Jealousy

The feeling that grips you and twists your insides till they burn.
The feeling that makes you want to do anything to remove it.
The feeling that makes you seethe.
The feeling that you try so hard to ignore and label nonexistent.
The feeling that make you so carnal it makes you ashamed in retrospect.
The feeling that erases all traces of civility - in thought and in action.
The feeling you just do not want to experience.
The feeling you want to shirk off the moment it starts crawling under your skin.
The feeling that feels like none other.


I am a very very possessive person by nature. Possessive about my things, my relationships, people who are dear to me and also circumstances and experiences. Not because someone else can have what I have but because what I have is mine and has my heart in it. And I'm not one to stand by and watch someone take my emotional investments away.


Back off. Now.

I've just bathed in the lap of luxury and had an awesome taste of humility all in one.


Never could two diabolical opposites ever feel so refreshing. 


I've been away traveling for most part of this month and it's been good. Great in fact. 


Traveling is a way of life - it just has to happen for me. There's no two ways about it.


I've been meaning to write and had all the time to do so, but it never really took shape. Over the course of my travel, words have materialized into thoughts and potential blog posts. But somewhere, they dissipated because of the sheer momentum with which new thoughts arrived. I'm in a fix because there's so much to experience, say and express that collating and collaborating everything can be quite a task. Characteristic notebooks and journals are just that - characteristic. The pages remain empty any which way. There's so much to see that writing goes on the backburner which eventually lies forgotten as thoughts brew away. I wish there was a way. The eyes want to see, the mind wants to observe, my fingers itch to write, my heart feels a bit dissatisfied.


I'm traveling as and when I can and that's bloody awesome. I'm not complaining. I wouldn't have it any other way. I only wish I could share what my eyes have seen and my mind has observed.

Last days...

...which I'm dreading.


I hope this last day teaches me a thing or two. 


To those who matter, I hope this bye is just another one to take with a pinch of salt.


Because I'm not ready to let go.


Or say my goodbyes.

There are signs of you everywhere. Why don't you either just leave completely or show up?


I don't need small signs to show of your existence. I wish it didn't make such a difference.


I wish.


I wish wish wish wish.

Shoebox rummaging II

Something else I've blogged about and remember... 

THEATRE

It suddenly struck me that it's been years since I performed on stage. Years since I stood under those blinding lights, years since I communicated to an audience who sat in the blackness, years since I participated in theatre.

I miss those days of immense creativity. Of having the stage to yourself, to do what you want to and how you want to. To use every nook and corner of your space. To be absolutely and unabashedly free.

Those were the experiences that taught me about real discipline. To speak when it was my turn, to shut up when it was not and to definitely listen irrespective of whether I was being spoken to or not.

Theatre taught me respect - for what I did, for what others did and respect for expression itself.

I miss the fervour with which we practiced, the initiative we all took, the say we all had, the magic we all created together, the upheaval of emotions and expressions, the madness of the dress rehearsals, the slient tension that built up just before the lights went off while we were all backstage in a group huddle, the smooth ease of tension the moment the lights went off, the feeling of walking on stage, of acting on stage, of being absolutely free and completely in control. I miss wondering what the expressions of the audience was who was always clouded in an opaque blackness I couldn't judge through, I miss running for my costume change, I miss waiting for cues, I miss the build up, I miss the stage. I miss that form of expression.

I know I cannot sign off this post without remembering Bing, my theatre teacher.

Bing: a man I detested, a man who always made fun of me by speaking to me through his nose, a man I always tried running away from, a man who made me cry so many times, a man I've wanted to physically harm, a man who always made me take off my specs during practice and the performance which I hated him again for, a man who just made my life hell. And so much more.

Bing: a man who taught me so much, a man who never stood up for me, a man who believed in me, a man who showed me not to see what I wasn't supposed to see, a man who taught me not to speak through my nose, a man who helped me throw my voice to the end of the auditorium, a man who took away my specs so I couldn't see what I wasn't supposed to see, a man who laughed at me, a man who taught me how to take criticism in the face, a man who made me build on that criticism, a man who taught me more than I ever wanted him to. And so much more.

