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.
