In between; stereotypes and the middle class millennial

In this age full of digital nuisance, we’re rambling beneath restless heads scoured by seemingly useless college degree that never taught how to live, love, create, and give back. My dear millennial generation infuses itself with an aura of indignation and facile romanticism even though it doesn’t know how or whom to question. We’re chasing unseen images that fall further apart each day. We’re digging holes in the space and trying to refill them without any success.

The internet shouts that you should follow your passion and dare to live your dreams. The same internet caters how bad the world is failing. There is a deep motivational story next to some bigoted and sickening news of someone being stoned to death in the name of religion. We’ve acquired conscience enough to know that war is evil, but we see bombs being dropped every now and then. We are fed everything at once, and our appetite often tricks us.

We learn from somewhere about a beautiful beach in the opposite corner of the world and we think we’d love to rub our feet on its sand. But there’s a problem-we’d have to give up a lot and struggle much more to be able to do that. This is a conundrum that simply won’t consider the injustice done to us by the theory of natural selection. We seldom think this way, but it is as it is: we come from a part of the world which has got thousands of socio-political beliefs that will not allow us, either by dictation or by circumstantial hegemony, to chase our dreams and take risks for what we love. My dear millennial generation struggles so hard against this existential crisis.

Here’s the root to this plague: what we love to do barely helps sustain our consumerist living, and how we live always contradicts with what we’ve impinged as wisdom from the countless sources of information and intellect. There’s a colossal rift between what we know and what we experience. There’s an urgency to be productive, to earn, to be better than your immediate circle, to return your parents the favor of their hard work of providing for you for twenty long years. I have friends who have been compelled to give up on their exclusively potential ideas for the sake of avoiding psychological and emotional confrontation from their family and relatives. That’s why there are artists hanging on the ceiling, and there is no art that defies how it shouldn’t be that way.

This applies even more when you are a middle class young adult living in a third world country where you’ve got the access to all kinds of information in the digital diaspora but there’s a meager chance that you’ll get a suitable opportunity of executing anything based on that imbibed information. You might want to innovate and find solutions to the existing problems in a field that interests you the most, but you face a peculiar insecurity. Is it worth your youth? Will you be able to do it? Society here has mastered a tradition of telling you that you can not, or rather you shouldn’t even try. You’ve got dreams you know you should follow, but the world tells you to conform to what everyone else is doing. To add to your plight, the woman you loved like a lunatic is getting married to a man who’s settled securely in the USA or Australia, or if you are a girl, you are compelled to marry someone you have never known for good. All of your friends from high school are posting pictures of their newfound glories at high-end restaurants on expensive apparels. Your cousins have all started saving up and supporting their families while you’re still figuring out what you’d love to do with your life. What excites them often bores you. Free will has suffered a suffocated death, and we are unknowingly driving the hearse. We could’ve saved it if not for a lot of emotional and psychological upheaval it demanded. Our social norms never allowed these exercise, we are paying the high price. Thanks to this rapid transformation of world accompanied by unchecked exchange of information and knowledge.

We have not yet developed a mental imagery of what we’d love to be like when we are old. We don’t see any roads leading to that point, we were never taught vision. We are expected to pave paths on our own, but with the tools so onerous, so inexplicable that most of the time this whimsy kills our compassion and creativity. What is to blame? Explanation may lie in layers; and though this blame game never leads us anywhere, it might as well serve the purpose of dusting the psychic dirt off us.

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