The Life Called Me

“How are you?”

She had asked like many others in my circle of acquaintances, friends and family. Response had always replied with simplicity – ‘ok’. But of course, I knew there was an adjoining But. Obligation wasn’t mine to tell the true contents of my soul’s depth, but even that wasn’t the issue. The need to make sense of what couldn’t be uttered was challenging enough to make me a conversation scene paused mid-sentence by its viewer. Come to think of it, Ok, did suffice. I worked in a well paying firm; I lived in a studio, and had a family. Yes, Ok would suffice for most 25 year olds, perhaps Great for a few. None knew that my well paying firm held no passion for me; my studio lacked color; and my family expected too much from a first born. The firm paid my bills, studio shielded me from the crap outside, and family provided family.  But I wanted more out of life. My heart bled and soul screamed for it. But where did that more lie? I had used up all three wishes on the hope that the world would see the misery that was me. But then could they provide an antidote? I could do a few things pretty well, and could make a living out of one, writing. And yet it was a constant struggle: could give an hour, at best, two to it, and nothing more. My mind was enveloped elsewhere. As I lay on my bed in the dead silence of my room, squeezing on the blue branded soft ball that belonged to every member of my firm, my thoughts replayed over and over again, a replay of many that have gone in days gone.  I knew they would only stop at the beep of the alarm clock, only to resurface at the break of another dawn. This was the life that defined me.