365

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure - measure a year?

Today, in the middle of the afternoon, while I was staring at my hall's curtains and trying to figure out how to get rid of the lizard hanging there, I realized that it's been a year. A year since I quit my last job. A year since the most melodramatic, humiliating, liberating month of my life culminated into freedom from a job that I loved for two years and hated for the next two.

Today, I'd like to say that I'm in a much better place, that I'm happier, healthier, and on my way to becoming even more happier and healthier. I'd like to say that, but I can't. I don't regret my decision one bit, even though sometimes I miss parts of it, now more so because I'm back in Delhi.

My new job is fine, not great, and sometimes downright intolerable. My new house is nice, but lonely, because everyone just keeps getting busier. I'm disappointing my parents more than ever, and I've failed at all the personal goals I set (and managed to meet last year) for myself.

If anything, instead of progressing, I feel like I'm degenerating into a horrible version of myself, something I vaguely recognize from 2013. This blog was supposed to be about a different version of me, but it's safe to say that that plan has been an epic failure. Does that mean that I can only be a decent, responsible, sane person when I'm not working and living with my parents? That is the question that haunts me.

Hitting that kind of rock bottom again will be the ultimate failure, and it's because of my anger about that, more than anything else, that I seem to be stuck in this rut.