Hey there,

 

This one is about hustling!

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He slogged day and night.

Losing track of time and himself in the process.

Having goals and aspirations like any of us.

He wouldn’t caved in soon enough.

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Can that count as a poem? Aah, regardless, I gave it a go.

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The notorious ‘hustle’ culture, where everyone strives to be a winner, was imbedded so deep that he would have dreaded ending the game with a participation certificate.

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But who decided the winner? Who was the judge? What was the prerequisite, if any? Did anyone know? The only statement out of the culture was ‘work hard’.

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But he came far in his pursuit. He started the challenge, but forgot to end it somewhere. What began as mere practice, turned into a way of life. For him, it was the meaning of life. Deadlines, overtime, exhaustion. More terms were added to the list with the passage of time. Expectations rose but not above the game - the game he thought he was playing with the world.

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As hysterical as it may be, he was eventually consumed by the game. Life outside the game didn’t matter anymore. He believed he controlled the game. Oh, what a fool he was! The game that made him think he was king where he was merely a pawn, an irrelevant pawn, along with several others who truly believed that everyone who ‘hustles’, ends up in kingdom come.

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Like the bristles of a brush, slowly and steadily, wearing out with time, all that was left was the piece of plastic that held the fickle bristles together. But again, what was a brush without its bristles?

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What’s done with a brush that’s worn out? It’s replaced with a new one.

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And so was he.

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