Of Definitions.

Hello, I guess.
It has been long.

And I am, again, in a space where I am at a heady loss for a definition. Or multiple definitions that make up a top-tier, unabridged, single definition. Definitions of constants, of emotions, of feelings, and everyday workings. Definitions of reality.

When I look back to recall: I was certain, a few years ago, that I was living through what was imaginably the worst year of my life. Having to get over self-inflicted truths and untruths, pain, shame, distrust. Having to let go of ambiguously-forged dreams. Love, even. Plus, the time had come to grow out of the 20-something, happy-go-lucky mould - make necessary and timely 'adult' decisions for oneself. To actually make something out of myself. Change, as always, helped. Out of sight, out of mind, afar. But of course, the recklessness of it all led to (if even possible) more debatable decisions. A whole new level of baiting regrettable choices. Coz life is a metaphorical video game of course; you have to level-up to hang in there, potentially win. If memory serves me, there was an unmistakeable intervention by the Universe (for lack of better or more credible characters), in general. "Whoa, whoa, whoa now - maybe take a break." And take a break I did. Slowed down, unplugged, disparaged, enclosed in another forged shell - trying to place blame and fight the ill-defined worldliness of the world, that had apparently lost its charm. Late realizations might just be the only recurring theme of my life. Just saying.

Somewhere in between the lose-myself-some-more-and-go-numb-why-not phase, I understood that if I was indeed able to escape all the emotional pain, for the sake of equilibrium or whatever, some stand-in, replacement physical pain would not be a bad idea. Well - bad idea. Enter body dysfunction, general dysmorphia, topped with a wholesome helping of dejection and despair. Easier labelled than defined, and easier said than fought off. Once there, the hounding stealth of pointlessness wins and comes to life. Some more hounding. The heart loses all intuitive abilities, and the brain does not function as well as it used to. Everything else around settles down to a lilting hum, constantly interrupted by the clear, now-familiar genre of numbness. All the time, with lots and lots to think about. Questioning sanity vs time ratios for example, without any disdain for the current state of circumstances.

Then life continues, with me yo-yoing through miscellaneous existential bylines some more. More living, breathing nothingness. I understand that I am in a sustained, unfazed search of something - to find, to hold, to cherish and celebrate. To yearn for in my illogical moments of chaos, spaced so accessibly close to each other, almost a daily ritual. The desire and design for happiness: a term even more ambiguous than the current state I am in. An everyday, two-faced, now-familiar reality? There, maybe not too proper a definition, but that could help with some temporary translation for now. Sigh of relief.


Postscript: Guess the smashing 'I Am/About Me' rhyme I wrote all those years ago was meant to last, to be comprehensible for years to come. Not just for flaunting the convincing coolness next to the pretty blog display picture, no.

While writing this, I could picture the many banal idiosyncrasies shared with my 17-year-old self. All that undefined exasperation has only channeled into agitation and a bit of loathing. For circumstances, for myself, for the greater good. I was pretty sure at 17 (sitting in my room, rebelling - to be able to address and engage myself in the then exciting-and-full-of-unknown-possibilities world) that I was not where I was meant to be. Almost exactly a decade later, here I am - questioning the surety of knowing that I am not where I want to be. The definition of the full-of-possibilities world has not changed much either. Just that the unknowns are not pleasantly uncharted anymore. Just that the intent and nature of my rebellion is not so external anymore, as it is internal. The pointlessness of it all (just another-day-in-the-life-of edition) is as uncanny as it can get. Just saying.

Surreal. A year. And a summer night.

It is mighty offensive, self-inflicted of course, when you realize at times that tangibility wins over. What does one do when there are numberless questions, and you do not want to answer. When you draw a line between the real world and fantasy, and face much hullabaloo about over-sensitivity and bipolarity, neither of which are surreal to you. When you have to be circumspect. Pause between the highs being high and the lows being low. Become aware through being wary. Learn acceptance, learn gratitude. Learn how hard it is to let in acceptance and gratitude. Try and delve in spirituality a bit, find solace in solidarity a bit. Yet be plenty solitary. Find and lose, only to find again. Revel in having the guts to lose again, only to find. Revel some more. In sundry things about yourself. Create a notional to-do list of sorts that had everything to do with what you have never had the time, the space or the peace of mind to do.When you understand and you can see. More rights than wrongs. Learn from what you can feel, under your skin and over. That there is this vague rhythm, perpetuating a sense of calm. A calm called on by a sense of cheer, for trying, for even daring to try. For wanting to, even. For however intangible, there is still progress. Every day, or over long periods of time. When everything matters. How everything is SO relative. How everything is what you want to make of it. How what you want is not what you decide to make of it. So many parallels and so many questions, and you're in the middle. You just know. You're the calm. Perpetuating through all your dimensions. You're creating, you're moulting, you're being. The process is unceasing. You appreciate minimalism all of a sudden, but you are the biggest you have ever been. There is pride, that you avoid and hide, but cannot deny. There is the slightest hint of dismay over not having done more. Not having been more. Still growing, still evolving. But there is no deadline, there is none other. There's you, amidst this aura of murky greys and resonant light, sweeping your eyes across the happenings of your universe. There's some joy there, you can almost feel it whole. Almost enough. You can even look in the mirror now.

