Time slips through your fingers like melted snow. A cold flush and soon, all you have is wet memories of a day past and knocked off the calendar. It has been a month now, since my last job. I am now beginning to grasp the meaning of jobless in its true terms. Everyday I sit in front of the cruel, unemotional computer and send out resumes begging for an opportunity to work in their company. I have always wanted to work in such a publication, It would be an honor, I add. Lies, indeed, but lies need to be told. In a world, where only the mad men and the drunk speak truth, for an opportunistic job seeker to tell lies is the natural way.
Lies are what we are built out of. Our memories, lost to the ravages of time, are often resurrected upon glorified lies. People, characters whose likeness has been eroded slowly with the passage of years, are now remembered with qualities they never did possess. They are recalled, knowingly or unknowingly, to create examples for a newer generation that never did know them, and hence cannot question the veracity of the recollection. Such a funny world do we live in.
Coming back to the fact of my unemployment, it is quite a quandary. My parents, kind as they are, are willing to suffer a few more years of bonded labour in order to support my odyssey of finding the shores of a career. They live on the dredges of the hope that my mediocre writing qualities have evoked among friends and relatives. Lies again. Of course, these are constructed under the façade of decency. You cannot tell an upcoming writer the truth, that his writing sucks and he should make a living out of something else.
All the while, my parents continue to hope like a candle in the storm, of a future that their successful son shall create for them. I, meanwhile, sit in the centre of this whole depraved drama, watching, weeping and wondering when people will understand the truth. Sometimes I think I should speak the truth. Tell them, this is it, I can’t do no more. There is no brilliance hidden under this mediocrity. No flashes of a bright future. Just darkness. Empty, soulless and chronic. A darkness that needs to be traversed in hardship and soundless company. Then I wonder If I can give them nothing, why take away their hope? That would be crueller than I am capable of. So I lie. I tell them I will do something. I put on faces of ambition and pretend to have a drive for success. I send out resumes and wait for modest replies that mask the rejection hidden between the words. I lie that I did not read the truth between the lines.
Our worlds are constructed out of complex systematic lies. Lies, that uphold our dreams, our hopes, that might otherwise be terminated before they were put down on a blueprint. These lies are the foundation to a future that can never be seen, only felt, made up like broken dreams on the next morning. We need the lies, as much as we need the truth. Perhaps, more so. Now, I am realizing the difference between them. Or I am lying to myself that I am.