Pursuit of a Reminder

I want to record every moment in my day, in my life. I want to make a note of it so I remember what it was before it isn’t anymore. It isn’t a new habit, it is one forged after years and years of repetition.

But you don’t expect to lose it. You don’t expect a wave to wash through your home and erase all the reminders you saved. I am slowly forgetting what I looked like as a kid, as struggle to remember my lost journals and photo albums destroyed by disasters of life. Wind, water and fire. Now when I write or draw on a piece of paper, I feel a faint sting. Why the effort when I might lose it tomorrow. Someone else would be raping my belongings, not knowing how much love went into collecting those pieces of me.

So whatever I do now, I take a picture from my phone and lock it in the clouds. I go to the library and give them back the books I borrow, no longer wanting to buy, own and keep.

It is a beautiful, bittersweet feeling of disconnect.

Photo by Izzy Gerosa on Unsplash

750 characters


I woke up around 4:30 in the morning because I accidentally heard my friend’s message while in the bathroom and had to respond. The response took some thinking, and my brain woke up. As I was recording a message to her, my husband woke up as well. He always smiles when he looks at me. Even if he’s half asleep, dead tired after a long day. And it always makes my heart flutter. So we spent the morning talking and joking about the funniest, sweetest things until it got late and he had to go to work. I dozed off a little as he tip-toed around the room in dim light, getting ready and trying not to make any noise.

Today I am off from everywhere. I spent most of my week running around the city and needed a day desperately to myself, so I could get my house in order and work on some important projects. I took a multivitamin, made myself some breakfast, and was about to make a list of things I needed to do when I thought of visiting my blog again. I need to practice my writing as this current project requires some creativity. I can always start a new blog, work on my Medium page or use one of the hundred thousand platforms available for writing and journaling…but WordPress..will always remain special. And it will always call me back. Stats don’t matter now, if they ever did. 

I am going to start with making the bed, then doing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen. Then imma dust around, mop the floors, and fold some laundry. I will then water my beautiful plants and arrange them properly for the sun. When this is over, I will plop myself on the sofa and work on my projects- one being my application due tomorrow. 

The portion I am stuck at is ‘What past experiences impacted your journey leading to your medical career’. The answer needs to be in 750 characters. What to say and what to leave out? What constitutes an impaction? Who will I be blaming in these 750 characters? How much of it will I be shouldering, and how much will be plain finger-pointing? Maybe I am thinking too much into it. Maybe, I will be done in less than 750 characters if I say:

I did things that weren’t expected of me. I was supposed to obey, prostrate and sell my soul to a world of men run by women. My career was supposed to be a commodity meant to get the highest bidder. Instead, I chose to live my own life as I saw fit and cut cords with everyone who was fashioning a noose with the bonds I had with them. And I found happiness, love, and respect from the most unexpected of places. It was all my choice and I am proud of myself.

So…suck…on…that

Bait and Switch

I wonder if this sunshine could break me, as I lift my head and let it warm my face. The rays seem to hit a thin barrier and when I touch my face I feel as if a thin layer of skin is covering an eggshell underneath. Maybe I am a painting, an abstract construct even, a child’s art project. Could this light get so strong and break my face? Would then this covering of skin stay? Or would it collapse within itself, into a crumpled heap of eyes, lips and nose? Or would it shatter too, dehydrated by the heat? Turn into dust and blow away? What would remain then. A headless anomaly seaping into the cement floor?

Will this sun do what every aspect of love and warmth has ever done to me?

Bait and switch?

Just a shout out

Here’s a lame post to tell all those assholes out there who spent a lifetime bringing me down…

Suck it, you sorry bunch of pathetic losers.

I am imagining myself flying towards my fortress in the sky, soaring up..light and un-tethered. I see myself reach there, folding my wings back, looking down upon the world dotted beneath.  This is a profound feeling that needs to be expressed, inked and tattooed.

