I’m the haunting presence on a lonely road, and a dramatic
warm feeling on a cold and windy night. I am the unexpected ignorance. I am my
own judgments, my own constraints. I am the sad related content. I am the
failed experiments, unimportant and incomplete. I am a reflection of grey mornings;
I am a hot and humid feeling. I am the rude one word reply and the
indifference that comes with it. I am full up to the brim yet empty within. I
am so very cliché and meaningless, like the canned phrases on happiness and
success. I am the gaudy one bedroom apartment, and the shiny party tinsel in it.
But I’ve been athirst
for an escape from it all, to find the long lost self; to find a kinder more
magnanimous side of myself, to find the brighter and uncontrollable contortions
of my face, to find those inscrutable and seemingly furious yet innocuous fancies
of mine I’ve always been too afraid of. Just like ending sentences with a
preposition.
I want to end
everything by dissolving into the background inconspicuously, and with it- all
the self condemnation, all my judgments, all the unkind conversations, and all
my doubts and apprehension. I want to live with the propriety of my eight year
old self. I want to bloom again, unchecked, yet more aware. I want to be loved by
the people closest to me, and love them, almost foolishly.
“But if nothing
changes, what could happen?” Nothing will change with a preternatural speed. I’ll
have to plant my own roses, and accept the thorns too. It’s a hard earned fact
of two days which are exactly the same; like consecutive integers whose difference
offers nothing interesting, and ironically nothing different. My wants and wishes
keep flourishing as my body breaks under the weight of time. And up until now,
it has felt like I’ve waited all my life, for someone to tell me...something. Out
of breath, I’ve been searching...for something...a stepping stone, a starting
line, the origin or the center...I don’t know.
No wonder then that the starless black sky is so alluring,
beckoning me to open up, creating an illusion that everything is as calm, as
quite, and as beautiful as it is. But there is a kindness in nature which is so
welcoming, so harmless, and so accepting. And two exact same days can be patently
distinguished by the charming full moon, obscured by grey clouds. So charming
it is that everything down below on earth starts feeling illusory- a contriving
complication!
So, tell me. Tell me
that all that I write and disguise means much more to me than the brazen and unnecessary
facts of my dear life. Tell me that for all my contemptuousness that stays so
hidden yet not at all, I haply betray my sensitivity. Tell me that I should
forget what came before me, and explore several beautiful places for myself; the
ones with heavy rainfall, the ones with the most beautiful azure skies, and the
ones inside of myself- the very places I keep exacerbating with the garbage I
garner from outside. Tell me that I shall not to get too attached to people. Tell
me about the ecstasy and the agony of unwelcome decisions, unknown difficulties
and distresses. Tell me that home is nothing but a sensation of being whole,
and wanted. That it is the place whose environs give you warmth, and shade.
That it is the place where you feel comfortable taking a dump. Tell me that
reciting a windy paragraph of a classic novel to my crush is something I’ll
laugh about in years to come. Tell me that it matters not how happy I make them
feel, but how happy I myself feel. Tell me that what I am not is exactly what I
am.
And like this, I know myself so very clearly, yet not at
all. The difference must be in the contrast, even 0.25 is a lot – blurry or
clear, I must decide.
“It’s your
perception. For some 0.25 is absolutely nothing”
That was a good way to know how much of a histrionic I was. I
need to go on an adventure and find small treasures again, like I used to when
I was a kid. I need a new collection. I feel like I’ve exhausted every single
fiber of my older one.
