Well, you could say that on the 4th of August, at the stroke of 4 in the afternoon, when the sluggish boys' hostel slept, I made a tryst with destiny. You could also say that Headstrong is a woman, because she gave me a job! You could but not stop talking and with poetic justifications tell, how it feels to have a job under your belt after 21 years of life; each year of varying durations. Some long and perpetual, others whizzing past you in the blink of an eye. Some as mute as to hear a mouse fart, while others as loud as to, well, not hear that mouse fart. You could go on and on (and not let me hear that mouse fart this year again) but the fact remains; the first job is special. It evokes that gush of masculinity that makes you feel more man than ever. It gives you an idea of what money shall look like when it's your earned money. (Of course, there's still a year before I begin, but poetry is time travel, oft)
But more than anything, the first job is a harbinger of change. A new avatar of life that heralds the end of past. A new beginning. A change. One grows and outgrows oneself to reach a stage like this. It promises to be difficult, filled with bad-hair days, with rare field days, but it would still be what you'd want from life; nomadic, struggling like the Old man in that sea, and at the end of the day, one, that makes you sleep so numb that you forget to dream, or you forget the dream; that which I like to call a near-death experience; when even your brain wants to cut itself some slack at night and wake up to to a new life, everyday.
True, life might be a lot less poetic than this, once I get down to work. But everyday, somewhere in the sub-conscious, after a day's toil, I would know -and I would try to hold my horses on it- that my life makes me, if not the rest, happy. And many many years hence, when I hang my boots, and I chew the cud over what my life has seen, I'd smile at the irony, for my time at work shall appear the most poetic, like a songbird that sings.
I ruminate over the prospects of opening my own publishing house one day, but with the web-prophecies knelling the death of print media in the hands of e-crap, I now contemplate opening my own beer-shack on a beach someday, when I hang my boots and work barefoot on sand. And since I had my first job at 21, I would know, when Death comes, that I deserved every inch of it.
The following lines are the closest to a song, as to how I feel in the final year of college, with a job in hand:
Wind of Change - By Scorpions
But more than anything, the first job is a harbinger of change. A new avatar of life that heralds the end of past. A new beginning. A change. One grows and outgrows oneself to reach a stage like this. It promises to be difficult, filled with bad-hair days, with rare field days, but it would still be what you'd want from life; nomadic, struggling like the Old man in that sea, and at the end of the day, one, that makes you sleep so numb that you forget to dream, or you forget the dream; that which I like to call a near-death experience; when even your brain wants to cut itself some slack at night and wake up to to a new life, everyday.
True, life might be a lot less poetic than this, once I get down to work. But everyday, somewhere in the sub-conscious, after a day's toil, I would know -and I would try to hold my horses on it- that my life makes me, if not the rest, happy. And many many years hence, when I hang my boots, and I chew the cud over what my life has seen, I'd smile at the irony, for my time at work shall appear the most poetic, like a songbird that sings.
I ruminate over the prospects of opening my own publishing house one day, but with the web-prophecies knelling the death of print media in the hands of e-crap, I now contemplate opening my own beer-shack on a beach someday, when I hang my boots and work barefoot on sand. And since I had my first job at 21, I would know, when Death comes, that I deserved every inch of it.
The following lines are the closest to a song, as to how I feel in the final year of college, with a job in hand:
Wind of Change - By Scorpions
2 comment(s):
To own the buck and to hoane it are well, not even analogous to the coin or the sides.
There is a rythm in the post.
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Congratulations, officially;)
thank you.
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