I have spent..a lifetime trying to fit in places, with all sorts of people. I have given up countless times. Tried to tell myself that maybe I wasn’t meant to have people. High school, college, med school..it felt like the same story repeating itself. All cliche, yada yada yada. But look, all those things I wanted all my life..got handed to me in 3-6 months. I found my niche. I found my friends. I found love. I found everything I had been yearning till now. The other day I saw my old friends from med school and I wished I could stop them and tell them that no matter how long I would’ve tried, they would’ve never accepted me as their own. They tried too. I know. They tried to include me, they tried to give a damn..but our frequencies never truly matched. You can’t force someone to love you, to care for you. And I thought I’d never find it. Acceptance and love.

And I did. I am happy. I conquered my demons. And while life continues to throw fresh hell my way every other hour..I know I am complete in myself to handle them. I will find a way.

Libby, Alyssa, Florence, Margo, Hector, William and James.

I wish I could make ya’ll know..how much your company meant/means to me.

And Libby.

My love.

You are the sweetest, most beautiful being on earth.

Get married already.

Despo.

:D

Ode to the Smoothie Jar.

skydive-sunrise-man

I started writing in a journal/diary because I needed to vent. I needed to share my feelings and thoughts and I used to be a child with no friends with parents determined to let that status remain. I was afraid if I talked out loud about the tales in my head, I’d be deemed a moron and judged too harshly for writing fantasies as I grew up in a household where there was no other career imaginable but medicine and there was no concept of computers or internet or even artful hobbies. My sister gifted me a diary in grade 6 and since then I have kept one.

I started blogging for the same reason. And because I read in a quotes book something like someone who doesn’t have his writing read doesn’t write at all, something something I don’t remember it exactly (and google was no help). I totally disagree now and maybe then did too but it got stuck in my head and every time I snuck away somewhere to write I would feel it repeating again and again in my mind. And I remember when i did actually show a story I wrote to someone I valued highly…I got egg in my face. The former (quote) doesn’t bother me anymore but the latter (egg) still does.

But I won’t lie, having your work appreciated is a pretty addictive feeling.

Anyhow. Now that I have passed the peak of sharing and publicizing what I write and feel (and teenage), I have come back to the state of ‘Love thyself’ and I have never felt better in my life. The resentments have passed, emotionally I have matured, I see things better. But it has come with the penalty of exactly this:

“All your life, you have heard yourself denounced, not for your faults, but for your greatest virtues. You have been hated, not for your mistakes, but for your achievements. You have been scorned for all those qualities of character which are your highest pride. You have been called selfish for the courage of acting on your own judgment and bearing sole responsibility for your own life. You have been called arrogant for your independent mind. You have been called cruel for your unyielding integrity. You have been called anti-social for the vision that made you venture upon undiscovered roads.”– Ayn Rand

sigh.

now what does a smoothie jar have to do with it?

I’m coming to that.

I have been a naive, wide-eyed optimist. Then I went and became a bad, venomous cynic. Now I am dwindling in between with a spectacular blend of sarcasm, doubt and skepticism. But I still believe in all that is good, all that is kind and all that is beautiful. For a realist, I have an unflinching concept and hope for love and happiness.

I pet my uncle’s watchdog the other day, I have known him for 6 years. We have had a strong relationship of sitting together in summer mornings, the only time then it is cooler. I have never seen him as a pet but an acquaintance I respect. I never feed him or whistle at him. I had never pet him but yesterday I did and it felt like a torrent of affection had finally broken through the damned walls I build inside to hold them back. (Wow, that was so sickly clichéd, Imma go rinse my mouth)

Three years ago, there was big jar of mayonnaise in my aunt’s fridge. And it had been there for a couple of hundred years. I finally broke down and told her to throw the wishful monument away because NOBODY IN THIS HOUSE LIKES MAYONNAISE AND THIS IS NOT GOING TO CHANGE. And when she didn’t do that because boy, is my aunt lazy, I went to my uncle and long story short.. I got sentenced to check every medicine and condiment in the house and purge the dead and the expired. What a field day I had. I think her house looks so space-y now that I freed up an extra room and inside of a Trojan horse =D (bad joke, I know.)

