New Horizons

Hedonic adaptation will ruin me. It may have been useful for an evolutionary purpose but I believe the whole concept of aligning oneself to a state of happiness leads to a state of contentment leading to stagnation, lack of motivation to do additional work and hence, to reduction in efficiency of work done. Simply said, the happier you become with any given scenario-- regardless of your initial emotional response to being in it-- the lesser you try to change it. It is indeed wonderful for people who have traveled far and wide to reach heaven on land, but for someone who has plummeted down to the fiery depths of hell, growing accustomed to, and then liking the surroundings is being in one bad state indeed. The hell guy would then stop trying to claw his way out of the inferno, as now due to the great Hedonic, he is totally okay with being baked to death.Not only that, but hedonic adaptation also ensures that people sink back to their normal, baseline happiness. This ensures that rega

I begin my days groggy and sleep-deprived, my mornings a private hell brought on by late nights and long work hours. Coffee runs at 10 after practicals keep me awake during class. I jot down notes, attend meetings and work, only to end past midnight to do it all again. I don’t mind working; on the contrary I am one who loves a busy schedule. Time is of the essence and prioritizing should be one's greatest strength. We worry so much about making it. About making things right, about making things work, about making it in life. We worry incessantly about plans and projects--we laugh a little, we rest a little but we worry a lot. We worry if we're right; we worry if we're not. We worry of what is to be, what has been and what's happening. We worry without acknowledging it; we worry about the little things and as soon as we've solved the problem, we move on to worry a little more. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind worrying. I like a little doubt to keep me in ch

29/06/18 Pseudo serious TV shows and movies have mangled my brain into thinking that a defining statement and angry eyes is all it takes to be victorious in the turmoil called daily life. When one factors in the sheer number of stubborn, condescending, angry and super genius characters defined by pop culture to be successful, one grasps a small percentage of the problem at large; the problem being: anything that sets people as being “general” or even good is somehow not enough to make them successful. The conniving but high profile politician, the rude but brilliant doctor, the genius physicist who tests people’s limits and berates them over typically non-sensical things—they make for great characters who we, in the end, fall in love with. We wear their merch, we reference their nuances, we like their fanpages, we impatiently wait for the following season to release—but all for what? Interesting characters aside, this represents the sheer hypocrisy of the audience and

Scrolling through my photographs The screen abuzz with colourful l aughs I land on one where I'm so sure Of good days on end Of happiness and more Scrolling through my photographs The screen still smooth under my tightening grasp I see only my face so divine Different poses and puckered lips Like a swine Scrolling through my photographs The screen endless, filled with fake laughs I look closely at my eyes so ghoulish When I think about how I could be so foolish Scrolling through my photographs The screen blotched with tears of wrath That I shed as I see a ruined life well captured In ordinary things like leaves that had found me enraptured

My eyes bulge out in pain as hammers go off in my head, their rhythimic pounding pulsating through my very being. My ears ring with this sound and there's only so much that I can do before I rip them off. I try to calm, but it hurts more when I stay still. People hustle by, unaware of my agony. Coffee and more coffee, but nothing works. Finally, an aspirin in my sweaty palms. It pretends to help but it walks off, laughing. Tears form in my burning eyes and run down my face, burning my skin as if they were acid. My legs wobble as I make my way to wherever, I don't know. My spine seems to disappear and I fall, my knees collapsing onto themselves, cracking loudly on the concrete. I wake, dazed by the light the devil's put in my face. I wake, and the pounding continues. Hushed voices and frantic parents. Over accomplished doctors who think they know it all. Do they not see the fire, had they not heard the fall? I long for sleep, but the torture continues. When sleep doe

I look into the mirror whilst brushing my teeth, my face all blurry, my extensively myopic (you see, hyper wouldn't have worked here) eyes a living testimony as to why you shouldn't read in the dark. Changing quickly, I walk down to the tracks. And I run. Without music. Without halts. My heart pumping--at first pounding-- steadily in my body, the strength of the muscles amazing me once again. My huffs become my rhythm; the sound of my beating heart, my music. For once I think of nothing-- nothing but the fall of my feet on the ground,the path of my breath down my throat and the sound of the koyal in the distance. Nothing but the fading blue of the early morning sky. Feel the burn, they said. Well I felt it, doused it in oil and lit it up again.

