Wednesday, 23 December 2015

Dear Diary: Back again

One should think I should be used to the desultory entries of this dusty space by now, though after each bout of absence I cannot help being overcome by a feeling of alienation. It never fails to bewilder me how radically things are altered in but a mere year, which possesses the odd ability to drag on for what seems like a millennium and simultaneously hightail past in the catch of a breath, the blink of an eye.

I was blessed by various opportunities to catch up with several old friends, through which sessions it was gleaned certain changes in ethos and behaviorism, some of which were pleasing to discover, though somewhat startling to realize. Change, for instance, is something I have begun profoundly to internalize. The idea was not novel, the difference between theorisation and incorporation but a mere abstraction of mind. More than anything, I have begun to embrace it, allowing myself to accept the inevitability of entrances and exits of individuals of whom I have had the profound privilege of being thus acquainted --though in brutal honesty it must be admitted that the departure of some more than others have left me with greater than a little misgiving and many pangs of ruefulness.

Academic life has caught up in intensity, though the rigor and pace have progressively been assimilated to, which causes school to be a fair bit more sufferable. I have in fact rather taken to the challenge of producing work under the draconian time restrictions and formats, the challenge being somewhat of an impetus to locate new personal boundaries. Light-hearted banter with the simultaneously feared and respected professors has grown to be an enchanting ritual of much delectation.  In fact, it was fairly shocking to discover that my difficulties lay not so much on academic work as it did on my peer interaction and social life as a whole. It might well be grossly obnoxious a statement to say that it was not till recently that I realized not everyone took well to who I was. It was rather timely a realization, almost a little tardy even, but much needed nonetheless.

Just hours ago I had just ended a movie, which brought me back to my very first experience of love, all the way back when I was barely eighteen. It was a somewhat decrepit memory I had always tried to block out, chiefly because it was so emotive. When I was not yet afraid to love, to hold dreams, to place my entire heart full of hope for a gamble I thought worthwhile. But stumbling upon old messages demanded that I recognize those words were real, that at some moment in history they were all I held on to. I suppose it was nice, to know I had once been like that. So young, so brassy, and lionhearted. So very unafraid, despite the odds. It stung to know that somewhere along the way, I lost that girl for a bit --and along with it, perhaps some scruples and codes of conduct to which I had formerly vowed to abide by. My own blameworthiness haunts me till this day and self-castigation serves as no form of mollification but a stimulant that aggravates the whole situation. But I suppose it is something we all go through, and the best and perhaps even the only thing we might do is to discern the lapses and resolve never again to commit them.

For all that was and have been I can only say that I have been so blessed and so protected, many a time escaping severe ramifications by barely an inch. And for what will be, I anticipate with animation and trepidation, geniality and melancholy, in a simultaneous ball of emotion that eludes the alphabets and strings of grammatical rules we have so constructed for ourselves.

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

Dear Diary: A dear friend

As I am typing this, my fingers running across the keyboard hard and furious, I know you will never see this. Not now, not ever. I see you moving on to better things in life and I know that when the sun rises, I would once again be tempted to delete this post. I would try with all my might to pretend not to feel the pangs of nostalgia I am feeling with such intensity now, pretend to be strong, pretend that I too, have moved on. 

And the truth is, I have.

But that doesn't change the fact that I still think of you, every once in a while. And when I do, I really miss you. I do. Never did I realise as I lay on your shoulders, ranting to you about other people, that you were my pillar of support, giving me strength and providing me the backing that I so desperately needed. In some sense you were the loudest yet the most silent presence, one that I took for granted... then you were gone.

You taught me how to see myself as a real person, told me I was beautiful without make-up on. And as you embraced me as a whole person,  I learnt to embrace myself too. I smiled and learnt to laugh, at the silly way life turns its tables on me and curiously, even at myself. A whole novel dimension of this world was made visible to me because of you, and I marveled at things that I never before thought possible.

A dreamer, you always were. And as you held my hand, I felt like I could dream too, that I could fly, and it was the most marvelous feeling in the entire world. But then I fell for a second, and then you were gone, pulled away into another realm all together. Frantic, I called after you, but you never answered.

And as I watched the shadow of your back fade into the distance, smaller and smaller, I knew you were gone forever. 