I emptied the glass jar, washed it and took a couple of showers to wipe all the smell that was the almighty mayonnaise. But kept the bottle. Soaked it in essence of lilies and formaldehyde to get the label, smell and traces off (I can’t stop with these jokes, feel free to blow your brains out). For three past years, I have used it for so many things. A fairy lights lamp, pen holder etc etc. But none would fit. I would again put it way back in the cupboard (or far under my bed because I break things I can see), dissatisfied. With an internal restlessness that where to put it? What to do with it?. It just wasn’t it’s..purpose(?)..to be a jar for the doodads of my fleeting hobbies..

Until I got into making smoothies.

Have you ever felt..the Click? Like you were at the right time at the right place? Like you were holding perfection in the palm of your hand? Like a perfect pen, a perfect essay, the perfect shoes for the perfect dress, the right pose for the right picture that makes you look rightly 20 pounds lighter =D 10 multiple choice questions right in a row, right book with the right ending just as your stop comes on the bus and the perfect song for the very right situation?

That was the purpose of my jar. And I cherished it. I loved it. I cared for it. I labelled it with my name, just so I would be part of something that was so complete. Just to catch a glimpse of all that is at home with itself and what it does.

Until I left it on the counter last night.

and the maid broke it in the morning before I woke up.

My heart is dead. There is no hope. All is lie.

Fuck you.

 

 

 

I Understand Now What My Mom Meant by ‘Books will ruin your brain’

green_text_leaves_why

Sometimes I start talking and stop because a voice inside begs me to (not a ‘voice’, voice). I see the look at the other person(s) face and my tongue slips a little. That is my cue to stop talking. And then suddenly I am tired. Then I just feel like being quiet for the rest of the day.

Sometimes I hear something so absolutely ignorant and so fundamentally abhorrent that I have to speak up. And I talk until I bring the other person down and defeat them in every aspect of that horrible utterance. And then one of the following happens:

-They accept that their premise was wrong. (either truly, or just to shut me up and still save face, what is with people and saving face? If you are wrong and have been proven wrong..fess up and learn something instead of strutting around like a plucked peacock, jeez)

-They give me a ‘agree to disagree’. (the root of all my hatred)

-They successfully bring up some points that force me to reconsider. (respect)

-They give me a vague stupid twisted line which involves words like ‘Belief’ and ‘Everyone is like that’ or “This is what Life is” as if it is supposed to answer everything. Or sigh and look into the distance in a way that is supposed to be mysterious and deep as if they hold the secret of the Universe and it must not be uttered. (the Kantian spiritual mystics that will be mentioned by name in my suicide note)

-Or they attack me.

….not the topic, not the discussion, not the points…me. Instead of defending their baseless doctrine….They attack me.. pouncing at everything they can grab at. This part has always amazed me and is the most commonly observed scenario in my experience. The shouting, the frothing at the mouth, the personal remarks, the offenses taken…my God. What a spectacle. My mom does that too, although her counter arguments are ‘Because it is said so’ or ‘You are not old enough’ or ‘I am your Mother’. And then when I know that the argument is useless and stop talking….I get a whole lecture on morality and values. And the lips move and all I see is air coming out that means nothing. I can reduce it to ashes with one question but by that time..my head already feels sore and I am already bored.

Last night I was in my bed, cold and shivering, reading Rand…. I put the book down, closed my eyes and apologized to myself. I apologized for living in a delusional bubble all these years. For writing crap and believing in crap. I was sorry that I had wasted so much of my life believing the wrong things and pursuing the wrong purpose. I now have many of the answers to the questions that confused and wrecked me my entire adolescence. I am not saying they have made me ‘happier’ but they have saved me from the unnecessary torture that I wrongly..or maybe so rightly..termed ‘Sacrifice’. And to think I took pride in it. I do not blame my mother anymore, I do not have an inkling of resentment towards her or anyone else who influenced me as I was growing up. My choices. My mistakes. My faults.

