Friday, January 29, 2016
Saturday, January 23, 2016
I've learned that in life, there will be people who will tell you you're a failure, and you ask them, "Am I that bad?" and they will say "Yes."
To proceed from a fall, first, we gather our breath, wits and courage and then we —stand.
Once upright, it is going to be hard to take a step, because if anything, failure instills Fear —the greatest of foes.
So take your time, but don't take forever for Fear, it grows. So be swift with your soul, now —walk.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
I exist on the teetering edge of wanting things to last forever and wanting things to end.
Trouble is, life goes on, feelings morph, fade, grow. Nothing is ever the same. Sameness is an illusion. We change, and we keep on changing until at last we find ourselves so unrecognisable and wonder; what ever happened?
Friday, January 15, 2016
I'm beginning to learn to acknowledge, to respect the fact that the distance between the stars above and I, an earth-bound soul, is very real.
This distance is a boundary. This separation is both definite and infinite.
On one hand I want to be unrelenting in my devotion and on the other... I also want it to fade into oblivion. Why does it feel like defeat? Why does this cognizance feels like surrender?
As if I am a warrior bloody and torn. Armour that used to protect now weighs me down, cutting into flesh and soul. The enemy is but smoke in the distance, wraiths of burnt up flags blowing lazily in the wind.
There is no enemy, this is not a battlefield. My nemesis is not without, but within. A creation of my own, nothing but smoke and mirrors.
Why must the heart deceive us so?
Saturday, January 9, 2016
M. came over yesterday. We talked, it was sweet —sad mostly. I managed to get off work early and went to McD to get her a strawberry sundae (it is very hot nowadays, ice cream is very much in order). M. seemed to cheer up a little at the offering. M. has been reading Iqbal lately and so brought it with her. I flipped through the volume, the cover was atrocious. M. complained about it being a 'selection' rather than a compilation or an anthology. I humored her woes. We share a rather elitist desire for the 'authentic' always. It amused me. I addressed the question, "Have you been writing?" to her back as I walked her to do the door. She answered in her usual self-depreciating manner; "In a small journal", "Just things on my mind", "I don't even know what they're about" and left it at that. I quietly wonder what she writes about (a constant thing that used to burn in my mind). I kept thinking about the letter I sent her Monday evening. I regret the letter. Then again, I regret being honest about myself all the time. We parted ways listless but amicable. Life is hard, we decided, but what is one to do other than to forge on?
M. said we should just run away. I said "There is nowhere to run to." I would know. I tried. It was a nightmare, I will not try that again. One cannot simply up and leave. The world presses unto you, claws at you when you try to break free. It's not like in the movies. You only feel weightless for a moment, and then the storm comes. The shitstorm comes. You get endless phone calls from family and workplace. People look for you. They demand that you come back home, back into life, and then suddenly you're at square one again, right where you started. Except now you've made a mess of things and you feel a little older, a little wiser and a lot sadder. The kind of sad you cannot shake off easily because when one runs away, one had decided to be free and when that coveted freedom is denied. . . something inside of you breaks. It's hard to fix those cracks.
It is not easy to disappear. The only way to rile against life is to be hopeful. To be so wildly hopeful that it makes you endure.
Honestly, this whole not-writing thing has made me quite desperate so here I am. . . easing some thoughts off my mind. I find myself wanting to say, "Stay" to people sometimes but of course, I don't (I never do). Also, I don't sleep well anymore. I've stopped feeling angry all the time though, rather, now I am quite resigned to whatever happens to me. It's comforting in a way. In an effort to well, simply make more of an effort at life, I try to make people happy. I keep hoping that their happiness will move me. . . as if picking up the tab for a meal for three is an act of bravery. . . well, it does lighten my heart somewhat. And surprising S. with those roses on Wednesday night did make my heart pound. S. appreciates flowers a lot so. It felt good to see her again. S. is like Day to my Night. What a contrast, but it works and I will remain extremely fond of her for all time I think.
I tell myself, sometimes you need to exist for you. Damn the world. Just be kind anyhow, somehow.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Another day, week, month, year. What does it matter? All that enters my mind is that I'm not a person affected by the awareness of Time spent, lost, whatever you prefer to call it... rather I'm the sort who very desperately holds onto the aging of a precious thing. Does that even make sense? Perhaps not.
All attachments are irrational and old attachments are even more so. Ruled by routine and traditions as I am, loyalty is most sacred. If I feel for something or someone I will feel fiercely.
And I swear if I were able to choose for whom and what I feel, I wish I had learned it sooner because at this age, there is no more room for rewrites. What I have written I will continue to write.