The woes of being in your twenties - Only some can empathize.
Sigh. People ask themselves different questions: When will this end? How could they do this? How will I pull off this exam? Do my eyes look smaller today? Is he cuter than I am? Shouldn’t I have a job by now? Was I really thinner last year? Where did my favourite sweatshirt go? Is chilli sauce really better than normal low-grade tomato ketchup?
If you are a fresh, but-poor lazy architecture graduate, with a weakness for French fries and sauce, you find yourself asking all of them. It was time to get everything back, and get my life on track. Had my life unfolded as I had imagined it would? It sure wasn’t as easy as origami.
How many of us wanted to leave our dead end lives to go live our dreams?
There was only one problem.
I didn’t know what they were. What I did know?
My cravings- Here they are, in no particular order, either in merit or in feasibility-
I crave for a sack full of love notes, which bursts at its seams.
I crave for an existential crisis.
I crave for silk satin sheets, and stiletto heels and secrets and shh’s.
I crave for an endless supply of spontaneous rhyme, of undeniable with and irresistible charm.
I crave for a pair of pet goldfish.
I crave for the fetid fug of foams and fumes.
I crave for a jar of Nutella, slathered on a slice of bread, and between crepes.
I crave to be high up the social clique, with a gaggle of mean girl minions.
I crave for a fit of uncontrollable giggles in a moment of despair, when times are dark and dreary.
I crave for a rich juicy tenderloin burger, one that you want to make love to, with a side order of French fried and a milkshake.
I crave to feel uncontrollable rage and unaccountable desire together.
I crave to feel sporadic, yet unbridled excitement, in fleeting spurts, in large doses.
I crave to feel the sand through my toes, and under my fingernails.
I crave for a no-strings-attached one night stand, one without names, the duffel bag and the travelling toothbrush.
I crave to have blood on my hands, and hands at my feet.
I crave to be a synecdoche if not a transferred epithet.
I crave for the tug of closure, sweeping over me like a cold wave.
I crave to dream, unbound and unchained, living out a different life, in a different time.
I crave for substance and stability, and the ensuing paradox.
I crave for some remorseless sin, one without retribution and redemption.
I crave to be out and about, but with a small trust fund to my name.
I crave to listen to Adele on loop on a rainy day, when the clouds are full; not with rain, but with doubt.
I crave for an alter-ego, if not an everlasting best friend.
I crave for people to listen to all what I have to say.
I crave to take back all that I may have said.
I crave for a dragon-less damsel-in-distress, without a tall tower and a curse to her name.
I crave to be the filling, and not the buns, because I’d never be a complex carb.
I crave to feel insecure, and cower with guilt and drown in self-doubt.
I crave for happiness, one that can’t be contained in Styrofoam cups, brown paper bags or glass jars.
I crave to battle my feelings of cold feet, and cold shoulders.
I crave to have fireworks on a rainy day.
I crave for the stench of comfort, reeking of luxury , heavy with the stink of money.
I crave to be supermodel thin with high cheekbones, and a small nose, but still be scientist smart.
I crave to finish an unachievable bucket list, and still dream of immortality.
I crave to have a sitcom life with an accompanying laugh track, and a corresponding love interest.
I crave to inhale, exhale and repeat.
I crave to be able to pronounce clingy and puddle.
I crave for a big red barn, if wishes were horses.
I crave to hit the snooze button and sleep for those five more minutes.
I crave for acceptance, a sense of belonging, to become a part of a whole, or a whole of a part.
I crave to be different, to stand out like a speck of yellow in a sea of black.
I crave to be French, guzzle a bottle of red on a lazy Sunday afternoon and wear dapper suits.
I crave to be dapper, and quaint, and a hundred other colonial things.
I crave for a pint of beer every day, sans the subsequent beer belly.
I crave to be sorely missed, and longed for.
I crave to learn Spanish; so that I can roll my R’s and drink sangria for breakfast.
I crave for a job that does not make me look up at the clock every ten minutes, while I flit uncomfortably in my cubicle, counting down to the end of my work shift, and my life.
I crave for the feeling of lingering hands, on and around me.
But most of all, I crave to be with you.
