A little drop
of many little drops
streaked red in my pain
and I see blue all around.
Now I’m begging you
please don’t let me shatter
Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.
My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.
Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-. Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)? Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.
Regardless, I was happy.
Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.
Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).
This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.
Because I’ve stopped reading.
I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.
let me wallow
in my misery
let me dive
let me die
i’ll be better off
let me be happy
once and for all.
As I write this, I’m blinded by the steady stream of tears escaping from my eyes and falling unceremoniously onto my bed sheet. The fact that I have been incapable of discovering the reason for their initiation astounds me.
Gingerly, I pick up my phone, do what every female on this planet does whilst in this situation and call a friend. By doing so I succumb to a trait tauntingly attributed to females and since I am not usually for all this sappy emotional crap, this act delivers the second surprise of the night.
Disconnected, no, not the call but I feel so. The phone, on the other hand keeps ringing.