Oh It's Monday, Go Live Your Dreams
How does it feel to be entrapped in a time bubble and live someone else's life? To sit in a cubicle in a posh building, trying hard to create an IT program and remembering that it has been a long time since you wrote a poem. How does it feel to wear that tag around your neck which has become your identity now, an identity which you did not want; That card opens a door for you in office. But you wonder, is this the door that you wanted to walk into? You walk along with your colleagues at 5 PM for tea and cigarette downstairs and discuss how hard the life has been and how overburdened you are. Suddenly you get a call from your boss, you stamp out the cigarette with your boot and rush to the stairs, thinking of an excuse, why you took 20 minutes long tea break today. You wanted to pursue arts but it does not pay. Writers are accused of obscenity for showing their prominent ribs popping out of their empty stomach. Poets are loathed for their inability to feed their children. Dramatists are just ignored conveniently, as long as they don't come up with a drum in a posh colony.