There is a lot of comfort in routine. Lots of comfort in the know, be it the chai at four or in brushing your teeth or making the bed. Or maybe comfort in going to class, listening to the same songs of the same playlist, not changing. This comfort is so embracing and warm and comfo rtable that we forget that it breeds a certain other kind of stagnant behaviour of the mind and body, one which is best thrown out before it settles in. I ponder much about the comforts of routine. So it didn't really surprise me when I thought the same words and phrases as I had before. 26/2/18 There is a lot of comfort in routine. Lots of comfort in the known--so much so that it physically pains us to test the boundaries of this comfort. To foray into the dark wild, beyond our fields bathed in golden sunlight,to do that, takes more than just courage. It takes great appeal to want to know the unknown and travel through what lies Beyond. As the grasp of uncertainty tightens in our heads, choking o

The ability to forego procrastination and welcome oneself to the realms of all things mature and impressive, namely:  productivity, has to be one's most significant virtue. Today I must reflect upon my lack of loyalty towards the being that I hold very dear to myself. Me. Loyalty instigates that one stands by another under all circumstances. One does not try to impair another by any action ( or in my case, the lack there of). To be loyal to another, one cares enough as to not hurt the one he is loyal to. Much Ado about Loyalty, I have been betraying myself since I could think. In the quest for everything nice, I constantly lie to myself about the necessity of time. Whether it's the 'five more minutes' in the morning or the 'but this is an educational video' while procrastinating and binge watching YouTube videos, I find that I am unable to be cautious about where and how I spend my time. The lack of formality while dealing with someone as complex and stern as

It hits me right in the face. Harsh. Cold. And then warm. It fills my eyes with colours I've never seen, my ears with sounds I've never heard. Except now. My head is filled with more clarity and confusion than ever before. It's exhausting. It's exhilarating.My heart feels light, and later heavy. Regardless, I go on. I am flying, yet aware of lack of flight. I am swimming in the ocean of my thoughts, my past screaming distantly. So far, I think, and go on. Because things will get better now. Or so I think.

In a very artsy, new-agey manner, I am able to write meaningful articles while bobbing my head to music on my obnoxiously large and overly conspicuous headphones. Here, I am the quiet, enigmatic, well-dressed teen, listening to soft music while penning down my thoughts on expensive paper with a carefully selected pen, just right for my handwriting, lettering and (obviously) the scratchy sound it makes with the paper. And, as with all well-captured scenes in what I call ‘good cinema’, this happens during the daylight hours with the sun shining merrily and light pouring in through the windows, warming my hand, the wind playing with the few strands of my hair which have artfully come out of the carelessly tied yet beautifully executed ‘messy bun’ which rests atop my head, a strong characteristic of all teen artists of today. To add further flavour to this frivolous mix, I wear well ironed pastels or solids, the crisp lining of my sleeve brushing the table as I write. One would ass

The constant whining of society intrudes upon our life and ways—silence is looked upon as a heavy word, taxing and draining those living in it. Contrary to such repining ways of human history, silence, in itself is a blessing for man today. Away from the constant murmur of spoken lies, silence is the light of contentment for silence of speech brings forth the music of thoughts and deliberation, which lacks us an excuse for recklessness.   To know that the crux of society lies in the lap of the abusive connections amongst its members and yet, to have the luxury to observe it from a different angle, plane, heck a planet, is my good fortune indeed. I consider myself, in that sense, to be immensely lucky—not to have met him, but to be part of a relationship so distant from the wailing pleas our colleagues claim theirs to be. Contrary to all clickbait articles which circulate the social media, constant speech is far from a pre-requisite to what they call a ‘healthy relations