Thursday, 9 July 2015

Dear Diary: Forget me not

I had forgotten how it felt like to write. To write, for me. Not for academics or for want of appraisal and endless eulogies from learned men and women, but for myself. The pen lied limp with my worn fingers, and I could not find the strength as I once did, to convey my mind through the au fait medium of language. The novelty once beguilingly magnetic, was lost --and with it, my mind.

Once, I read that good writing betrays good thinking. I could not disagree, for I was acutely aware of my own writing, almost a perfect parallelism of my mind. Unhinged, adrift, but ever inquisitive, full of anticipation come whatever may.

But as my eyes flickered to behold in reverential silence the abundance of novelists, poets, and authors, I was again overcome with a most pellucid view of what I would like to be, addressed not as a blogger but as a writer. Yes, a writer. The word idled at the tip of my tongue, leaving a lingering aftertaste that could nearly be described as saccharine.

Language throughout times ancient, medieval, and even present has never failed to command a certain degree of presence, heavy with history, suffused with deep meaning. The love for language and writing has always been something possessed within myself that I could not (in fact I cannot) quite describe, even as everyday neologisms present their magical meanings, painting a resplendent picture of art.

A writer.

Could I ever be? Yet in the deluge of composition originators I heard a still voice breathe, barely a whisper.

"Forget me not."

"I won't." I whispered.

Saturday, 14 March 2015

Writings: Don't stop

As you tread the path all too familiar, do not stop to reminisce, pray don't ever look back. Take each step anew, as if it was the first time you thus journey. And you will see as you walk the path, many things of which your eyes have never been recipient, sights past scrutiny had never descried. As the music plays, let your heart beat with excitement for the novelty soon to be experienced. As your lips quiver and your feet shake, step upon the boulder where you had once slipped, fall if you must, but never be too fretful for your next attempt. Gaze ahead, far ahead and you will see the ephemeral rays that seem beautifully distant and out of grasp. Reach for it anyway. Let nothing stop you from dreaming, with the wide-eyed wonder of a child. As you feel the second of despair, your foot slips. Cling onto the boulder more tightly than ever, and if it snaps, may it be. Live every moment bravely, courageously, with a brazen audacity. For when the time comes for the very last breath, nothing matters but knowing you had lived on this earth, with love and sorrow, sanity and madness, and most of all, an open, beating heart.

Tuesday, 3 March 2015

Dear Diary: Dear God

Dear God,

It's getting a little too much to bear.

Are you there?

In the dimly lit skies of the dawning morn,

I see the sun's rays kiss the horizon

And I really do wonder

If You're there watching me,

watching You.

The boulders of this life seem impossible

And I'm looking, searching

Desperate for a tangible something

A taste of You again.

Dreary thoughts, sinful nights

Here I falter, here I fall.

Will you lift me from this pit?

Oh dear God,

Where are you?

It's so hard to remember,

So hard to love,

When I don't feel, when I can't see.

Barely breathing here I call,

Tears streaming, my soul's cry

God of wonder, God of grace

Pray, will You answer?

Because there's nothing I want more

Than once again Your voice to hear

Cross my heart,

And swear to die.

Yet not my will, but wholly thine.

Friday, 20 February 2015

Writings: Dear you.

You were behind the pillar, waiting.

I saw you.

Flustered, you checked your watch, mentally hurrying that someone to come --that someone who never came.

You were with a group of friends, laughing in jocund banter.

But your eyes were traitors, dark and downcast.

I saw you.

You sat alone with earphones plugged, donned with tattoos, piercings, and fiery red hair.

Formidable you may well have looked, but as you strode, you flashed a smile at the old lady janitor. 

I saw you.

You were always residing at the seat far right, at a corner of the auditorium.

First one to come, and last one to leave. 

Nobody ever saw you, but I did.

I saw you.

And I write for you, the girl behind the pillar. I write for you, the guy who pretends to be happy, the jock who puts up an intimidating front, the one who sits alone in lectures. You don't know, but I write for you. And there are times I wish so desperately, to help in any way, if only I could. Because as strange as it sounds, I care for you. 