Have you made it real?

Disillusionment.

Tiny lights, sitting pretty on the ground, miles and miles below - mocking at her, confined to her seat on the plane. Tiny lights glittering away fervently, mocking at the time, mocking at how much mayhem the day had caused. A night flight to add to the waste of an elaborate surprise. The transfiguration of happiness that she had been meaning to implore had devoutly lost its own meaning. Tummy twirls and tortured trembles be damned. There was no reason to reason with anymore. Jinxing the incomprehensible was no myth to fiddle with anymore. Gleam away, inanimate objects of science on the ground. Detest, discern - for all she cares. May you be in perpetual denial. Thoughts go around in circles meanwhile, rippling and returning to the same bode. In that moment, there was no peace. There was no war either. There was only nothingness - quite amiably seasoned. Tiny mind, where does it go transitioning away? Contemplating muddled her. Transfigured. So pretty, so far up above.

PS - This was written a while ago, and under disparate circumstances. I do not find a reason to not post it now.

my Nemesis.

So all the dreams came crashing down, ripped apart at the seams. What good had love done? What good was love now? All that was left was the hurt. All that mattered was the pain. The fiery singe burnt right through. Alarming surges of disbelief hit head on. Flashes across the years - all those years, infused with ethereal negativity - not wired in anymore. Out of sync. A wasted whim was all that stood to gain. Absolute bereavement, colliding emotions, evaporating faith. Oh, the multitudes of agony. Why, just another answerless question. A perpetual loop. Defining a confirmation of sorts, a mockery of what was never meant to be. What was wanted and what was needed were not one and the same. Had they been? Even if, they never would be again. It was failed destiny, a tryst with nature and signs and niceness. And ruined love. And it hurt, so so much. But then ruin was a gift they said, ruin was the road to transformation. The whoosh of a phoenix tail. The magic that caused a run down to wipe out, to begin anew, to evolve. Every scar that transformed into a lesson learnt, every tear that led into bigger, that gave way to better. 

Hush now, what was that? Was it true? Maybe the dream is still on. Maybe it is for real. And its time to part. Its time to be. Its time to go.

the Audacious and the Brash.

I know I must not think. I know I must not comply.
If only I had the strength to,
Perhaps on my mettle I could rely.

I wish I had the perspective. I wish I had the ambition.
If only I had the will to,
I could approach the not with limitless vision.

I believe I have it inside of me. I believe I have all that it takes.
If only I exemplified the idea,
Perhaps I could manipulate what makes or breaks.

I hope I do not fall short. I hope I do not start where it ends.
If only I got accustomed to,
I could survive wherever the utopian dream sends.

(Drafted '09. Lost and found.)

Die day, die.

Just one of those days. Or those days that add up to this. Or those days that led up to the days that culminated in this. 

Destructionnnnn! (in more of an 'Avada Kedavra' sense.)

Oh but. None so archaic (or wizarding), as the notions comprehend.

Maybe its just the vague dullness that everything you ever started ends in, or hangs out with, for what very well may be the rest of its heartbroken time. Jolts and bumps, here and there. So depressing all of this sounds that I can pass off a pretention of amusement by now. Lets fancy those random testimonials to a horrible, horrible day. A day devoid of any occurrences, happenings or anything notable whatsoever. A day when you rationalise murder and gore, and grin. Atleast sneer. How I pray you too will pass, how I keep my fingers crossed. Maybe it is worth getting the tattoo now. How I ramble pointlessly? How this is probably the best part of my horrible, horrible day. Drawing parallels, being hatefully judgemental and succeeding to completely ruin even more. Remorseful thoughts - invoke, provoke, shut down. So much of this perplexing abstract. Argh! To you - prepositions and punctuations. And to you - vicious indulgence, and imploratory peace.

Up-to-date-ish.

(This post goes out for my two homes, and their constituent fractions - the one I never thought I could have, and the one I never thought I'd still want.) 

It struck you as mere odd at first, but the vigor is overpowering. And overwhelmed by it all, you keep going, not knowing how to terminate the drab ennui. Anxious even. What else can there be? When you read, when you write, when you talk, when you sense, and when you rediscover. Fancy a few (back to back) feel-good movies, background jazz score (still finding a way to settle you down through the hushed, somehow), and a pile of unread books waiting to be caressed. Exotic statements forming in your not-so-dormant thought process. The fervent expressions and you have gotten back together, who would've imagined. (*smirk*) Well, you were always the artsy, ethereal type, weren't you? Cold heart and dreamy soul in its decided place. (*shrug*) And there might be new strangers to be befriended. New exceptions you can try to endure. You consider that you might have found yourself – in love, at peace, in good humor - all over again. Not waiting endlessly, not letting deep, dark regret penetrate the crevices of primary emotion, that you realise you've fought to defend in vain. 'You don’t want what you can’t have anymore.' That too has passed. The change is more apparent than ever. You suffice. A few battles won for the greater good (always, always), but is the war over?

In this utter state of bewildering amusement, you find yourself anew.