A creed for quitting- somebody else will do it.

Many a time hot-air balloon strings have been thrust between my fingers along with a whisper. “Hold it for me in memory of each of my warm breaths, my hot tears and my half-dreamed dreams that fill it. For I’m out of breath and can fly this no more but with you it might just touch the sky.”

But why should I tie foisted dreams to my fingertips? I won’t hold a candle to a dream that’s not mine. Nor a balloon.

Not long ago, my mind glided about on borrowed steam. When love (or youthful foolishness or both) got me to parade around, clothed in invisible hopes, borrowed.

Righteous relinquishment of things you had once resolved upon is easy when you realize that there’ll always be someone else to takeover a stove you’ve abandoned and boil the meal to completion. Sans burns. Sans spills.

If I’d believed this earlier it would saved me all that guilt of not stepping up to start out on what I’d promised to. Why should I take up anything I dislike when somebody else is going to do that anyway, in my stead?

Like all the lines of Java code I refused to write a month back.
Like all those B-school entrance applications that I didn’t buy
The GMAT dollars (=52Rs?) that went unspent.
Those 99th percentile CAT scores I turned away from (At the risk of sounding arrogant, this wouldn’t have been a far-fetched possibility had I chosen a lifetime of board-room doodles, year-end bonuses received between nail-bitten fingers, and client conversations that necessarily have to commence with a round of feeble jokes.)

Somebody else did it. There will always be somebody else who'll miss my sunsets and park-swings but they will keep the world going.

It’s simple to just unclench my fingers and let the balloon leave me. Because it won’t explode or deflate but fall into somebody else’s hands, somebody else who will make it fly, like they always have. It’s a big world after all, big enough to dip its hands into waste paper bins, flatten crumpled paper balls and read inky ghosts into existence.