More than a month has passed since I wrote anything. I tried many times but was never able to finish. I think writing is an act of confidence. The confidence of believing that whatever is passing through your head is also worth penning down. I was not really that sure of myself for the past one month. For that matter, I wasn't sure even when I started writing, and I am not sure today. I guess today I am in a mood of rebellious self assertion. I want to fight my demons. So these are not words that I am writing, these are my feeble attempts at reclaiming some dignity and meaning for myself. Every word I write, every sentence I create is me, trying to give myself something to hold on to..
When did this happen? When did I start being so afraid of words? That they will somehow reveal and establish this feeling of worthlessness and waste that i barely succeed in hiding from others?
It's not as if i haven't faced disappointments before. I have. I have failed, recovered, failed again. I think I have always had this vast reservoir of hope inside me that refused to go dry, and never let me feel depressed about anything. I have always, truly believed in myself. I have always felt that I was better. Every time I failed, I told myself and readily believed the countless excuses that were always there. But I think the reason I was always happy with myself is that I have always been a thorough optimist. I liked having possibilities in my life. I truly believed that one day, I am going to have a life that will make all these petty failures, disappointments seem pointless.
But as we grow older, the possibilities start to dwindle away. One after another, your dreams start flying out of your reach. but you still keep chasing after the ones you are left with. You don't really know if the dreams you have let pass you by were the ones meant for you or the ones that are left. You want to believe that you didn't really have an option. Or did you?
Then there comes a time when it finally hits you. That you are not as special as you thought you were. You are just an ordinary person like countless others around you. That you can't wish away the imperfections of the life that you have created for yourself. That this is all there is to it and there are no more real possibilities, dreams or visions left for you. That you had been waiting in vain for some magic to happen. And that freedom will always be mocking you and keep getting away till the point that you even forget to long for it.
At times like these, you can't do anything except clinging to whatever that is good in you life, and clinging to it with such desperation and fear that it sucks out all the beauty of it. Fears and insecurities rule your life and that flimsy curtain of lies and excuses finally gives way under the weight of the ugly truth. That is when you raise your eyes to the small postcard size calenders and glossy pictures of gods tucked away carelessly in the sides of your rusted almirah and look for some assurance that things will get better. They never fail, my calenders. The lotus shaped eyes and the raised hands in blessing seem like the only thing that is keeping you alive. They don't let you stare too long at the blinding truth of the meaninglessness and worthlessness of your life. They let the tears come out and make everything hazy again. I wish they would also heal this constant pain in my chest. I wish they would make me love myself again. and the hopes that I keep repeating to myself wouldn't ring so hollow.
but that is something that I'll have to do on my own. I will have to learn to stop looking towards others for my own happiness. I will have to dig beneath this sea of despondence and find the strength inside me that I know is still there, buried somewhere. I will keep trying even in the face of this realization of the futility of it all. I will keep pushing my rock up the hill. I am not going to accept defeat. I will be happy.
Love these lines by Camus :)
“I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
When did this happen? When did I start being so afraid of words? That they will somehow reveal and establish this feeling of worthlessness and waste that i barely succeed in hiding from others?
It's not as if i haven't faced disappointments before. I have. I have failed, recovered, failed again. I think I have always had this vast reservoir of hope inside me that refused to go dry, and never let me feel depressed about anything. I have always, truly believed in myself. I have always felt that I was better. Every time I failed, I told myself and readily believed the countless excuses that were always there. But I think the reason I was always happy with myself is that I have always been a thorough optimist. I liked having possibilities in my life. I truly believed that one day, I am going to have a life that will make all these petty failures, disappointments seem pointless.
But as we grow older, the possibilities start to dwindle away. One after another, your dreams start flying out of your reach. but you still keep chasing after the ones you are left with. You don't really know if the dreams you have let pass you by were the ones meant for you or the ones that are left. You want to believe that you didn't really have an option. Or did you?
Then there comes a time when it finally hits you. That you are not as special as you thought you were. You are just an ordinary person like countless others around you. That you can't wish away the imperfections of the life that you have created for yourself. That this is all there is to it and there are no more real possibilities, dreams or visions left for you. That you had been waiting in vain for some magic to happen. And that freedom will always be mocking you and keep getting away till the point that you even forget to long for it.
At times like these, you can't do anything except clinging to whatever that is good in you life, and clinging to it with such desperation and fear that it sucks out all the beauty of it. Fears and insecurities rule your life and that flimsy curtain of lies and excuses finally gives way under the weight of the ugly truth. That is when you raise your eyes to the small postcard size calenders and glossy pictures of gods tucked away carelessly in the sides of your rusted almirah and look for some assurance that things will get better. They never fail, my calenders. The lotus shaped eyes and the raised hands in blessing seem like the only thing that is keeping you alive. They don't let you stare too long at the blinding truth of the meaninglessness and worthlessness of your life. They let the tears come out and make everything hazy again. I wish they would also heal this constant pain in my chest. I wish they would make me love myself again. and the hopes that I keep repeating to myself wouldn't ring so hollow.
but that is something that I'll have to do on my own. I will have to learn to stop looking towards others for my own happiness. I will have to dig beneath this sea of despondence and find the strength inside me that I know is still there, buried somewhere. I will keep trying even in the face of this realization of the futility of it all. I will keep pushing my rock up the hill. I am not going to accept defeat. I will be happy.
Love these lines by Camus :)
“I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
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