Has someone ever felt the extreme pleasure point on reaching home simply after another day's work - with a mind wasted and gone to the dogs - empty moments piling onto time. The heavy burden of Time itself,. makes it crawl and drag its feet, painful second by second.
I wonder how many people are actually, stuck at crossroads of time.. awaiting for a new beginning with no end in sight ?
I wonder how many people are proactive about it?
At times, when the drudgery of work leaves your brain paralyzed by utter boredom, I ponder how is it possible to feel intellectual , organic and sexy again ?
Is the feeling of life sapped forever - at least for the time being? How does one cope up with the feeling of incapability ? Of constancy sans change?
How does life itself react - to political agenda driven attitude that erodes ethics and dilutes principles. How does one discern joy on delivery or execution ? How is the process hole-ridden?
Where does zeal lead one to- if there are dead ends everywhere?
When does ambition take flight - when all doors firmly remain closed? The only one open seems to be the one you have to enter reluctantly.
A lot of people are smart enough to shrug off the 9-5 phenomena. But what about those wish to embrace the timelines but are left gasping for more?
In the search for linearity, when mental faculties soon become defunct, how does one rise above to another horizon that testifies one's ability and faith in oneself ? Does the dictum of corporate philosophy border on sadism?
Why is thought never challenged and actions streamlined to one goal of money?
Do most then, float with numbed minds and dumbed voices and drift aimless- waiting and watching out for a new spark.
Given the context, how many of us then, breathe a deep sigh of relief when the clock strikes 6 and there's a rush to retreat back to one's me-time?
Is one's sense of identity only cultivated by time best felt alone?
Is silence an independence?
A lot of thoughts as an outcome of largely unproductive days and a daze settling as a haze which obstructs logic and joy of 'work.'
Mulling still .....