Architect of his own Destruction.

He is trapped in his own room. For what might seem to others as a room filled with lots of books, musical instruments, movie cds, and posters that inspire creativity, for him it is nothing but mere items. Sticky notes rule his table, and they remind him of each and every goal that he has to achieve before the year end. To others, he might seem to be an organized person, a young man who knows what he wants, and how to achieve it. But for him, the notes lost their meaning the minute he wrote on them. All his goals do give him a reminder that time is running out – that he has less than 20 days to finish his goals, but he doesn’t get affected by their warnings. Why? Even he doesn’t know.

His laptop, on which he works, or thinks he is working on is nothing but a sheer distraction. The internet sure helps him in developing his vocabulary to help him in his stories, but he gets hypnotised by other fatal things which delays his tasks. Social networking, though one of his field of interest, him understanding how they work and why they work, he drowns in the endless news feeds, and tweets which are absolutely useless. Even after deleting his private stash one day with an aim of concentrating on his goals more and more, the websites, some more deadly than the other, trap him and he eventually succumbs for some pleasure –which has now suddenly risen with all the new features on the websites he had never come across before.

Beside him, his cell phone calls him to check over his messages and notifications. His mobile controls him day and night making him unable to concentrate. He gets distracted when he is playing the guitar. Has he improved at all this year? What new has he learnt anyway? He questions his writing abilities. He should have already been done by his novel. He should have been working on his second one now. But has he finished even half of the first one yet?

His exams are two days away. And has he studied anything? Beside his bed, there are many books, many simple books, which can teach him quickly how to tackle the questions and to score. But is he bothered? He feels guilty about the money his parents had paid for the exam. Five thousand. It was he who wanted to give the exam, it was he who wanted to try his luck in one of the best colleges in his country. But is he even trying? He questions himself again. He has written his tasks in the sticky notes but he has not completed anything at all.

What will happen to him now, he thinks ahead. What about working in an office? He sure had plans, but is he ready now? What about his books he is writing on? Is time waiting for him? If he fails to score in the exam, what can he say for himself? What can he say to his parents? His friends, who have high hopes on him. Has he done anything productive at all this year? When the time comes to give another exam, even though he passes the first round, what would he say in the interview? That he has been a slave the last year? A slave controlled by the internet, technology, lust and his mind?

He looks at his room once more. Looks at his books, his guitar, his text books for the exams. He feels ashamed. Ashamed for being so sick. Ashamed for not doing anything. Ashamed for he has been an embarrassment to himself. He vows to make a change. Vows to start again. Prepares. Plans a new schedule. And makes way to achieve his goals in another way before the year. Promises to study harder this very instant. Promises to at least try his best shot in the exam.

After quite some retrospect, he does work hard. He studies. He writes. He gets inspired and follows his path. But alas, not for long. The very next day or only few hours later, he gets drowns himself in the internet, picks his phone and never lets it down. The stick notes have lost their purpose, his inspiration has died and he becomes a slave once again.

His body is his cage.
He is the architect of his own destruction.

– Viveck

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