It has been almost 4 months since I have been out of college. This college was a training institute where they taught me how to be a journalist. They forgot to, like any other academic institute in India, show me the way to real life.
Needless to say I’m struggling now. Having been in the higher education circuit for six years, hanging out in university campuses, spending time with others my age or younger, lulled me to believe that the world is this paradise where I can travel, drink, make love and do enough to get by. Grades have never been an issue after all. But three months into the real world and I am huffing and puffing. I call up my parents, my friends and analyse every single part of my life. And I do it pretty selfishly, without always asking about how their day went. Why I think that other people my age, who are practically going through the same stuff would know better or why my parents have nothing better to talk about than my existential crisis, is probably related to the fact that I am an only child. But like every other thing in life, I’m learning to ask questions like “how are you?” to others, especially my parents, who on most days are basically super heroes, I occasionally argue with, for me.
This post comes at a time when I am beginning this journey of trying to be good at what I do, and mostly trying to stop worrying about the mundaneness of life. It is also because I worry, mostly about the fact that I’d never be the person I want to be. Writing, in my teenage years, helped me get out of depression. This is what I expect it will do again, only this time I would have an audience.