I don't know if that sounds sad or poetic or unreal but I felt the child in me died in the recent past ( or is under heavy sedation pribably) . I stopped wishing, I stopped dreaming but I never stopped living or whirling in my thoughts. Someone asked me to write about the good things of my year. I would rather write the unfiltered stuff. A lot happened: rejections, failures, workplace chaos, challenges I thought I may never overcome but surprisingly after all this I became more resilient, more indifferent to people's opinions, more oblivious to what I am expected to become, more educated to confront. I developed a habit of having lowest or NO EXPECTATIONS from everyone around. I don't chase people now and I don't stop for everyone coming after me either to run along ( tires me to run in multiple directions ♀️ ) It was important to learn that in order to not feel the suffering of being left behind, or to not complain about the 'world so unkind' I should remember that I HAVE MY OWN PACE TO MAINTAIN and my own tasks to fulfil. Honestly my year wasn't devoid of good or bad times. I stayed more close to nature ( thanks to covid) and people who could appreciate my being me more than those who try to bring changes in me forcibly In my leisure time I painted, I cooked, I captured, I wrote and wasted away so many hours but more than all that I responsibly and meticulously responded to every call of duty.
A part of me still watches me from past and tells me it's unbelievable that you did what seemed quiet impossible. This makes me a little proud that I deceived few of my fears successfully ( oh there are plenty more ) So I don't have great achievements to mention nor any tales of tragedies to write but I found strength within small moments of weakness and gathered pieces of hope from the places of loss. Uptil now I learned that this is the real picture of life: To fall continuously and to get up like you never knew any fall. To look at the night sky but to focus on the stars. To sleep in tears and smile along a new dawn. To be brave when everything seems impossibly hard. To live and breathe 'despite it all'.
I touched 30 2 years ago this day. Age-shaming much? No way!! it's the media and ads that live in a fearful world, so they scare others too. But the questions deserving perfect eye-rolls and facepalms always stand in a hungry queue "Oh! You are 30 something? you look so young." Someone please tell them. "Darling, 30 is young" "Why you aren't getting married?" Why, because ring in my fingers and a toddler on my waist is the only way to complete me? Sorry to have a bubble bursted but I'm not society's Life planning math workbook or biological ticking bomb that defines my worth by following some bully timelines. I wore a cape of womanhood after so many frostbitten scuffles and relentless struggles that now it graces my flesh and bones. that's quite enough to be the last piece of my life's puzzle.
Journey of a timid 6-year-old trying to identify her father in a star, he said he would look it down from there, to becoming a woman who saw her mother churning herself and tending to her lost kid with 3 shifts under her wing; All this unchained a treasure I don't ever want to part with.
My twenties were a wastral in terms of people I invested in. I let my innocence and ignorance turn alarming snoozes into blazing red flags of friendship that assassinated my self-confidence. But, now I know leaving toxicity while it swirl in a whirlpool of blame games, is not just okay but a sign of strength; of not justifying self for the smallest things.
I am finally In a better place mentally, psychologically, financially yet they want to find a manicured other-half to see me 'settled'. They say the world is changing I'd say it always changes but on the surface because they don't dare dip themselves amidst broken layers of depth, so ignorantly, add some 'must(s)' in a women's life.
I know It's the smallest feat but if you ask me I am proud I got to know myself. I know what I am now I know what I want My passion dances on my eyeballs with a clear vision. I don't feel like that rusty old book at the corner of the shelf no one picks up to read, anymore. I am that freshness of a newly opened pickle jar that instantly fills the surrounding with its aroma. I'm now the potpourri of self- reliance I learned over the past years and the kindness I had been carrying since the childhood. I'm those 32 no stones left unturned whose efforts made people get inspired. Believe me, there is no expiration date to learn something new
I have accepted the fact It's not easy finding metaphors for self while I blacken the white pages with their praises, accomplishments, triumphs. But from now onwards I'd audaciously write about my self because no one writes about the writers and I'm here to break the wheel.
At last, if you want to sway with yourself listen to "It's hard to be a woman" From Something in the Rain I am just attracted to that song.
Life is becoming a shadow of a continuum. The beginning and the end are miles apart, yet it feels so mundane with the tick of a clock. Light scatters aimlessly around the room, skipping the dusty corners as if the eyes should be kept away from the horrors of it all. How can you comprehend the beauty of the world when you cannot see the ugliness lurking in the shadows where the lights failed to touch.
How can you trust a person's feeling when the feeling itself has no validity outside of the internal model of reality that the brain creates for them? It is changing, more often than the seasons that fall upon them.
I wonder when the rain will stop falling, you never know when it's going to drown you to the depths or when it's going to remind you of a familiar touch that you are missing in the cold of a night. There are always memories that we've buried deep inside, waiting for a downpour to bloom. You are unsure what to make of certain feelings, especially those that visit you late at night when the world gets quiet for a while, except the endless rambling of rain.
We are running around trying to be accepted by one group or another, not because of an internal identity we perceive as self, but a mere evolutionary need to belong somewhere. Who are we, if not this continuous computation that takes us from one place to another, till it all starts to decay like everything else? Like a broken twig in a decaying tree that looks at the dwindling dusk, you know how it ends, but you hope that it survives the fall.
I belong in an era that I can barely remember; I was born so long ago. My own existence is alien to me, a paradox that I cannot wrap my head around. Sense of time is in dismay, the night and day separated by the few hours that you passed out on the couch. What matters the most, the moments or the regrets that follow them?
Invisible strings connect us, strong enough that you can feel the warmth of another but fragile enough to leave you astray. Like stars, worlds apart, but in the same path with another, delicate enough to get thrown into the endless darkness.
I wish I knew how to write, so endlessly as the thoughts that light up when you walk into the neon lights-filled cafe and fall for a stranger's gaze; every line and word entwined to make you feel something. Some eyes can make you fall, sometimes a smile, sometimes a warmth on a cold winter night, sometimes words, words that fall from your head to your lips on lonely nights. And sometimes, gravity, you cannot help it but fall.
Art is what art makes you feel. We don't know what reality looks like, all the simple set of rules beyond our reach. All we know is this story that we keep telling ourselves, every moment becoming part of a casual lineage, getting stacked on top of each other, waiting to be opened up again in a late-night conversation. Abstractions of a world, little things that we've seen and felt on a long walk, lips that sink into yours like a sunset, the way waves washed your feet, whispers of the wind, and its kisses that remind you of someone. Every cliche moment somehow becomes so personal, becomes a part of you that you look back and smile, a sense of melancholy in the chaos.
We are stories that we tell ourselves, words, and lines that meet under the starry night. And, like Van Gogh, we dream about the world beyond its mundane structures that feel so disconnected.
"Once upon a time, I, Chuang Tzu, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly and was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly, I awoke, and there I lay, myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming that I am a man." -Chang Tzu