The clock's ticking, dude

It’s the bloody clock ticking shamelessly for the last 30 years without a pause. Unending and undefined but it flaunts a direction not to let me forget that I’m getting old and days on this often-loved-but-more-often-hated earth inch to an end.
End. It comes when it’s all over. Lots done but lots more undone. Yet, it’s over. Like the butt-end of a burnt out cigarette, the dreams — most of them strangled and a few humble ones that managed to give a slip to inevitable abortion alive — are all set to be stubbed. A few teardrops, some moments of recollections and then, it’s all over.
Am I a cynic? I would say it’s better than feigning to be a pragmatist.
We’re all dead, scared to face the truth and fight the adverse. But the pseudo-pragmatism gets stripped when India talks of man-on-the-moon. Everyday, on my way to the newspaper that pays me to work on thousands of words on the blockbuster great Indian aspirations, I meet an old man — probably older than my father. With his arms stretched, he cries: “I’m hungry… give me something so that I could eat.”
I’m sure many of us meet such undesired and useless creatures (no longer human beings, perhaps) on our way to office or home.
The clock ticks on. But nothing changes. Only promises get stacked up.
Where do I see the light? Where can I get a fresh breath? How can I start believing that with its over-a-billion-strong battalion, India would someday rule the world? Because I can’t forget that behind all that chemistry that goes on in the US Congress with the powerful Indian lobby, there stands a poor man with his arms stretched and crying “I’m hungry….”
He, too, has a clock. It, too, will come to an end someday. But I’m sure before that someone else will come up to continue the cry.
It’s all silly, Billy. Care a damn for all this shit and pull up your socks, dude. After all, you gotta look positive.