It is said that all it takes is 20 seconds of insane courage, literally 20 seconds of just embarrassing bravery to turn the tide.
There are days when you hate your job, hate your boss, that nosy colleague, that whirlpool of an unrequited love, of the inability to resist the tub of chocolate ice cream resting on the top berth of the fridge, a sudden torrential downpour, the traffic, everything and anything.
Stop. Pause. Breathe. Listen.
Listen to that one tiny voice inside, one that doesn’t need words. Listen to what your heart craves, makes your soul dance, lets light into the tiny cracks of your heart, and makes you go giddy with joy like a five year old in a candy store.
Chase. Follow. Run. Jump.
When did we grow so old that we stopped dreaming? Dreaming about opening a tiny chai shop atop the mountains; having conversations with forgotten old friends over endless cups of coffee and steaming hot maggi; scribbling roads with crayons, blue, pink and purple; of the freedom of jumping into trains and exploring less traveled roads; the cold gush of wind at the top of a hill after hours of trekking; dipping your fingers in bottles of paint and creating masterpieces; bottling fireflies and chasing butterflies and rainbows; dancing in the rain.
Somewhere along the way as we grew up, all of us seem to have made a pact with the devil. Exchange our soul in return for practicality. Of technicolour dreams for sitting in a cubicle, crunching numbers on computers and calculators.
We build CVs but burn bridges; stare at our phones, tablets, kindles but forget the feel and smell of a second hand book; Collect travel magazines but don’t have the time to explore your own city, its forgotten lanes, abandoned buildings, old walls with pink bougainvillea.
20 seconds is all it takes.
To decide to set your soul free from the shackles of the daily grind, the same old job, dust those forgotten ambitions that have been shoved in some corner of your heart collecting cobwebs.
To ease the pain of your heart by burning those unsent letters to a love long lost, deleting them from your life, and let time heal your wounds. Bare your scars and let your heart fall in love, again.
To use your weekends for rediscovering abandoned hobbies, be it cooking up a storm and burning down the kitchen, let your palms bear ink stains of your words, strum your out of tune guitar, delve your city till you are left with purple shoe bites, dance, swirl and twirl.
Stumble. Grumble. Tumble. Crumple.
The first step is always the hardest. Listening to your heart is no doubt a herculean task, after drowning its voice for so many years amidst comparison with the lives of others, pay packages, jealousy, you may be unsure if it still talks to you. Have faith, for every ounce of sadness, there is happiness and dreams are lurking just around the bend. Start small, baby steps.
Fall. Break. Crib. Try.
This year be more, do more. Let the race be for the rats. Laugh a little louder, take absurd risks, do batshit crazy things, wake up with the most insane hangover, lug your own problems, stop and help another with a shoulder or an empathetic ear.
So take that leap of faith, or squeeze your eyes shut, be insanely brave for 20 seconds and jump into your dreams, and who knows of what wings you’ll grow and soar into the skies.
This is an article I had written for an online magazine, rose alley. Here you’ll find articles about love, life, its colors and flavors, some pertinent to women, others that will open your eyes. It’s an open platform to share your ideas by contributing articles, do check it out!