How much is mine?

The whole world, I screamed, is mine. After all, we are always told that you can conquer the whole world. If you will, you may please have it too. But, how much can I really have? Can I have a quantifiable number or measurement metric to explain? In the last few days; I've been striving to understand, " How Much is mine?" As in, really mine; which I lay claim on. Once I know what is mine: I shall ensure that I have a proper lock and key and not let it slip out of my hands ever.

As a nascent thought; I do not like this idea of claiming something as mine. I imagine a golden pathway to an unseen, unknown treasure. But, then even the street dogs imagine a lot. They imagine hearty meal, a shelter in the rain, a little pat on the head full with sympathy. Do they get it, ever? At least I haven't seen them get such, till date. In all probability I can also only dream of owning something or rather; even see something that could have been mine and still see it go away. That implies that nothing is mine. I have a feeling that the very sense of ownership is futile. Indeed we came with nothing on us and we go with absolutely nothing along (we've been hearing this since time immemorial). But such is our heart and mind that we unknowingly long for things. We crave for realistic, emotional, physical, mental, spiritual stimulation. We ask just about everyday; What is mine? And there is something lying in front of us; we ask-how much of it is mine? We look around to see if someone is looking at us and if we are in the company of none- we claim it all as ours.

I am an average guy with all the qualities that qualifies me just about average.
And hence; I had the thought: How much is mine in this world?
I surely think that all that glitters is gold.
And i am blinded by the shining light.
I dream each day and think; someday; I shall call it all mine.
Till then - Nothing really is mine. Till then - It's all in the mind.
I've my bags packed, for the day that gives me an extra dime.
Till then, I'm dreaming and the world thinks I am blind.
Till, I don't have it; I don't need the lock and key.
I am having my palms cupped and arms stretched to grab it.

Forced to be back - but it feels good to be forced too!

The ticking of the clock is clear and crisp at this hour. I can hear the watchman whistling away to provide a fake sense of security to all those sleeping. The screen is a bit too bright for sleep deprived eyes which can easily be mistaken for being dreamy. And; I am thinking- do I need to do this? Do I really need to revive my passion? Is it worth to just do something because you feel unworthy of not having anything unique or worth being appreciated? Or is it my ego which is making me pick up the modern day pen and type my way to yet another attempt at making myself loud and clear- that I am what I really am. Good, bad or Ugly - you can't get more than what I have; from me.

Writing had been my passion since the time I can remember. Or rather I should say; I wrote better than I spoke. I didn't realise when did I start writing and in all honesty; I don't even remember what was the first stuff I wrote. I do remember my folks telling me: " our son writes so well and he won the second prize in the school debate". Hah; Am I really lucky here? I came second and my folks they were proud of me. Whatever happened to that, " Our kid came first"? I've penned down my thought for umpteen times and each time I have always had a confused mind about what to write. I always thought; how should I write. The biggest challenge was: Goodness gracious; Would I even be able to express what I am feeling in a confused mind.

As I write this, yet again the watchman whistles. And this takes my mind back in time, when I was a kid. There were a spate of thefts in the locality I stayed in. And all the residents worried about the increasing rate of thefts, decided to utilize the services of a night watchman.  Man, I was excited at that very thought. A night watchman to me sounded like some superhero right out of the comic books. And boy; that day I understood that comics were purely a work of fiction. Right in front of us stood our Watchman. My first, natural, reaction at seeing him was: He is the watchman? He was an elderly fellow of around fifty and three. He sported a white moustache and had more wrinkles on his face than he ever seemed to have hair on his gleaming shiny head. I asked my father; how would this guy protect us from thefts? He himself needs protection. I could see the same question making rounds in my father's mind. Nonetheless, he was employed as our night watchman of two blocks. Fortunately for that elderly gentleman; there was a reduction in the thefts due to the crackdown of a particular gang of thieves.

Yet again; I sat down to write something else and ended up writing about the watchman. The title of this note should probably read:  The elderly watchman. I can't stop smiling on my confusions which still wrestle my mind each time I try to pen down something, err sorry Type something I mean. I am again trying to revive this craft of mine which I call; being a writer ( trust me; it's cool to be something like this - 'Oh I write', as if Willy himself gave me his pen to write). And before I finish this meaningless post - I am definitely good at writing. And I know it's cool to have something unique. It's good to be forced sometimes from the slumber.

The watchman has gone crazy today. Maybe he's got to know that I've just finished writing about his fraternity. I salute thy watchman. You keep me safe when I sleep. :D