Life Itself

I heard you talk. I read what you wrote. I believed every line. I felt every syllable. And then I was convinced otherwise. Now sometimes I go back and read what you said. And I ask myself if you were right. I have internalized your writing to such an extent that part of me thinks its my pain, my anguish, my regret, my mistake. I don't know if you were right or completely insane. But I know that I can never be sure. I almost want to write to you, reach out to you, ask you. But then I let that thought go too. I hope you are happy. I hope you were wrong. 

Who are you when the light's all go out and vacuum takes away the last sound? Who are you when there are no people or mirrors around? Who are you in that last moment before sleep takes over? Who are you the first thing in the morning? Who are you when there is no awareness, not even your own? There are a very few things that have troubled me as much as this. Ever since I learnt the beauty of putting words to my thoughts, I have grappled with the one question: Who am I? I know that this is a vast, bordering-on-boring, question. And I know that I have no real answer. But sometimes I reach the edge of understanding. That little flickering hope of clarity that almost descends before disintegrating. I know that I may never know who it is that I am or what it is that really brings me into this chaotic, senseless, almost-insane, world. But I know with utmost certainty what it is that I am not. My moments of understanding usually happen when I am accused of being someone who is an...

Revenge can be such a horrible place to be in. To feel that clinching desire to payback, to watch as you become the very person you despise, to reach hatred again - and see it directed towards yourself. I have watched too many people succumb to this need. To prove and disprove till such a point, that the premise gets lost. I have seen satisfaction and extreme self-doubt, experienced all at the same time. I have felt pain as it passes from one betrayal to another. I have heard each screaming epiphany over mistakes repeated over and over.  Just as agony apparently dwindles, I have seen regret take over. From one counter-play to another, I have held the tired mind and felt the bated-breath. And as the end draws near, I have seen regret refuel and restart. I have poked holes and filled cement into all these delusions. I have been on every side of this argument. I wish I could say I have learnt my my lesson. 

[Last year, I put up a post called 2010 and this year I am going to do another one called 2011. I am tempted to make this a tradition.] You were exhilaration. You were disappointment. You were the tip of the mountain. You were the bottom of the sea. You taught me that coffee is bad for me, that being fat can happen more than once, that friendships and love can grow stronger with time, that no axiom applies to everyone, that risks need courage, that when you can't muster that courage - life makes you, that repetition is boring, that security is only as important as you make it, that change is liberating, that one genuine sentence can change hearts, that friends will be friends, that puppies make people both happy and sad, that hysteria* is possible, that revenge really scars everyone, that time does heal, that scrabble is fun at any age, that memory has a way of selectively keeping things that matter most, that lakes are serene, that sunlight streaming from your bedroom window...

What does it mean to be truly over something? Once in a while you go through an experience so intense that it never leaves the realms of your memory. It could be a person who traumatizes and leaves you scarred. It could be a breathtaking moment, one of those unreal, touching the line of impossible things. It could be a nightmare. It could be a taste that reminds you of something your grandmother makes. It could be a song on the radio at the exact moment that you thought of it. It could be a noise that scares you even in broad day light. You were one such experience for me. I wish I could cut you out, erase you, burn you and bury you. I wish you could feel every little inch of hatred that extends towards you. I hope you could feel pain, in ways that you inflicted upon me. I wish you could end.

Leaving is never easy. But it becomes almost impossible when there is systematic propaganda designed to make you belong and feel connected. There are very few places that give you the feeling of security and comfort, of knowing, to a great extent, that which lies ahead of you. And when time draws near to part from a place like that, it certainly isn't easy. So what is it that keeps me motivated to move on? I have learnt that I can't work for someone and be dictated to. I have learnt that freedom of expression and ownership are most important to me. And finally, I need to let those creative juices flow, else I feel suffocated and demotivated. When everything is designed to make me stay, self awareness makes me let go.

Feel the mud The dirt The grime The glass pieces Scrape your naked feet Feel the sky A hundred miles away Entirely out of reach Laughing Almost mocking you Feel the walls Closing in on you Every inch suffocating Cloistering Leaving you with no choice Give up. Feel your feet Rise Reaching out for the sky Scraping and climbing Clutching and running Fiercely believing. Yes, There will always be another day.