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
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.