But sometimes.. I want to stop them and ask…do you understand the full meaning of what you are saying? Why are you saying it if you do not understand it, if you cannot defend it the slightest? Do you understand what you are doing? Do you actually get it? Or are you copying someone who did it before you? Tell me why are you doing it? What do you want from it? What is the purpose of your existence? Do you know who you are? Did you try finding it? When? How?

…………………………………………..

 

When I was young and dumb..which was last Tuesday, I think =P I used to say that I was too ‘dead’ to love someone or be in love. And I named my lack of attraction a scar someone unnamed and unessential left me with. But I was wrong. Love is the epitome of personal values. And the reason I did not fall in love with you, you and you was not because I was frigid to your charm…it was because I was frigid to your values, your ideals and above all..your mind.

I am sorry. I should’ve known better.

emotional-intelligence

Letter of Resignation

I cannot help you.

This evening I went out to buy some yogurt. I wore my warmest socks and my coziest sweater and wrapped a nice thick scarf around my head because it was really cold outside. Had a chilly five-minute walk. I don’t have many of these left here since med school finishes soon. I went, met a few friends there. That part was nice since I hadn’t spoken to a soul all day as I was cooped up in my room begging myself to study for the finals. But, I digress.

As I came back, up those stairs and through those corridors, I found myself regretting that I had lost the ability to give a crap. If that is temporary or permanent, I have yet to find out. I cannot find it in me to care about your troubles anymore. I do not have it in me to listen to you sink into a pit of self-indulgence and blurt out a plethora of words I have heard you and so many speak before. I can see them form a cloud of smoke around you, as you get lost in them, talking talking talking… A copy of a copy of a copy. It’s beyond me to bear it any longer.

I didn’t use to be like this, though. I was one of those people who actually feed on other person’s neediness. People who thrive in a co-dependent relationship (if you call that thriving). I was the person who loved hearing the other person talk and loved to give solutions, if asked to, of course. I loved people more for their problems and imperfections than anything else.

But I have lost the ability to connect with you anymore. I do not have the stamina to sit and listen to you be…so common. I do not have the energy to apologize when I fail to meet some mighty and high standards of affection you have in your mind, those cultivated by ill written books and misunderstood classics. I have no place for the guilt you inflict, nor do I have the capability to address the gaping voids you wish someone would fill and the seeping cracks you wish someone would fix. It is impossible for me to go back there. I wish it would pain me more when I tell you: You are on your own. Yes, I might be around as I myself am on this journey like you. I will give you my water if you are thirsty, I will give you my food if you are hungry. But I will not chew it for you. I will slow down if you want to rest yourself. But I will not carry you.

I will not carry you.

The Dummy Song

songwriter_with_guitar.jpg

I am at the same point in my life when I know exactly what I wanna write about but am reluctant to do so because of the inappropriateness of the matter. That point when I know of the exact feelings and thoughts I want to let go of, but am unable to do so out of some deep seated courtesy or the sheer pettiness it would be mistaken as. I am wary to pen it down because it would be perceived as a weakness, lie or deceit. I am afraid that it would fall into some mapped pattern of my behavior and be dismissed off as a predictable tick, a pathetic cry.

I’ll take the legs from some old table
I’ll take the arms from some old chair
I’ll take the neck from some old bottle
And from a horse I’ll take the hair

I know what you’re waiting for. I know what you long to see, what you crave to hear. I know just what to say that would satisfy that itch that you would deny exists. You wanna see me fail, you wanna see me broken, you wanna see me crawl with helplessness and despair. You want misery to penetrate every aspect of my presence visible to you. Or else, you just want me to disappear. You want no trace of me connecting back to you, to remind your conscious and subconscious of the terrible mistakes you made. I remind you of the failure you are. Or the possibility of such a thing to exist. And it’s not easy to confront such a revelation. Unthinkable, even.

