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Saturday 15 March 2014

Life inside my mind

Often one wonders, why do people write, paint or act? It all seems so magnificent, so divine like the hand of god rested directly on the artist’s shoulders to do great things and leave the rest of us in a permanent state of awe. The people with these talents seem a cut above the rest in their awesomeness. Maybe they are. Somehow a good writer’s sentences are more lyrical, profound and end up meaning more in a few words than we could convey in a few thousand. From our point of view, these artists could dance circles around us and not break a sweat.  What ticks a person to write, barring the whole shenanigan of selling books and making a lot of money? (Neither of which I particularly mind).
A movie dialogue struck the right cord where the monk said “Our reality is what we hide the most from other people”.  I think that all these wonderful artists we are in awe of, use their medium of art to convey their hidden self which they normally would not portray in front of people.

As much as I would like to sit and do a discourse on the sketch lines of Degas or expound on the theory of one word by Frost or Kafka, I fancy writing something more personal. I cannot claim to know or understand an artist dead a thousand years so to speak, when I cannot claim to know each and every facet of my own self in entirety.

 At university one early morning, I wrote a letter to someone I thought I had deep affection for, and wrote it with the earnestness of one who would be writing a masterpiece. The setting was perfect, I can still recall it. It was almost dawn, the air was crisp and promising, there was quiet everywhere, and I was sitting by myself by the swimming pool, penning away what I thought was my truest emotion, sheer poetry. I didn’t ever give the letter to the person I had intended it for, something inside me made me not to. Several years later, I happened to come by it whilst cleaning my wardrobe and I read it again. 4 pages long, in curly handwriting, the letter was utter tosh. I mean seriously, if I could go back in time and smack myself for being a simpering, lyrical ninny I would do so. I felt every emotion surging through me as it did that crisp morning, but this time it made me nauseous. Thank heavens I didn’t give the letter, I would surely have been laughed at. But that right there is the point. If we write every random thing that comes into our head, which we feel might be a revelation to the rest of the civilization; it might end up being tosh like my letter. 
Fair enough. Maybe random thoughts in our head don’t hold commercial value and would be laughed at by people who have the very same silly or sillier thoughts in their own heads. That said having an outlet for our thoughts in a creative manner is great therapy. Not only that, it is imperative to have an outlet for those thoughts rather than allowing them to fester in our minds and become a disease of sorts which might spill onto our speech and alienate us.

Maybe on the inside we are all ugly, crude and colorless. Expressing those factors in a creative manner can render the very same ugliness, beautiful. And even if it doesn’t, it will make one realize that over a period of time if we don’t check the ugliness that is all one will end up being. Crude and ugly inside and out.

I was always fond of writing, loved the flow of words on paper. It was exciting. Writing personal blogs was an expression which appealed to me at quite a low point in my life. I could have spewed filth, anger and resentment at the world at large. I believed I had every right to. I didn’t have the courage to hurt the people I felt had hurt me, so I wanted to use my words as blows. I wrote in anger, and read what I had written. I didn’t like it. The negativity and heaviness that weighed my words down was very unappealing and I did not want to read it, so how can I expect another to? At times like this one questions oneself, “Should my entire life experience be summed up in negativity, is that all”? The thought is frightening, because thoughts on paper are far more real than in one’s mind, and to be reduced to something so banal as hatred, that too in black and white is loathsome.

No, my words shall not let spew forth filth, I cannot allow my circumstances to change me so. We take words for granted, that they can be thrown around willy-nilly. If one starts writing to achieve the purpose of making sense and attain some inner peace, one will realize that this is what separates the masters from others. The words of masters can move people to love, hate, fight wars and celebrate victory. That is the power of words. These words coax feelings to manifest themselves in a way which reflects our true self, even though we might not like it.

“We live and breathe words. .... It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colors and textures and sounds, I felt--I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted--and then I realized that truly I just wanted you.” 
 
Cassandra Clare

To write requires courage. One should always try to pen down words. Not only will it help to sift through logical and illogical thoughts, it will save a lot of money spent otherwise on the psychiatrist!


Friday 24 January 2014

Her

There are these stairs in her house, which have been there as far as she can remember. She climbed them one at a time in her diapies ages ago. Most times when she is climbing them now she tends to make a continuing sound which is quite akin to what children make when they are walking in the dark and the sound makes them feel less uncomfortable. Come to think of think of it, she has a whole series of these infantile sounds she has for different occasions and people in her life. When she makes them whilst talking with him, he laughs affectionately, and cajoles her. Unconsciously at these times she presents herself as an infant to appeal to his protective instincts, and he responds with affection, resulting in a feeling which is very sweet, a delicate sensation;  fragile to touch.

