About that

I write today, not as a backwash of boredom, but because I owe it to myself, to my words, as Plath only put too familiarly, not to let them rust and rot, of lust and thought. Penning them down before they are lost amid the deluge of the atrocious threshold of acceptance that The Almighty has so generously bestowed upon me; before they plunge into the deepest abyss of my subconscious, returning only to torment me in my dreams that I once again, blissfully, forget in a trice, unless they are spiked with images of paisley debutante actors, Alladin-isque jewels or a Lamborghini.

Strangely, the cue to wander away from gloom, entranced pretty strategically up there fails to make my mind take a predictable detour. But then again, some things are harsh to write about. When something happens to us, we write it down, either underplaying it or over-dramatizing it; exaggerating the immaterial, ignoring the essentials. At any rate, you never quite write it the way you want to. It’s poignant Chaitali, a crushing, lamentable insight that people you thought shared the same wavelength as yours, don’t. Perceiving people and letting go of expectations are like trying to find one’s reflection in pieces of broken mirror inside the water. One realizes they exist only when they see their own time-worn faces staring back at them. A moment ago, they had just been an imagery of illusion. But the instinct of holding on to the past, to the unreal, non-existing statuettes of disgruntled intentions is but puerile humane. If you linger too long, they prick you and you bleed. All of it happens in a surreal universe and you don’t feel the ache. That’s the beauty of it. You trudged dreary, hurtful paths in the past and the pain saunters still, but you fail to notice. You have accepted it and have got accustomed to it. You have lugged along the baggage for too long to notice the slack in your pace. The past doesn’t belong to you, and by extension, neither does the accoutrement it entailed. Don’t give in. Don't give up, Chaitali.