I sometimes treat you, blog, as the dump. I rage, cry, shed tears, scream, laugh, double over, shake, in short, create all the drama I can possibly create, here. It is something I have been born to do, and I will keep on doing it all my life. I am nothing but a channel sometimes, and sometimes I must be strong and defend the gates.
All parts of me.
But who am I, really?
I still am waiting for something. It is almost like I need a catalyst which is going to give me what I am looking for - However, I still do not know. The spiritual barrier that is standing between me and that other part of me is presently a threat.
Do I really write here because I want it to be read? I don't know.
I really don't know anymore.
It started off so long ago, and my entries are half-forgotten... imbecile, unfeeling, superficial little notes to delineate my existence, when that same existence is no longer my concern anymore. I live, still, from one moment to another. Sometimes, an odd refrain returns from a favorite Kishore Kumar song, a cheerful little song which no one but the man who sung it understood how painful, how sad, yet how true every word was.
manzil pe meri nazar main duniya se bekhabar beeti baaton pe dhool udata chala
Melancholia. This is perhaps one of those rare moments of maudlin when all I want to do is reach out of my shell and call out, scream out and yell that I am alive. Despite the times when I have been trampled, hurt, shamed, and worse, ignored and belittled, I have lived till now. Till today.
And I am not ashamed of even one single moment of my existence. I have lived, loved, hurt and been hurt.
But I feel that this world is closing around me. As days go by, I find myself retreating behind a cheerful mask, a face that is frozen in its own morbid clownish grin, hiding thousands of days' worth grief, anger, pain and incoherence. I trip around life with all the appearance of a cheerful, headless chicken, and I feel empty inside. As if all that I am is wrung out of me, and poured out somewhere, and I am desperately trying to look for it, from one corner of my existence to another, and failing miserably. I cannot find it.
Why I considered forgiveness a sin. I realized that I hurt like the lesser mortals whose queries I used to solve and whose thoughts I used to touch. I realized I bled, I realized I felt, I realized that ultimately this was all about me, me and me, and no one else.
Once more with feeling.
Again here it is, and I stand here. A writer creates out of misery, I created out of boredom, sadness, grief and often enough, wonder. I somehow have lost that sense of enchantment. Maybe time has eroded those wide eyed daze from my eyes and left me blinking in the light... light which is perhaps too harsh for me to handle, and so I leave for the dark.
The forest and the glades and the seas of my memories beckon me. I often think of losing myself there. I remember seeing a lot of those people I love, loved, miss, missed, need, needed in them, and I know, they are all mine to keep. Those little memories and patches of glory are mine, all mine, and no, I will not share.
It is with this spirit I wish myself adieu for now. It is time for me. A lot of times I have realized that the concept of death is both physical as well as mental. However, death to me is revival and renewal, and yes, once again, I am renewed. The mortal me is dead once again and risen from its own ashes, unforgettable and often quirky, with a new face to hide behind, and a new challenger who would try to take it down.
Dare I disturb the universe? I dare?
In the lands of my dreams, and the forests of my wanting, dare is all I have left of this game, and so I shall be.