Feeling, too much.

There is simply no tax or fare you need to pay for feeling too much. 

Feeling too much is like drowning yourself in alcohol you know is not healthy to consume. Feeling too much is the nausea that comes after, curable, but time consuming. Feeling too much is the rent you pay for opening your arms far too wide for someone who does not love you back. 

So when I say I feel too much, I need you to know that my insides are tangled up like reels of unbound thread soaked in gravity, raining from the clouds.

There’s a lot of slow, endless falling.

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On Perspectives.

Today I learned that it will hurt a lot to have your own perspective of things. I learned that even though we might see our unique interpretations as something that sets us apart, they also pull us back to believing the illusion that everything we see is exactly what it seems; that there aren’t more parts to a story than the ones we choose to read. 

But there are. In a world where every element exists in pairs: night & day, fire & ice, real & virtual, matter & antimatter, perspectives too, occur in more than one ways. I always thought I was capable of looking out of the box that limits me to my opinion, that I could see what someone else might want to take out of the situation.

I was wrong. You never really know. 

I learned that a confrontation can help in more ways than it can cause harm. There was a lucid, brilliant clarity, a lightness that I felt about myself as I talked out loud about something that had been pestering me, lingering on in my conscience so ardently.

I am fine, to state my mood in the exact terms. I’m learning how to deal with difficult situations. It is a little hard for first timers like me, but it’s the lesson of a lifetime. I’m trying to keep my emotions in check and not muddle up what I feel and who I am.

So far, this is working out. 

On Changes.

Things are changing faster than I thought they would. I hate change; I resist it, I try to stop it the same way insulators try to tame electricity.

Crying became my savior today. It could wring me out of my self hatred, of how much I was suddenly beginning to despise myself. It feels good when your body gets rid of poison. I was holding onto poison inside. 

I do not want a confrontation. I’d prefer to run away, as always. Addressing the situation uproots too many seeds that transform into tiny nuclear bombs. In the end, we will be the casualties.

Who am I kidding? 

We already are.

Feeling Differently.

Today was almost reckless. Like a sea wave that wipes away your scribbles in the sand. Pretty scribbles. 

I woke up feeling as if something had eroded my happiness away. Somehow, I Won’t Give Up by Jason Mraz was reverbrating within the hollow chamber of my body, bouncing off of my bones. I almost found myself wishing someone would sing it for me. Someday. So I played it on my phone as I lay in bed: warm, externally but cold, internally. My shuffle playlist turned out to be great, so I began to feel better. 

I gathered all my notes to finally sit down to study. Studying is hard because focus is not a choice. My mind flutters away like a butterfly, being the non physical entity it is; landing on my past at it’s whim, lurking over my present, with it’s cynical eye turned towards my future. I sit at my desk with the utmost dedication, but my mind fails to comply.  

It astonishes me how nothing much changes itself around me, but everyday I wake up feeling a little different. Sometimes, like waking up as a new person. What I feel guides what I do.

But I do not know how to control what I feel.

I Won’t Give Up by Jason Mraz

One Late Evening

Stand at the terrace alone, look up and in that exact moment you will know how our lives have become so self sustained, so isolated. We are all alone, but together. Our smartphones have condensed the whole universe to fit into a screen, and that is more than enough for a lot of people. Everyone is making haste to get somewhere, to get something. We forget that there are things beyond and above. Above ourselves, beyond our understanding.

The lights of all the four rooms in the apartment are on. One for each member, separately. There is no laughter in the evening hour; no boisterous ten year olds running around chasing each other. They’re probably stuck doing homework. Watching TV, consumed in a tablet or a mobile phone, fingers tapping on a screen. There are the screams of a couple fighting across from the apartment where I live, and then there is a ghostly silence which almost makes me hold my breath. I am afraid that he is going to hurt her. He hurts her. Almost fifty feet away, his words hurt me.

I am here, stuck staring at the 3 am smoky sky, seeing the city lights desceding it’s purple into orange, wondering whether the stars disappeared because no one made time to look up anymore.

Road Trip

Life became a lonely journey with emotional pitstops. They began appearing a little too frequently. Maybe I needed them, maybe they needed me. But I know that there were a lot of them. I would have to make several stops along the way to refill my deflated tyre of happiness, to refuel my will to carry on. The four wheels that carried me appeared to be spinning, but what spun faster than them were stories in my head that I concocted about myself. I polished my body with scars that shined, and learned to wear my flaws on my sleeve. The wheel that steered my life on sometimes drove me crazy. But I still carried on, despite the seat belt alert resounding towards impending danger, despite the fuel-empty light flickering to grasp what was left of my attention, its blinks spelling disaster in morse code, I carried on.

I still do;
As I wait for the destined halt I will permanently hit at a pitstop one day, and for the vehicle that will crash into me and burn all that I am; putting this troublesome road trip to an end.