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.

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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.

About an unbirthday

My whole life, I have been plagued with fears, doubts and delusions of various kinds (mostly of the negative sort). I must confess that I have found most of those to be very unpleasant and haven’t yet quite adjusted to their unwelcome presence in my life and mind (since we’re concerning ourselves mainly with that entity in this particular piece of writing.) But my birthdays tend to be a little more disastrous than the usual days— which typically end before the crisis gets to my head and hence any extremity is reached.

My mind is not a pleasant place. I know, since I have to deal with the bizarre tantrums of the bloody thing day in and out. I don’t know what might be the problem here but you can rest assured that this mind of mine will eventually be the death of me.

These past couple of days have been a peculiar sum total of many a comedy of errors. At times, I do feel that my whole life has been in a constant state of comedy ever since I opened my eyes for the first time. And by comedy I most certainly mean the tragic kind; the sort where it becomes almost preposterous to look at the brighter side of things, that is, if there happens to be a side like that. Though I am usually assured by the spiritual types that a thing like that does happen to exist and that one is sure to spot a ray of light or two if only one vehemently persists upon looking long enough.

However owing to my awful concentration span, I tend to lose interest in most of the things after a very short period of time. Hence the likely presence of any ray, or a beam for that matter is more often than not, utterly lost on me.
You must understand that yours truly is in a perpetually annoying place in her mind and that her mind (if it’s bent upon being the all-inclusive asshole that it usually is) can just plainly refuse to function—a prospect that doesn’t appear to be too encouraging for her at the moment.

Yesterday happened to be one of those days; with my birthday being the biggest if not the only factor behind all the blues (and the yellows and the greens and the what nots) that I had to endure. As you may have (correctly) deduced, I have not been terribly fond of my birthdays ever since I can remember. And with each passing year, this aversion of mine is getting more intense; so much so that I now want to erase this date from all calendars. I can’t stand the bloody day.

I must mention however, that regardless of how it begins, (usually me sobbing over the fact that another precious year of my life has gone wasted and that death looms over me since I am now a year closer to it. Not the best of feelings, I tell you!) the 9th of February has always had this penchant of ending rather nicely for me. Mostly due to my friends who, I seem to have discovered, have this unique ability to make even the nastiest day come alive again; and they do happen to have a slightly ridiculous amount of significance in my life.

I’ll spare you all the mundane details which I am too sleepy to narrate here anyway. All in all, by the time I was preparing to hit the sac yesterday, I had a smile on my face and a ray of cheerfulness in my heart (a rare event). Oh and the mind was relatively at ease as well, dubious as it may seem!

Which forces me to conclude that perhaps my life is not that big of a tragic comedy that I think it is, or possibly the comedy isn’t as tragic (or the tragedy as comic?) or perhaps this whole tragedy and comedy thing resides only in my mind?
Hmmm.
Until the next tirade.