Entangled in the sheets one early morning, you gingerly took my hands in yours and asked me what excited me more – the mountains or the oceans?
Our bodies pressed together for warmth encased in the mountain air as we sipped the roadside masala chai, mildly in awe of the ruddy sunrise
or laying around lazily in a quaint beach with our feet sinking in the sultry sand as the sunset stretched across the horizon, changing from indigo to scarlet to a bright orange before finally resolving into a warm tangerine?
Inevitably I was bereft of any words but then I thought of you and how intangible your love for the majestic unknown was. How always lost in imagination you were sitting at the beach waiting for the tides to rise as if with each uprising a new secret would unveil itself for you and how your hands would never leave mine till the dusk had mildly settled in the creases of my face.
I never answered your question and you never brought it up again though at that moment the mountain girl flipped and realised she was in love with the ocean.
Time is a social construct, a bare human necessity, painted meekly on a blank canvas to comprehend everyday happenings and to make sense of the chaos that colors leave behind.
It is an intricate thread of perpetual woes pendent over the aligning glee.
But in the end, time is the sole defining unit that discriminates fiction from reality; time breaks and time heals.
For me, an obstinate being who refuses to abide by the atrocity of the society just because, this last year was excruciatingly arduous and nerve-racking. Frequently I found myself in a dream like daze constantly floating like an aimless cloud, unaware of my surroundings and the transpiring events. Everything became a monotonous routine and being as obnoxiously paradoxical as I am, I despise regularity even more than my often vocalised vexation for change.
It felt like in 2017 I lost everything that I held close to my heart. I lost my drive, my passion and the dreams that constantly motivated me to achieve an ideal future for myself. I lost people who made me believe again. There were days when just the notion of getting out of bed in the morning was immensely exhausting. I stopped eating and grew distant and cold. Unconsciously my mind started picking up futile battles at any given instance, most of which I ultimately regretted; always a ticking time-bomb waiting to go off at even a slight touch. Vulnerable and defeated, I stopped writing completely and believe me finishing this piece has not been easy. Writing made me feel secure during the times when my insecurities rooted themselves deep inside, it was my shield and my sword, my own cozy haven but without it everything ceased. Even reading that was my stress buster became a source of stress.
2017 made me tackle of all the underlying problems I was suppressing(it’s still in progress), I realised that people can endure far more than they think they are capable of and nervous-breakdowns make you stronger, not weak.
Note: I’m sorry if you were waiting for me to complete this(I don’t think anyone was, but if you are reading this, hi5). I earnestly wanted to do it as part of my coping mechanism but I relapsed and you can’t pour your heart out about recovering from something when you’re still suffering its wrath. I guess what I’m trying to say is depression is like that annoying relative that never stops pestering and demoralising you, no matter how hard you try to motivate yourself. To add cherry to the cake, my depression is always accompanied by its ugly cousin anxiety and let me tell you if you thought that having anxiety or depression alone was gruelling then you have no idea how bone crushing both of them together are.
At the end of the day, like the aftertaste of a bittersweet memory, a thought continues to linger on, humming infinitely in rhythm to our desires, floating like the wisps of a cloud left behind. It beats with a severity strong enough to claw out our own skin and mild enough to let sleep find its way back after the strenuous journey.
It rises like a soft whisper from somewhere within the hollows of our subconscious and saunters its way up when the eyes finally find their pilgrimage in the dark to haunt the last shreds of peace that the heart conjured meekly and to char our dreams with a benevolent promise.
A fragile mind, beleaguered by the monotonous charades ends up cribbing and cringing as his love for travel doesn’t pan out according to his whim but aren’t we all travelling? From one phase to another, from one emotion to a new one, living life one heartbeat at a time, unbeknownst to the adventures of future?
We travel in time, in experience and in age. Leaving parts of our soul in people and places like little souvenirs of our presence. We capture their essence and arrive back at a different phase, exhausted due to the culmination of one journey and slightly ecstatic at the beginning of another.
Somedays the seraphic morning light reminds me of butterflies and daisies, frolicking around with each other in open fields of sublime beauty, untarnished from the spoils of human greed and somedays even the thought of removing the covers from my face to let that light brush against the skin, to let it quash out the gray clouds seems revolting. Somedays humanity seems to fill me up with hope for the future; maybe Armageddon is just another big religious conspiracy of the church to ensure that fear never abandons the mind of common folk; everything is seizable, those far fetched fantasies that don’t let you sleep at night seem just a dream away and somedays even breathing becomes hard, you grasp on memories to keep you afloat and all that you find is regret.
Life dances in front of your eyes, playing hide and seek and sometimes you are too exhausted to blur out the line between dreams and reality, just so as to carve out a niche where the gray doesn’t persevere. The dreams become the reality and the world fades away in the background as you quietly slip into another fantasy.
When you’re struck with tragedy, what is the first thought that resurrects itself firmly in your head? The thought that pushes itself up from the numbness of shock, the one that reverberates inside on an infinte loop? It is of death, your newfound lust for death. Suddenly all sense of reality leaves your body and whats left inside is a silent tale of crippling sorrow. The tragedy runs in your blood now; life fleeting in tiny drops of grief, flowing out facilely because the sunsets have lost their charm and the stars are just inept stones of light. Your spirit has died and the haven of bliss is slowly slipping like grains of sand. Everything you once held sacred seems futile and all love empty; life has faintly donned the hideous white robe of death, barring your soul of colours and joy. But the irony is, even in loss, when you readily accept death, you keep on living because that is the most logical thing to do, accept the circumstances and move on, even with a heart that has been ripped into shreds. You move on and you keep on living, sometimes searching and sometimes hunting desperately for a laconic peace of mind that you lost when the moon still shined bright. Life goes on and so does tragedy. You never forget it, you never leave it behind, you just let it slip from your mind, even if momentarily and find your harmony.
I stopped to look at the calendar before grabbing my stuff and heading out. 30 June’17, the last day of June. June has always been my happy month; my month of life. June symbolises warmth and love and gifts and long drives and birthday lunches. This is the month of laughter, of sunlit fields brimming with flowers, of strawberries and impromptu trips to the snowy hills. Lately, everything has been changing over like the new colors of bud after spring. June has lost its charm and life has lost its meaning. I’m leaving my city, my home, my ownself. I’m leaving my June behind.
Someone once asked me, you ask a lot of questions, why is that? What are you seeking so desperately? At that moment the question had hit my conscious with such a force that all sense of speech had left my body and I was bereft of any words.
What WAS I seeking?
I had no answer for this question, just like I never had any answers. Answers always meant the end of destiny, the end of the road, and I wasn’t ready for that. This undying thirst for knowledge had gripped me tightly in its arms and the answers seemed like a million dreams away.
I started asking questions to avoid mediocrity, to build a place for my own self from the ashes. The questions define me, not the answers. The questions are the muse. There is warmth in curiosity, the unfounded feeling of having a forever.
So, what was I seeking?
I was seeking my ownself in this gigantic carnival of a world.