Life Itself

The biggest trouble with having an active imagination is that reality often disappoints in comparison.  You don't cry when the worst happens, because you have already cried imaging it so many times that by the time it happens, it doesn't feel real - it feels like reading a novel - a sort of distant, nostalgic pain.  You don't go to new places and feel exhilarated, because in your head the mountains were greener, the water bluer, the sky clearer.  You never meet someone who exhausts, confuses, compounds, scars, twists, controls, connects, wounds - because you can always give them the benefit of doubt, for anything.  You never get in conflict, because you can always be the victim and evictor, within a split second.  You never move beyond, because in your mind you can always go back and replay, deconstruct, reconstruct, and relive.  Nothing novel, nothing surprising, nothing intense. Life is boring when you are a dreamer. 

(This is post number 4 in my series of year end posts. 20 year old me would have never imagined that I could actually carry on a tradition for four years in a row.. Turns out I can.) There was an earthquake, I was sure of it, the table shook, I was the first to get up and leave the building. 2013 taught me that self preservation was my strongest instinct in more ways than one. You were a year of final decisions, of finally biting the bullet and moving on. 2013, you pushed me in ways that I have never been pushed before. You helped me look within and make decisions I didn't know I was capable of making. In the past, standing up for what I believed in always seemed to come easy to me. Those who know me well have heard a story about standing up in a new school in the very first week and insisting that the school timings are inappropriate or the story of how I stood up to my dad. That always used to be my way of doing things - of taking a stand and speaking up, no matter what everyo

You know the real me? The one underneath all those layers? The real me that feels safe, secure and happy? The real me that doesn't care or wonder about your intentions? The real me that has an unconditional need to give? The real me that smiles at simple things and needs basic memories? The real me that cherishes old letters and torn photographs, that never throws away a thing? The real me who could sit by an ocean forever? The real me that loves to laugh till my stomach hurts? The real me that enjoys the sun on a cold winter morning and would be happy to laze on a bed in the lawn all day? The real me that loves to dance but only when no one is watching? The real me that can stare endlessly at the night sky? The real me that can sense and feel everything? That real me is the me I love you from.

Something you said struck me. 'We don't usually talk about these things to each other so reading all this intrigues me, like you are a different person.' So I am wondering. Is it that I am a different person in writing than I am in reality? Or is it that there are so many versions of me that if two friends were to describe me independently, they wouldn't be able to tell that its the same person they are talking about? Lately I have been thinking about this a lot. About what's my first impression on someone. Whether I come across as arrogant, as friendly, as warm, as cold. Sometimes what you think of yourself and what others think of you can be so diametrically opposite that it seems almost like someone is lying. And then you dig deeper and you ask the basic question. Are you coming across a certain way out of defense? Are you trying too hard, thereby defeating the purpose? Life has a strange way of bringing us to our demons and making us stare long enough that t

You know how you and I laughed until sunrise, through all the disaster? That's how I want to spend the rest of my life. That moment with ants crawling on you, with the coffee in my hands and the vast expanse everywhere we looked. That's how I want to talk every evening. Or that story you told her about us while I looked on baffled. I want that to be our real story. The secret superman moment or the crazy star gaze. I want those to be forever moments. The way you pulled me, firmly, far, but close, or the way you held me. That's how I want to feel everyday. Your intense intensity, your gentle gentleness, your sincere sincerity. You, in all your you-ness, just the way I like it.

Sitting in a moving car, reading, listening watching. Thinking. There, that's the tough part. Talking in a random conversation, analysing, dissecting, questioning, completing. Listening. There, that's the tough part. Walking into a room full of strangers, smiling, staring, pretending, shuffling, hiding. Security. There, that's the tough part. Starting something new, passionately, aggressively, relentlessly. Completing. There, that's the tough part. Waking up, fully energised, ready to go, to conquer everything. Early mornings, there that's the tough part. Loving for the first time, consuming, filling up, falling. Staying, there that's the tough part.

Every year, I think about you. Not too many times, but consistently, a few times. And each time I am not sure how I should feel. There is a vague sense of loss, a subtle tinge of abandonment, a painful realisation of independence. But mostly, there is just a numb nothingness.   Who were you? I am not even sure I remember your face. Your smile, yes. Your eyes, too. But in pieces, in context. I can't imagine your reaction in a new situation. I can't see you as you may have become. I can only see the frozen moments that I have embalmed in my head.   I wonder if you feel the need to see me. If you imagine what it may feel like to talk to me now. If you wish you had known me all this time. If I am even a real person to you. If you have convinced yourself that I don't exist.   Perhaps it isn't as simple as moving on, as erasing, as avoiding. Maybe it's an intense removal, a complete denial. I don't hate you. I don't love you. It's an absence of anything ta