It stings, worse than a bee’s unsolicited excavation into your rear end, when you tell yourself that you haven’t done what you do best, for ten years now.
“You haven’t sung your heart out, like the whole universe was listening to your voice alone, for a decade now. A DECADE! TEN YEARS! TEN YEARS MULTIPLIED BY SO MANY MONTHS AND SO MANY DAYS, TO ARRIVE AT THE TIME YOU’VE WASTED!”
When you sit down (err… after inspecting your seat for bee camps, of course!) to microscopically view the ten years that have whizzed past you, ten years sum up the image of a gigantic monster, who’s just lapped up your ten years’ share of Death By Chocolate. Apologies for trivializing the matter but ardent connoisseurs of DBC, I know are nodding right now. That decade gone by, seems too expensive to have been merely invested in callous abstinence from indulging in what your peers, mentors and neighbours once swore was that profound meaning you’ve found so early in life, while septuagenarians were groping in the thick, dark jungles for their own piece of nirvana. Not only does this flickering bulb of new found realisation make it sound like you’ve squandered your precious life with menial pursuits, it maliciously reiterates how you’ve adroitly avoided what seems like you were truly made for. You’ve eschewed God’s bounty, they said. Suddenly, it appears like you’ve foolishly belittled God’s gift, ignoring it like it were a greying strand of hair, tucked amidst your thick, black bunch, at the back of the head. Like the greying hair, your talent, the blazing passion to sing, has been there, doubtlessly there but not conspicuous enough, to pester and remind you, and give your foolishness away, for overlooking it, not meticulously tending to it, for so long. That sparkling grey hair – hidden away, much gratitude to the bunch of black stallions riding smooth down the cascade, doesn’t surface until picked on. However, it still sits there, everyday, every single time it is combed in, with the rest of them black strands. It rides with the rest of them glossy, bouncy, smooth, oh, carbon black scoop of heroes, alright but refuses to be subdued by them. It gets noticed, if prodded. It had even threatened one time too many, that a day would come, when the glistening greys would monopolize the crown, outnumber the shiny stallions and the ultimate truth would be revealed, for what lies beneath comes up eventually, like a buoyant force.
Now, those creatures thriving in a parallel universe pleading for a bunker in this repartee is a bit much. See, it’s untrue that you were ignorant of your talent. You did everything to nurture it and earnestly accommodate it into your schedule. Unfortunately, in due course of time, when you were considered eligible to chase dreams, chase your dreams you did, but only those that were forcibly stuffed into the dream career space, which essentially comprised roles such as a hat-designer, a tea-cup reader, an online therapist, an organic farmer, a song writer or a table-tennis referee, depending on the inspiration that was most influential (read deemed most non-lucrative) at that given point in time. And you graded them, based on your whims, come on, you granted yourself the liberty of a creative genius, for you believed, from the pit of your gut that you were one! So you were considered smart enough to replicate the success stories of your peers, which you reluctantly listened to, ever so often – at breakfast, during dinner, while helping with grocery shopping, in the midst of a movie intermission, while on long walks, before going to bed and as mustard seeds were tempered in hot oil, for the steaming hot onion-potato sambar. You had to pursue the beaten path, for it was protection safe (ugh! you know what safety we’re talking about, here), proven to assure success and a cushy life with an able spouse, a few commodious apartments and healthy offsprings, reeking of pinkness. The dream career space was headed for the doom career space, to put it unwittingly.
Let’s be realistic. You have known all the while that your soul instantly responds to music, like two people who, to state it very simply, are made for each other and nothing, absolutely nothing can separate them. Ever. Music and your perceptive soul are like those too-mushy-to-open-our-nostrils-to-breathe-earthy-air couples, who survive blizzards, tornadoes, whirlpools, hurricanes and other disasters like relatives-in-law, while being arm-in-arm, their souls firmly capped by sturdy soles, breathing rhythmically, feeling secure and bonded, all through. No nuclear holocaust can deter their faith.
So, there you have it. Your talent, also your need, your desire, your sole purpose for your existence, it suddenly seems, was undeservedly sidelined for ten mighty years! Now, what are you going to do about it? Not merely obsess over if for a couple of months and eventually give in to worldly pursuits? Pray you remain a smart cynic, who ceases to indulge in ruing, being recalcitrant and loathe to control, even if its destined.
psychicsizzler 
They say..