tectonic plates shift in people too. But these changes are so small, so subtle, that you never notice until much later. With time, every cell replaces itself for a new one, the old ones are shed off, and one day, you are not what you used to be. You wake up feeling differently, but never knowing. A sense of unease sets in, but you cannot put your finger on it. It’s a change, a rearranging of your self, your body waging a revolution on your mind that you will now have to come to terms with.
Startling realization: my life has condensed to academics and academics only and there is no varied spectrum of interesting activities that I can pursue anymore as I did earlier. Yes, higher education is a task. But. The way it has encroached upon my creativity and need for expression is… more than slightly annoying to me. I can’t find time for myself, to journal the way I used to. Or write poems or sing or play guitar. It’s frustrating. This is probably just a manifestation of my lack of time management, but still, I’ve been able to get by fairly easily. Until now. I’ve been the person who’s always had her feet in two separate boats and I’d roller skate with them on the metaphorical surf board of life but I guess now the plot thickens. It’s a balance of power between the brain and the heart. Studying or even preparing for class drains so much out of me that I usually have no energy left for subsidiary activities. Well, the fact that I call them subsidiary says a lot about my approach. But these things: writing, singing and poetry are the essence of my life. Rather, the essence of life in general. I don’t want to get lost in the labrynth of the pursuit of far-fetched success if I can’t enjoy engagement and meaning and fun in my life right now. I keep waiting on things and moments and stages in life to fulfill me somehow as I deprive myself of the things that make life worth living. What is everyone living for everyday? What wakes you up in the morning, what haunting dream gives you so many goosebumps that make you spring out of bed in the morning? Is there even a dream at all? Or the hint of one? If not then, why do people keep running? Why am I?
It’s fun to know how you can control the direction of your life. Fun, and exciting. Because it feels like a virtual-turned-reality experience of being in Bandersnatch. Two options, neither wrong, but both decide the future course of events. On a large scale. Small steps make the bigger picture. Drops in an ocean. Magnanimous. But these steps do not feel magnanimous to us when we take them. We just… take them. Doubtfully, or with a clear head. We take them. And we don’t think about them much until they impact us much later. It’s like the butterfly effect: your current actions have already predicted how your life will turn out, macro level. And that is scary.
Poetry. It hasn’t happened to me in… Four months? I say it hasn’t “happened to me” because usually it’s like this: emotions take over me, and it gets narrated to me as if some divine sermon. In true episodes of being consumed by emotion, I’ve never had to force myself to write or rhyme. In those moments, I feel the most as a medium who has words flowing through her. A dervish spinning in zikr. There is flow.
But now it’s the fifth month and I am without words. I am without rhyme. This should point to the fact that I am probably not feeling any emotions. Sometimes it feels like that; other times it doesn’t. It is perhaps more likely that the expression of my emotions has succumbed to the ardous nature of my schedule these days. Sigh.
If this is anything, it has to be a wakeup call. For me to not only start being aware of what I’m feeling, but also finding a proper medium for letting those feelings flow. I’ve to find time, medium and the awareness to address what I’m feeling.
yesterday I read a post on Pinterest that read something like: “you wake up in the middle of the night, calm, knowing full well you still have some hours to sleep. outside the soft patter of rain starts to fall, and you slip back to sleep comfortably.”
and this morning at five a.m. my eyes opened into the glow of my nightlight, and the cold of my room’s a.c at 18 degrees. i still had many hours to sleep, courtesy a national holiday. i turned off the night light and adjusted the temperature. as i began to drift into sleep again, a soft rain began to fall right outside my window.
i slipped back into sleep with the comfort of knowing that a random post from the internet had just became a reality for me.
life amuses me sometimes.
We carry tradition on our backs. Somedays I feel as of there’s too much history behind me; years of stories and folklore that travelled down into time and ended up from the past into the present. We are carriers of this responsibility, and it’s on us to translate tradition into the present and eventually the future. I did not understand this for very long.
As a species that sits on piles of evolution, we sure have developed our ways of being who we are; a means that provides us identity. Religion, race, and region are just a part of this means. So when it comes to culture, nothing holds it up like the arms of a five year old being told the story behind why Hindus celebrate Raksha Bandhan. Or why women have always needed protection, because that is our culture, and for centuries we’ve seen and preached the same things. The same things. Sita was kidnapped, Draupadi’s respect was looted, and Surpanakha was mutilated. All circumstancial torments that were preventable, yet set in motion the greatest, largest epics to ever be narrated and written.
However as our heavy past gets tossed into our hands, we should know how to make sense of it’s relevance and how it’s important now. Be cognizant of why it matters, and why it’s important to continue to pass it onto the future.
These people have already floated far on their boats when I’m still scampering at the edge of the water. It is so far for me to even try. Hozier drowns out the constant chitter chatter of gossip that surrounds me, and the fan is too intense and it feels hard to breathe and a little too much to take in. The illusion that moving away to a better spot blinds me sometimes. Something keeps digging at the pit in my stomach. I convince myself it’s growth.