I’ll take the hands and face from some old clock
And baby, when I’m through
I’ll get more loving from the dum, dum, dummy
Than I ever got from you

I know it. I know every single one of you to the extent that it would shock you still. You’re so naked in front of me. Bare to the bone. Yet, I loved every single one of you with all your bends and creases. I cherished every dent in your personality, every flaw in your existence. It were those imperfections that made you so human. So beautiful, so real. Each one of you was different, had a separate unshakable place in my heart and in my life. I never put you all on the same level, but gave you all the consideration and love that had no other match. Considered you unique. One of an amazing kind.

I get more loving
From that dum, dum, dummy
Than I’ve ever gotten from you
Yeah, mama, get more loving
From a dummy than I get from you

Well. What a stinking waste of time.

 

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(Title: The Dummy Song by Louis Armstrong)

Poof…and You’re Gone

 

dissolving away

It’s a day like any other day, well not any other day..it’s a Sunday like any other Sunday. It’s raining, for summers seem to have gone on a vacation at the very last second. I am the same person, wrapped in a warm wrap I bought at a sale. Nothing seems to have changed, it never usually does.

But I am going to disappear.

It’s not something new, either. I have a tendency to evaporate every few years. What happens is, either I have too much of a rotten feeling and my mind just totally gives up. Something happens, I refuse to fall, I try again. Drag myself through mud and muck, but try again. Meet three people who screw me over, blame the first two but then the third time think that maybe it’s me. People are human too, you gotta give them a chance. Everybody has innate goodness and virtue in them. Maybe I am just that dispensable.. And try again. Meet new people..make the same mistakes; try again. Become totally dipped in and disgusted of all the clichés in the world..and bam

I give up.

There’s a limit, no? There’s a limit to give and not want to have anything in return. There’s a limit to totally forget about your ego and let a friend walk all over you the moment a chance presents itself. There’s a limit to let history repeat itself. Again, and again. and again. There’s got to be an end to all this tomfoolery, to all this brain numbing madness and annihilating ignorance. Tell me there will be an end to this.

My entire life, I grew up with a single line in my head; I am invisible. And then came many people who told me I was not, and an abominable hope got seeded in my head which led to a lifelong struggle to not be invisible.

 

But then…everybody lies.
I had forgotten that part.

 

And one talks, and talks and talks. And it is of no use. You make no real connection. You can see it in their eyes that they don’t get you. There’s that dullness I can pick up from a million miles and a part of me screams to shut up. They don’t get it. And out from ignorance, hatred is born. It is so palpable. That aura of uneasiness.

I wish I had a shred in me that cared for the world I live in, the charm my friends find in the everyday life I share with them or I wish I could care less for the life they totally exclude me from. I wish, they mattered less to me and I, a little more to them.

So here’s what I do. I melt, I vanish, I evaporate in front of my very eyes. I involute. You won’t see a difference, whatsoever. But then you don’t see me, anyhow.

What a pity, to dream of a life of dignity and be caught in an epitome of mediocre melodrama. How public, like a frog, to tell one’s name…the livelong day, to an admiring bog..

It’s just the strangest thing… I’ve seen your face somewhere

looking around in a crowd

I honestly thought I was done with blogging.
I mean…really.

I mean..you’ve got your friends on one side, then you’ve got your studies and you’ve got your little dramas and you’ve got a relationship and you’re losing weight and you don’t care about social media, you don’t have that need to connect with any more people than you do and you don’t have the inclination to be your old melancholic self anymore..it’s all tied up in a neat little bow. You have no big inspiration, you have no new thoughts to share..what little you feel you jot it down somewhere. It’s all very ‘Dear Diary..’ you are uninfluenced, unfettered, well-adjusted and happy in your favourite way. Perfect Imperfection. I could kiss karma if I found the bitch.

But then March comes

 
and
boom.