The grey line

Is this lack of direction a curse of my generation? Is it the arrogance borne out of luxury, or even affordability? In my grand parents' times, they could not afford to not study, or subsequently, not work. Thought about such a choice was un affordable. Today, I can choose to sit idle for my lifetime and still have enough wealth left over to last my progeny (born out of a moment i choose not to be idle!). Sometimes, I feel vaguely guilty for not having the purpose in life, and even mildly envious of them that had a purpose. Like something precious has been stolen away from me, to which I am constantly drawn, looking, searching, frantic and desperate - purpose; like the Gollum is drawn to the power of the ring after he lost it. And I didn't know I had it until I realized I didn't have it anymore. Of course, naive logicians here may wonder, how then do I know I 'lost' it. I really can't answer them. I just will not care to. I just know. I feel the grief, almost as if I was present to watch it being torn away from my soul, like in a dramatic Indian film where the child is forcefully separated from parent. I just might like to know here who is the parent and who the child. Does purpose guide us, or do we construct our purpose? For one thing, without purpose, I see no joy in existance. If we are master of our purpose, there is some hope that I will one day stumble upon my purpose. If it is purpose that guides us from the day we are born (or atleast become independent entities) to the day we die, then well, I have lost the game before I even knew the rules. So, is there an asylum somewhere for introspective gentlemen searching for purpose? I want the address.

There is a constant turbulence, a heaving and churning of the mind, as it lashes itself against the shores, the boundaries where the I ends and the rest of the world begins. And wave upon wave that the mind brings forth throws new flotsam on the shores. Memories, half buried in the sands. Like fragments of broken green glass, like the fading memory of a well spent afternoon; or like a ravaged slipper, separated from its pair, a materialistic anchor to the little life consumed by the waves, half in accusation, half in mockery, at the rest of the world for having pushed a soul to this watery end. And the flotsam on the waters' edge just keep growing. Oh these sands were once clean, pristine white. Not now, regrets, shame, an occasional smile or tear, and yet curiously nothing of substance, of value, of wealth. My past looks as boring as my present and my future. Just a timeless grey line that stretches from horizon to horizon against a background of never ending white.

The introspector has spoken