thehopelesswriter68:

I’ve been looking through a million pictures, pieces of art and poetry from people my age.
They pop up in my newsfeed; some of them grasp my distracted attention while some attract me completely.
You can tell the difference between the ages of the artist, you know.
Photographers, painters, writers, musicians my age, all somehow resonate a sort of desperation.
I can see a cage from which they’re trying to flee, a sky they’re trying to reach.
Some are trying to escape their lives, some, themselves.
It is a constant in every single piece of poetry I read that doesn’t belong to some famous or dead or both, poet.
This is the age where we are on the verge of realising what we are meant to be, I guess.
In between pouts and crazy traffic, we are supposed to find ourselves.
We relate to random buzzfeed posts, while sometimes we find people our gate immensely stupid.
It’s madness, this age.
We are in a permanent high of tension, relief, art and obsession.
It’s a shame if you’re wasting these years just watching YouTubers rant, you know.
This is the time when your soul wants to be cuffed, slapped and challenged; ridden to desolate mountain tops and having experience an old man’s story at a hill station dhaba.
Cry on nights when you can see the stars, for you and I both know it’ll soon cease to exist.
Smile for you have simple joys and also, a WiFi connection.
We are a confused lot, granted, misunderstood by parents and media alike, but it isn’t so bad after all if you can laugh it off in a mug of beer at the end of the day.

-Oshee-

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