Midst of this commotion for survival we sometimes lose track of our very reason of existence. The fact that we are altogether a unique being with an unmatched set of abilities, which sometimes take time to blossom, slips through the assembly line of our mechanical thoughts. Our thoughts, our perception of our self and the limits of our abilities are surprisingly controlled by people around us. A line can serve as a compliment or it can ruin your whole day. How dramatically and invisibly these words initiate this whole thinking process inside your head and decide your state of emotion.
People don’t think too much about what they are thinking. But they unconsciously know that it makes them blue. This little fella inside our head can’t be tamed so easily. It took years to reach the state of thoughtlessness for Buddha. But what if we can’t tame it? We can always make it high. So many chemicals messing up with our mind just to make it stop thinking the usual stuff. The most common and ancient of these lies is smoking.
I call it a lie. A lie we tell our self to back up other lies. We lie because we can’t take the harsh truth of the reality. It’s not harsh always. Every good moment isn’t a lie. Their momentary existence doesn’t conclude that happiness is a lie. But not accepting the truth is a lie. Why do we smoke? What are the reasons we give to convince our self for smoking? Why do we accept those reasons? Why do we know subconsciously that even if we try to quit it, we’ll readily give in if a strong urge takes its toll? We become the puppet of that mad driver which we let in our brain to drive recklessly through the bumpy road of reality.
Sometimes, when I see people smoking around me, people who we care about, that gesture of relief spreading over their forehead, I wish I just shoot them. If you are so fed up of life, why don’t I just do you a favor and set you free from the misery. But they are scared of death. How ironical!
“That light between your palms
which you are trying to shield
from this soothing and fresh wind
which embraces the barley fields
That lie between your fingers