You've been hustling since the moment you were born. Fighting your own version of the hundred-year war. You want to bowl that ball a little faster, kick that goal with a jaw-dropping spectacular kick. Beat the shit out of that bully and get the best grades anyone has ever achieved.
You want to tell breathtaking stories that leave people awestruck. You want to become a sensation around the globe with your dazzling charm, say mind-boggling one-liners that put philosophers to shame, and create art which shall be remembered, remarked, and given an example of.
But you can't do all that. So you choose. Maybe an artist. Maybe some sort of sport. You know you liked singing. What about being a blogger?
And then the realization dawns upon you. Not like thunder, but like a snail. Slowly, rupturing your dream into a billion pieces and then breaking every piece one more time. You realize, not with terror, bafflement, or surprise, but with sadness, heartache, and frustration - maybe you won't achieve that one dream either.
That bully, he's going to become an actor. That batsman who hit you for a six every time you came to bowl, he was selected to represent the state team. That class topper? Yeah the one with specs on his eyes and books under his sleeve, he's got a government college you could only dream of. That girl you had a crush on, who was the embodiment of fashion, she's going for a Paris trip.
That one really cool reference you'd used to win the argument, the one that really pulled the floor from beneath your rival - nobody really got that reference.
But what hurts most is not this realization, nor the acceptance of mediocrity. It's the small ways in which the memories of your broken dreams pierce your heart. The most dramatic part of your life becomes the story of falling from the bed, and your stunning unforgettable tale is the life of everyone else.
So you grow angry. You become an atheist. Frustrated, you open Instagram to see her pics and curse yourself for not being able to make it. You open Facebook to interact with people who are more frustrated than you. You open Wattpad and damn, that blogger is writing a book. You open HackerRank and that batsman is now messing up with your life in an entirely new manner.
Restless, you open WhatsApp to bitch about your life, but your friends have gone for a movie. Morons. You never really realized, but you've successfully become mean. Both in literary and mathematical terms. You can't point out when, but your journey downwards the infinite potential well has already begun.
With each scroll, the distance between you and the core of the Earth shortens. With each passing day, grows your hairs and nails and stomach and nothing else. You sit there like a potato and you've realized you sit down less now, you are usually lying in your bed. Lazy, lethargic, you're the picture that should come when someone googles "sloth".
After months of piling unproductivity and ever-increasing frustration, you hit the rock bottom. But rock bottom is not how they had said it would be. You're not angry, nor do you want to avenge your dreams. You just feel peaceful here. Lying on your back. Your eyes closed, your mind rested, and your heart doing just what it is meant to do.
No more expectations to meet, no more challenges to accept. No more friends to greet, no more people to prove wrong. You sleep. The world has accepted that you're a loser and strangely enough, listening to the sound of that doesn't make your blood boil any longer. You've grown indifferent to what people think of you, to what you think of yourself.
You don't care who does what and all you want to do is rest, so you keep sleeping. Your heart has given up on being infatuated with anyone because whom are you kidding? Your brain is exhausted to think of plans which you give up for watching a new series when some random person on the internet says is good. Your legs have given up balancing those extra pounds and your eyes are tired of seeing your tired eyes in the mirror.
No longer is there a burden of telling a story, because who cares anyway? You close your eyes and sleep. Long, peaceful, unsatisfied, but peaceful, sleep.
And then your eyes betray you. Your legs start to shake you up and your hands themselves grab the infinitely high stonewall to climb back. You don't think of any motivational quote or song, because your brain was exhausted, and honestly, it knows you can’t get back up there. You don't feel anything, because your heart grew apathetic.
It’s in moments like these when the brain gives up and the heart retires, when logically there's no way out and even if there was, you don't have the heart to take it, it’s in these very moments when your eyes and ears and legs and spine, your hands and kidneys and lungs and brine, and all the senseless and illogical fools come up.
They don't understand the basics of reasoning, nor do they know how indifference feels. All they understand is that when you were tired, you needed to sleep. And now that you've slept enough, you've got to go back to work. Largely unrecognized and unthanked in literature, your body starts to take you back out.
You might have had bad days, but it's the eye which dreams and no one has the right to stop it, including your silly intellectual brain and an idiotic broken heart. It's the legs that run when there's a dog behind you, and trust the diaphragm, it knows how to push both; your lungs and legs. It's your spine that saves your hand when your advanced brain forgets that the iron must be hot and should not be touched. And when you sabotaged heart is weeping its tale of being broken, it's the ribs that shelter him and bring him back home.
So you climb. You sweat for the first time in months, and honestly, you kinda like the smell of it. Your arms hurt and your breath shortens, forcing you to take a little break here and there, but you somehow, always resume what you had no intention to initiate. You climb.
Eventually, you see the light at the open end of the well. The blood in your body shoots in euphoria, while you can't help but smile at the sight of it. You push harder and climb.
And when you get back out of the well, you know nothing in the world has changed. She must be clicking pictures with the Eiffel tower and that guy must've learned how to hack. That writer must be out there talking with his publisher and that topper might as well have made it to Harvard, Stanford, Oxford, and Yale, all simultaneously. That handsome classmate of yours whom every other girl swoon over might've got the contract to what will be the biggest hit movie the world has ever seen and that batsman-cum-hacker might've just learned how to kick a banana shot while doing a backflip.
But they no longer matter, for this is your story, and it finally is about you.
You just stand there to look at dawn, and screw that random person on the internet, because you hear yourself say, "I promise you, brother, the sun shall shine on us again".
And this time, you hustle with a smile.
Originally posted: My Medium account
https://medium.com/@Abhishek_Pratap/you-have-been-hustling-281842bc0f4c)
Image Source: Pixbay
https://pixabay.com/photos/athlete-sports-stadium-running-3819653/,
https://pixabay.com/photos/twitter-facebook-together-292994/,
https://pixabay.com/photos/background-panorama-sunset-dawn-3104413/)