But things have changed. Maybe its the last two odd years of neverending work and putting yourself after everybody else. Maybe its the shuting off of the A+ personality for the much less hungry and rather indifferent B-. Something has brought about the change. I cannot manage to think anymore. Earlier, and a good example of the thing I had under my fingertips would be the blog I burnt. But these days, things take time to come out of my pen. While it becomes thorough at diagnosing things, it has become difficult to go through the pain I used to regularly undertake earlier before I produced something from my pen I liked.
I remember the feeling I used to get after writing those days. it used to act as a drug, almost as a therapy for me. Maybe the definitions have changed. Or maybe I have moved on to newer modes of treatment. I feel the same exhaustion after I attend an emergency. Not just the bodily exertion. But also the mental one. And I know that its not the same, but I feel cured. And in some odd way, its actually comforting to find that I did not arrive at it by further morselling my insides. In a way, the cure came with the byproduct of helping a bunch of other people in some fucked up situations of life.
I must even tell you that it actually feels good. I am cured of that poison that had slowly taken roots inside me. And while I do not know how willing I am to put myself in the path of life again, I sometimes miss the glory of that madness in me. I am hopeful of the fact that its not exactly my deal to stand at the darker end of the bargain. But I want to write again. Like I did.
That emotional exhaustion and turbulence acted like dope on my senses. Its going has to have in it a part that has possibly to do with the situation I found myself in. While intially finding myself incredulously staring at people who burn incense sticks at family altars..or cry to hear of their parents having an urinary tract infection, or baulk at the sight of chicken wings. I thought I would go mad in the long run if I stayed with such aliens. Even decided to have a plebicite once, at a conference, by asking the prevalence of broken families. And imagine the horror on the faces of the goody-goody shoe guys...Oops...My bad !!! How beautiful the world can be.
Yet, somewhere along this time, or maybe it can be ascribed to the lack of a rescue door, I was held up, unguarded to face and to live with such incredulity long enough to understand that a pattern exists in the orderliness and simplicity of these lives, the same way it exists in the madness and hopelessness in the one that I come from. Except that its plainly visible in the former and it takes a lot of sensitivity and strength, and probably intelligence to recognise it in the latter. I might even say I have grown to like this simple way of ebing. Rough edges that I had have been smoothened and tamed down. My anger has subsided into a cocoon and I have discovered something I never knew existed. That I have very few wants from life. Maybe its called 'Mellowing' that P used to tell me would happen once you age... I dont know. My face looks cheerful. The specks of anger that used to ride high on my cheekbones have given way to an almost grandmotherly understanding. I even watch cartoons, and I like it.
Yet, people have surprisingly hurt me here too. People who you trusted in the past. Who you put before yourself. Who you helped in their biggest times of danger, and even bodily harm. People who like you but whose insecurities cannot take in to see your real source of happiness. Of connecting with someone with whom you shared the company of pure labor and hard work if not emotional comfort. Strange ways things keep happening. Either initially when you are confused whether being yourself acts like a threat to some male ego in front of you, or later when a very unlikely source gives you a certificate of 'you cannot be anything else' with the same person when you finally manage to bury the hatchet. I am almost amused at how important I can manage to become to some people's lives even when they do not wish something good for me, but don't have the guts to come outright with it. I dont even have time for myself, leave aside other people's lives and the persons in their's. How can people manage to be so obsessed about what happens in other peoples' lives to the extent of predicting a future of two people apart or giving character certificates to others is beyond me. Or maybe they are confused about the way I feel. Maybe I make people insecure about losing their favorites. I am not a thief. And I don't stake claim on anything as a matter of principle. Maybe its escapism. Or maybe its just my way of seeing who will come how far to try to know the real person behind me. I will just run. I have done so in the past as well.
In any case, a lot of it is over and done with, for now. You cannot have anything else from people who have nothing else but other people's lives to drown their own lives in. One big average stagnant pond of looking at each other's mirrors and finding out the same face from each mirror is like the most inventive thing to ever happen since the falling of the apple on Newton's head. Sad but true. A lot of good people lose themselves in this rubbish.
I shall go back to writing. Once I leave this place, and enter a semblance of the world I have left some 2 odd years back. I shall go back into the chaos and the darkness of it. And get on with it. Its just like the thornbird. The best piece of writing you shall get from me is when I pierce my heart with the sharpest thorn available to mankind. Loneliness. And so it will be, I think.
And I am prepared for it.
