About Wajiha

This blog, as a reflection (however shoddy) of its creator, is mostly about her, people around her, things that she's passionate about or not for that matter; among other things. This is where she practices her writing.

Of weary dreams and worn out passions

Life, when left unbridled becomes a chore unloved. One needs to keep revisiting one’s past in order to make sense of one’s present and aspire for future. The problem that I face continuously is to strike a balance between admiration of what’s gone and desire to bring it back. To be able to do it all over again. I am losing it, time is running out, I am getting old with each passing day and that scares the shit out of me.

I have made some lousy decisions in life. I started this blog ten years ago when blogging was still in it its infancy but was never regular. My younger daughter had just been born when I started this journey that I thought I’d nurture and take to new heights….. Now my son is the same age and ten years have gone by in between.

Whatever I am doing in life now does not even come close to what I thought I would achieve in these ten years. It is nothing as compared to what I could do. And it mocks all the dreams I dreamt for myself while staring out of that window in my living room. 

I was going to be a great writer. My pieces were to get published in literary magazines. I was going to master the art of writing.

And yet, ten years passed and I am still here. Still at the cross roads, never launched. What happened? Where did time—that culprit— vanish? Why did I waste it so willingly? 

These are the questions I may never find answers to, yet the only questions I’d want answered.

In a systematic manner, I brought this on myself. Yes, I do realise my mistake. I thought I had time; that I could do it tomorrow. Little did I know, then, that that perfect tomorrow would never come. 

If I really wanted to do something, I should’ve started right when it came to mind. When I had decided that I was going to be a writer. I did have the time, I do have time even now, but a sad, unproductive decade lies between the dreams when they were first dreamt and now that they have to be woken up again. 

These dreams are now frail, unsure of their strength of ever coming true. They are still there, yes, very much alive, but they’ve grown old, tired and weary. They’ve got unsure of themselves. And it is quite the task now to start from where I left.

Time will not wait for anyone, as clichéd as it may sound. This is one reality that I am aware of but have failed to understand in its entirety, no matter how much I tried. I live day in and day out thinking I’d do it tomorrow. I’d write that blog post tomorrow, I’d update that Instagram account tomorrow. I’d just sleep in today and then tomorrow will be a brand new day.

One just doesn’t realise the absurdity of time until it’s too late. And yes, age sneaks up on you when you’re least expecting it. It has this weird way of catching you off guard. And you just do not understand what really happened. 

There’s no way of understanding, you just realise one fine day that you’re getting old, and that the time to act is now. Or you’ve lost it forever.

But I do realise that I do not want to imagine myself writing another blog post like this in another ten years. I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that I did my best. And that is all one can do. Everything else is just life as it  happens… but you should be able to die with the knowledge that you did do your best.

So here I am, trying to wake up the dreams that were never realised, to muster up the little strength that’s still left, to reignite the passion that is now tired, and to believe in the power of love again.

 

Featured Image courtesy: HERB

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Of writing and love

abstract_of_a_child

I haven’t written in quite some time now.

And every time I need to answer that cruel question, “what do you do”, I feel like dying.
I don’t know what to say anymore.
I do not write. How can I call myself a writer?

All I do is sit in front of the screen, scroll a bit, and then retire to bed hoping for a better day.
I may like to revel in the romanticism associated with being a writer.
Truth is, I am a sham. I am not a writer. Or I would’ve found time for it.
You don’t need to make time for a lover.
A lover has your time, and you know it.
You cannot not make time for your lover.
Or he is not one.
A writer writes because she cannot not write.
Because she is in love with the act of writing. Because the very thought of not writing one day is enough for her to stop breathing.
Because to go on without your lover wouldn’t make sense, would it.
No. I am not in love. For had I been in love I wouldn’t have been forced to write this piece of crap that I am at the moment.
I am a crappy writer and I know it.
I am a fake. I am a sham. I call myself a writer. But I am anything but. I am anything but.

I have always been afraid, afraid of being myself.
Afraid of being called a woman.
Weak. Indecisive. Meek.
Afraid to be associated with women.
Always felt this deep-founded desire to prove something to the world- to men.
That I could do whatever a man could..
And so. Just like that.
I stopped being myself.
I pushed myself so far down that it became almost impossible for me to lift myself up again.
In trying not to be who I was, I became who I never wanted to be.
I became weak. Meek and a failure.
I became what I detested the most.
Only because I didn’t want to become who I was.
And I am still trying.
Even after all this, all this fear and doubt and failure and rejection.

Oh but if I’ve learnt anything, it is this.
This fear of mine is not unfounded.
And it is not because of you.
It is because of this absurdity.

And me.

And it will linger.

Pretense

That one word to end the meanings of all words; words that do not stand a chance in front of the façade this one word entails. Every truth, all ingenuity, all graciousness is useless when faced with the intricate web of all the shiny mendacities this word so effortlessly weaves.

Such is the cruelty of this one word. Such is the power of it upon the lives of people all around us. Such is its significance for us. Ingenuity is a lost attribute now— or as far as I can perceive (and my perception is just that; perception). It is gone, buried and done away with. No one wants anything to do with it anymore. Why bother listening to the heart when I can follow the herd. Why bother being who I am when I can be someone else. Why be myself when I can be a third rate replica of someone more prosperous/beautiful/thinner/popular out there.

This world has traditionally been easier on the normal (read: ordinary) than the different. Because being different is often tantamount to being a failure; and failure is looked down upon. Failure is a thing to be avoided at all costs. It tends to have the worst of all meanings and it doesn’t matter if you think contrarily. Your opinion simply doesn’t matter. Period. Failures shouldn’t have opinions, because how can they? If the world doesn’t recognize me, how sacrilegious it is of me to acknowledge myself! How dare I think more of myself than what ‘they’ think of me!

I find myself surrounded by pretense. Those who effortlessly adapt to this philosophy, find that they’re better off in this world. Though whether or not it’s happiness that they experience or merely the satisfaction of conformity, I can’t say.

Eventually I will succumb to the pressures of conformity as well.
It is inevitable.
The pressures are too forceful. It is very persuasive. It has survived for centuries.
Or maybe I won’t and hence will just get old… very cranky and very unhappy.
It is all just a matter of time.
But time has never really been on my side.
And I walk alone.