I spoke to someone today.
One of those rare insightful someones, a person who seemed too perfect a stereotype to be true.
At a point he even laughed and said with a self depreciating shrug of his shoulders- “I wanted to do something different from drugs and parties, so I became an Alcoholic failed writer, I know I’m the biggest stereotype ever”
His point was, books were a dying art- and he expressed in many words how writing old school was now impossible-thanks to other forms of media.
He was one of those relics from the past, with long wavy brown hair and those typical poetic eyes.
The stuff women dream about.
The failed musician and the despondent writer, with the type-writer and a scotch who hates holidays because ‘he has nothing to be thankful for’
The ones who quote authors and wish they could ‘write that down again’ listen to old music in records and condemn Kim Kardashian and Modern television.
One of those souls with a twisted sense of humor who chose to be failed writers rather than anything else.
One of us, who thrive on being failures because we are all hypocrites who think our opinion matters.
He told me incredible things, things I already knew, things I never realised that I was aware of.
He believed that a relationship is like two glasses half full.
Only when we let ourselves be half filled by someone else, no more-no less, can a relationship work.
But at this point in this world, everyone is too self obsessed to give up on an inch.
Today I met an unnamed stranger who was playing music his sober self would probably hate.
I heard words I had only heard myself say.
I saw, in a flash, what it meant to be a willing drop-out from life’s race.
I saw loneliness etched on his face, and funny thing is,
I realised that’s what I’ve always wanted.
To be a broken soul with so much to say,
That a stranger in another continent cannot look away.