2017

2017

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.

Emotion.


Dangerously near
Painfully nigh
Proximate.

To truth often remote
Mind disorientating
Fallacious.

At once abhorrent
At once alluring
Sine qua non.



J.


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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