कहाँ पे आ गए हैं हम

Today, someone told me to write stories because I wove something for that someone. Before that, an old blog-friend told me that my writing reminds them of someone big and admirable.

Some days ago, for the Nth time, a student told me to have a stand-up of my own. Before that, an old friend met after a long gap and asked if I had published my poems yet.

Sometimes, I wonder, if that is what I should be doing? Perhaps, yes if so many feedbacks are taken into account. Sometimes, I wonder, if I will be happy writing and writing for pleasure like that? Perhaps, yes if my inner-response is to be believed. Sometimes, I wonder, if that is where my expression, my liberation, my repentance is? Perhaps, yes, if the lightness of my being post-writing is weighed in.

And then, I wonder, why don't I? Because life is too demanding? Because some short-term goals are too close? Because I am chasing the other mirages for now? As always, I have no answers. Or perhaps, as always, I have the answers but I am too scared to look at those honestly. Or perhaps, not only my answers but also my questions are wrong too.

Alas! Someone has already written what I am feeling right now -

न ज़िन्दगी विमुक्त है न मृत्यु का कसाव है

कहाँ पे आ गए हैं हम ये कौन सा पड़ाव है।  

असत्य है न सत्य है विशिष्ट द्वैतभाव है

कहाँ पे आ गए हैं हम ये कौन सा पड़ाव है।