You have taught me so much about the world without even being thus cognizant, that happy people are often sad, that bad people can be good. That the world is not always what it seems, that surprises come unexpected, both pleasant or otherwise. And I wish I could put a smile on your faces, but you don't know me. And the regrettable truth is, you probably never will.

But for the brief interim that I have been thus oddly acquainted with you, I am grateful. And dear you, and you, and you. I sincerely wish you all the best. For hearts a little less broken, and minds in the mending. For genuine smiles on your faces, and eyes that would shine bright with the hope that lies beyond.

Perhaps one day, we shall meet again.

Till then, be safe.

Friday, 23 January 2015

Dear Diary: Still a girl

The new academic semester has just kicked in, and regrettably I haven't had the liberty of time to properly pen any of my thoughts down, coherently or otherwise. It has yet to be a month into the year and already, something extraordinary has transpired and cemented itself to the cognitive realm of my mind --the concept of growing up.

It's outlandish, foreign... yet curiously familiar. 

Because this is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for years and years, very possibly my entire life. Twenty, no longer a teenager. 

It may be acquiring more poise, greater confidence. Or speaking with considerable ease and clarity when holding conversations with grown professionals, instead of single-handedly constructing a situation that (lamentably) nearly always results in my ultimate mortification. Perhaps it could even be a radical shift in interests, from indulgence of casual jazz to the appreciation of more "palatable" music and fine art. I keep waiting for that something to happen... the feeling of "adulthood", being a grown woman. A lady, as I should rightly aspire to be.

Because everyone has to grow up, do they not? And so I wait ever patiently, for some sort of transformation. Anything, really.

But there's nothing. 

Not-that-deep-down inside, I'm still that excitable, inquisitive girl of eleven, her hair in pigtails, complete with ancient granny clothes and wide, round spectacles. More often socially awkward than not, rough and unpolished, always laughing a little too loud and talking a little too much (often at the most unfortunate timings). Till this day, I largely dislike holding conversations with "adults", in particular with intellectuals or professionals, though I've acquired a fair set of skills in dealing with such instances. 

I wait. 

And wait.

And as I wait, I wonder if I have got it all wrong. Perhaps some people never do grow up.

I can dress like a lady, speak like a lady, dine like a lady, and deceive the eyes of all who behold me.

But I am not a lady.

And I don't want to be one, not right now. I want to throw my head back and laugh as much as I can, and whenever I want, for the rarity that it already is. I want to talk to the people who make me smile, without having to deal with concomitant consequences that will ensue. I want to tear down the latent hierarchical barriers between the professors and students in university, and discuss abstract concepts and theorisations with them in as jocund a manner as I would a companion. I'd choose paddle pops and crackers over fine dining any day, or a day at the zoo over an elaborate opera show. 

And it is markedly perceptible to me now, that there is no wait. 

I'm still a girl.

Wednesday, 7 January 2015

Poem: Emotion.


Dangerously near
Painfully nigh

To truth often remote
Mind disorientating

At once abhorrent
At once alluring
Sine qua non.


Monday, 5 January 2015

Dear Diary: Demented

Mad. That's what they used to say.

I never once denied it, only laughed. As if the pitiful act wasn't deplorably transparent. As if it masked the paroxysms of pain that had become an integrated part of my being and existence. As if it mitigated anything at all, in part or in whole.

Everyone is a little crazy inside, they say. But they have not the least pittance of an idea of what they so speak. The word has been so relegated, I know not if even a last vestige of its former meaning can be found. Voices, dreams, tears, played on repeat for years and years. 

"I understand," they say. 

What response should that elicit? I understand their kind intent, but " how feeble an attempt", is all I think. In fact, it is all I can think.

Have I not tried? Years and years of building up myself as a person. Looking for hobbies, things I could be good at. Baking, drawing, music, art. They kept my mind busy but were so utterly transitory in nature it was not long before reality came back, a living nightmare. I had prayed so hard for any means of divorce, even forms of illusionary escapism would have worked. But there was nothing.

I thought I could be strong enough, that I could will myself to step out of this dark, delirious world. But I was wrong, so horribly mistaken. Each time I take a step forward, something tugs me back a couple more steps. And it gets so draining, so debilitating... so damaging. And now I descry ahead of me a dark, depressing tunnel, turning back from which I see no end. 

I'm beginning to think I shall never escape.

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