A man who will not go away from my heart and mind and memories no matter how much I wanted him to.

And this is what I call education.


(October 18, 2009)

I realize I don't have the stamina to stomach restless people and their flippant hearts.

Stashed away memories

As I reminisce through times gone by, I remember chunks of my life that lay forgotten in some drawer that has remained locked for years.
I remember diaries I used to write... copious amounts of words that spilled from my mind through my fingers as I obsessed about how to express my day. Diaries that I took the trouble to decorate and fuss over. Diaries that held memories imprinted on those pages I've forgotten to read. Diaries that I started writing even before I figured the meaning to write and document the vagaries of one's life. 


I remember starting off with creating my own special and pretty awesome code language - the one tool that worked better than any diary you could buy with an attached lock in those days. And that code language flowed with such ease as I penned down my crushes, people I disliked, people I felt vengeful against, people I secretly admired, people I wanted to do away with, people I loved being around, people I hated, people who made me cry, people who made me feel all sorts of things... My code language was my weapon of expression, my one true friend who never spilled the beans and kept all my secrets where they were supposed to be. I even felt a certain amount of camaraderie between the two of us when prying younger siblings or even nosy friends wanted to "read" my diary - the secrecy we shared gave me such a high.


As I grew up, so did the pile of diaries, as I wrote voraciously. As I grew up, I also saw a change in the way I expressed myself. Right from choosing a diary (from Lion King covers to more artistic and mellow print covers) to what I wrote to how I expressed myself. As time passed, the relationship between my code language and me gave way to a more mature form of communication - the use of English. I began expressing my thoughts, feelings and opinions over exact details and moments that had made my day. I loved looking at the change, I loved being a part of the change that was me, I loved what I saw and read. 


As time raced on enveloping me in my academics and tuitions and the Big Bad Boards (for I studied in school where exams - annual and any other - didn't exist), the time to write steadily dwindled. What was once a daily ritual now became a weekend thing to something that was completely phased out. It was at this time that we got a new chest of drawers - one for my brother, one for me. And this is where I chose to keep these diaries and other memorabilia away for later days. In a bid to keep these thoughts, memories and documents so safely, I locked the drawer. I remember opening the drawer regularly to read and reminisce about the stories those words weaved. 


Today, it's been years since I even opened that locked drawer. Today, those memories have been stashed away so carefully that the keys aren't to be found.

It's that one message you're waiting for in the midst of so many others that arrive, which doesn't show up. Not yesterday, not today and you know not tomorrow as well.
It's that one call you await for which is eclipsed by random airtel calls or friends whom you don't really want to talk to at that very moment. And that call never appears.
It's that one hope you harbour or have the courage to dream about that slowly fades away. And you watch it fade away.
It's that one wish you so want to come true, the one that you're fighting your gut against, the one that you know will ultimately never come true.


It's that one cycle of expectations you swear you will never become a part of, only to conform yet again.
It's that one set of emotions you keep stashed away for the "perfect day", only to bring it all out, feel vulnerable, and see them crash like the pile of precious crockery we keep inside our glass cupboards.
It's that risk you thought you'd take, the time you thought you'd be brave, only to realize how foolish you've been all along.
It's that one moment you warned yourself about, only to see you go through it again, see yourself crumble, see yourself still hold on, and see yourself lie there all alone.


It's that one message, that one call, that one hope, that one dream, that one moment, that one desire, that one emotion, that one expectation to help pick up your broken pieces off the floor that never made it. 


And never really will.

Sometimes you've got to learn the hard way and not give a fuck.


Cuz the moment you do, you've lost whatever was in sight.


And I hate never learning. Again and again and again.


Damn you.

Letter to a stranger II

Thank you.


Thank you for showing me a part of your life here.
For making me feel comfortable.
For being playful.
For being so alive and lively!
For being who you are.
For showing me who you are.
For walking my way for a short bit.


I'm not going to deny what a fantabulous time I had with you. But everything comes at a cost, as we walk away.


Stranger, come my way. 
Again.


And again.