar backdrop. Boredom had settled over me like a heavy fog. I sought ways to kill it. Amidst the clutter of papercrafts and stationery scattered on the table; I fumbled for my phone, blindly choosing the most recent document; a mess of to-dos and grocery lists, and a casual stroll in my gallery. Nothing seems interesting.  Life was still as monotonous as the previous day. Growing up also meant having a mechanical life where every act was programmed to be followed for the next 25-30 years until our feet, hands, and brain gave up. Back to scrolling on my phone, and underneath a reminder to drink more water, there was a text from Rohan.

Engrossed in the usual post-graduation topics—job hunts, future plans, and the inevitable question of "What's next?"-- one of Rohan's statements ringed within me: "Devika, don’t you think wisdom stems from reflection on the act, rather than mere age?" he had asked.

I found myself intrigued and puzzled. "What do you mean?" I inquired, my curiosity thoroughly provoked.

"You see, we as young adults are conditioned to believe that older folks are wiser, and we are taught to accept this without question, but isn't it more about how deeply one reflects on their actions?"." he explained. 

"Yes, but age does give people more experience in life, and experience gives insight," I countered, somewhat unconvinced.

“Hmm… true, but I  believe its reflection of action rather than age or experience. People go through downfall and hurdles a million times and still do not learn their morals sometimes. It’s that simple.”

The sun had begun to set, casting a warm glow through the window. The faint chatter of neighbors and the occasional honk of a distant car seeped into my consciousness. Gazing out at the cityscape, his words echoed in my thoughts. A timeless truth, both ancient but still strangely new.

Boarding my usual bus home, I was enveloped in the evening traffic, the pressure of the traffic line building behind us. The city was alive with movement and noise. A male voice cut in behind me, abruptly shaking me from my thoughts--it was the conductor requesting my ticket. He must have sensed from my faltering response that I was struggling to reconcile reality with my ongoing 'reflection'. However, he simply handed me my ticket and disappeared into the sea of faces, viewing me as just another outsider, indifferent to my inner turmoil.

'Wisdom through the reflection of the act', hmm... I had unintentionally tumbled into a wormhole, a broken and deformed hourglass that had ceased to measure time ages ago. I decided that I should inform the person who put me in this turmoil about my contemplation. Retrieving my phone, I texted him I was writing about our conversation. He was boarding a plane, and after exchanging a few texts that summarized my thoughts, he replied, “Sure, it will probably help you understand what I wanted to convey,” and then he was back in the air, cut off from communication and presumably as alone in his thoughts as I had been a few hours earlier.

Returning to my room, I sank into my chair, my face cupped between my knees. I opened my laptop, hoping to capture my recurring thoughts. As I sat at my desk, a surge of inspiration flowed through me. I began to type, not just to document my thoughts, but to delve into them. The words flowed more freely now, each keystroke resonating with my words. 

I take pride in my writings; regardless of how insignificant they may seem, there is always someone who appreciates them enough to bolster my ego. However, recently, every time I picked up my pen or my keyboard, my mind flickered dimly, like a flame on a wick on a windy day. I am a writer, a garrulous over-explainer who sometimes cannot silence myself, for the love of god. Yet, at times, it is my friends who provide the words I need. There were countless thoughts I wanted to express, but they were so vague and elusive that my hands struggled to transcribe them. My thoughts raced, crying for attention, but my hands failed to keep pace. And so, my original thoughts slipped away, like a penny falling beneath dark waters. My writings, which had felt dim and flickering, now seemed to illuminate with a renewed purpose.

And yes I wasn’t just writing about wisdom. Although I began with the intention, it evolved into more of a personal narrative, much like a journal entry. I noticed a bag of chips sitting unloved on the table, my pink bottle half-filled. My article had begun to take shape. I reviewed it repeatedly until the words were ingrained in my mind. There were no grammatical errors, at least in the eyes of the author who knows every word of it by heart. I couldn't find a mistake even if I tried. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. It wasn’t even complete, but it was something I had written. The city outside quieted down slightly. The light of the day was gradually giving way to the night. The streets continued its relentless pace, but inside, there was a stillness.

"Hey Rohan," I typed. "I finished the article. Thank you."

"Is it about wisdom?" he asked.

"You'll see," I replied, sending the message and closing my laptop. It was time to rest.

Watching fireflies dance outside my window, a profound peace settled over me. It was a lazy Thursday evening, I glanced up; this time with a sense of closure, a feeling of accomplishment, 

~ Daebee