As a small cheeky little thing, she was her daddy's girl. When he would be praying on his mat every evening, towards the end she would squat in front of him to speak with him. He would laugh, and call her silly,  requesting her to get up so he can complete his prayers. Last  night she did the same thing. Not quite so little anymore , she now can face her father eye to eye yet he laughed like he used to years ago. Maybe he too misses those times of her childhood.

From the typical standard of things, she hasn't really grown up, not because she doesn't want to, but as far she is concerned she doesn't know how to. The other day she spent quite a while being fascinated with the fact that people are cruel. Its like a repetitive reality, which she has seen since she understood what reality means, yet she still doesn't "understand" it. The explanation given to her was that adults have pressures to deal with and as a result of those pressures they tend to be mean at times. By mean she understood that they throw words like sharp knives to pierce the heart of the listener, they turn a blind eye to the misery they are causing, yet in the eyes of the world they are holy and striving to be good. She listened to what was told to her, it made no sense. Is this the kind of adult she is expected to be? Because if that were true, she doesn't stand a chance.What a lot of rubbish people say by way of an explanation! Children are clear and true, that is why they are cruel. They have yet to learn the art of being diplomatic and hurt with words. They at least have an excuse of not knowing. Then what pray tell is the excuse that these self professed adults use as an alibi?

On the beach that warm day, she was asked " Are you always like this"? That question could signify a lot of doubts in the mind of the questioner. She thought about it for a second and answered "Yes". It was true. To amuse herself even at this age is something of a habit for her. As a kid she used to play by herself a lot, and was really irritated whilst playing with her cousins because they wouldn't follow her instructions. So now whenever she is by herself, her feet and hands are a source of constant interest to her, and the sky littered with little puffy clouds the other day cheered her up to no end. She is not simple, in the strictest sense, she is a smart person who thinks a lot. Maybe thinks a bit too much, and when that finite thought is exhausted, she flat lines and for some reason starts humming Christmas hymns. Don't ask why.

“Why should you want to give up a child's wise not-understanding in exchange for defensiveness and scorn, since not-understanding is, after all, a way of being alone, whereas defensiveness and scorn are a participation in precisely what, by these means, you want to separate yourself from.” 
― Rainer Maria Rilk

What is being an adult? Really,what does it mean? To cut a long story short, it merely means one does what one has to do and learns to live with its consequences. So what is the harm in doing all of that whilst still being fascinated by new things, being mesmerized by shiny things, spending time by oneself or simply laughing out loud! Let the world see those cavities, hear the heartfelt laughter punctuated by tears and snorts. Its a fascinating thing to see someone really laugh all the way from the depths of their soul.

She thought about it like she does about most things and came to the conclusion that either she could be the sort of person who explains her maturity by way of displaying her degrees and accomplishments to everyone who will hear so that they recognize that she has worked hard to make something of herself, that in the process she has become disillusioned, packed a lot of emotional baggage and regrets and has a strong tinge of malice like they have, so she could blend in as one in this huge pot of misery. Or, she could keep all that to herself and sit quiet at big gatherings and be fascinated about how people talk, and how their eyes talk. What their words convey and what they are really trying to convey, and surmise that in the scheme of things whatever one achieves is really personal and doesn't amount to much. There is still so much left undone. 

She could be any kind of person, but the choice had never really been hers. She behaved as felt right to her, even at the risk of being judged as the misfit. The queer glances confused her. Still do. The truth of the matter is, being anything other than what she felt she really was, was an effort which never amounted to much. Every time she strayed from her gypsy path, she was hurt and it all felt like a tissue of lies. As she is, is her truth. The selective hypocrisy, returning gifts when she is mad at someone, really biting her tongue when a particularly horrific comment is on her lips one time, and saying completely socially unacceptable things the other, lighting up like a Christmas tree when a new idea or a plan presents itself or feeling really upset if she so much as hears a low in a loved ones voice. Such is life.

A patchwork quilt. That's what she is. All the different pieces, people, unmatched experiences and mis matched stitching make her who she is. She doesn't really mind being stuck in a mid Peter Pan stage. Before, in the audacity of youth she did say " I am who I am, to hell with everyone". Funnily enough the sentiment is the same but now she'd rather say " I am who I am, because I do not know how to be anyone else". Potato, Potaato. 

Poignant or not this piece is her truth, and whether it is accepted or not, its existence is hard to extinguish. As far as she is concerned, her quilt is yet incomplete, maybe it will never be complete. Who knows, maybe it wont be hers if it was complete.