The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up the Heart

"So what are you thinking or feeling now?" she asked.

I sat there in the quiet boardroom, with my face in my hands. I could hear the muffled sounds of the rest of the office building going on with it's regular business things.

"I don't know," I said.

"I don't know?" she mimicked me gently.

I looked up and peeked at her, "I don't know. All I can think is the L word."

"Ooh boy," she shook her head.

"It scares me so much, how much this is affecting me. I don't know how to let go if that's what I have to do, because it is killing me right now even to consider not..." I flicked away a stray tear that found its way down my cheek.

"Do you think you should let go?" she asked.

I took a breath and considered how to phrase what I felt.

"It's like that Marie Kondo thing," I started.

"Huh? Marie Kondo?"

"You know how she has that system of purging things and keeping a minimalist, simple life..." I tried explaining. "Well it's like you consider what you have and how that thing makes you feel and if you can let it go."

She nodded at me.

"Well," I looked out the window lost in thought.

"Well that's the thing. It isn't what I may or may not have promised for tomorrow.

It's just that, when I think of him, when I am with him, when he's being whatever the hell he is even the most annoying version of himself, but when he is there with me....he sparks joy."

Expectations of Empathy

This morning at work, I was returning from a meeting and passed a colleague. As she passed, I sensed it.

She was asking someone on my team a question when I sidled up to her and waited for her to finish her query. As she turned, I simply put my arms around her. 

"Hi Nadia," I said quietly, "I think you need a hug right now."

And she just started crying. There in my arms, she held on and sobbed. 

I think it's because I know what it's like to hold in so much pain, and contain all the grief in a very tight vessel that you think you've buried deep inside that I am able to sense it so acutely and tangibly in others.

I recall recently talking to someone very important to me and we were discussing our lives, and also that thing about being empaths. I recall pondering the idea that I sometimes tell myself that I am able to absorb all the pain that is out there in the world and perhaps help mitigate the anguish and despair that is out there, if perhaps somehow, even a little bit, it makes the world we live in a better place.

I don't know. Maybe it's a way of surviving for me. I've done my share of locking out people and pushing away those who care simply from a deeply entrenched emotional claustrophobia that maybe everything that comes my way is just a way of me getting my share.

Then again, just the way I spotted Nadia throughout the day chatting with colleagues, making jokes, cackling to her own surprise, I can smile to myself to know that perhaps just by my own small gestures I can provide comfort to others and help lighten the loads they are carrying just by acknowledging that I care.

There'll always be the people who will make sure you know that they care, not by assuming you know, but by their behaviour. It's also ok to let go of the naive idea that you can ever be so important to be someone's #1. Be your own #1. 

The Chaos of Reckless Loneliness

Lately, she's stopped being alone. And yet, she finds herself lost in a starker, darker, loneliness than she's experienced in a long while.

How did she allow this door to open again? She's kept it shut, locked tight, waterproof—almost—for a very long time.. and somehow, without realizing, the door's eased its way open again.

She's put up too many guards over the years — successfully building out an empire of aloofness and detachment that's only served exceedingly well. And in the blink of an eye, somehow she's allowed it all to vanish, evaporate, in the blink of an eye.

And yet this loneliness seems the worst sort. It's addicting, calls her name in the middle of uneasy dreams, whispering into her ear whilst she's otherwise occupied. She's constantly seeking it out. It's a strange ache: she's catapulted head over heels into a black hole of chaos. She's not sure if its killing her or she's only revived.

And yet, despite it all, she's always been one to jump into the deep end, launch herself into the air without a parachute ... so maybe this time, despite the agony, despite the reckless hope — perhaps, she'll finally fly.

Crossroads

I woke up today with a dull, but intimately familiar, sense of melancholy. I am feeling the twinge, that effervescent strumming of heartstrings that resound in a song of hope yet with an underlying whisper of torment.

I find myself once again at a crossroads, or rather, in one of my favourite spaces: a state of liminality. I've broken free of the cage that has held me from fully stretching my wings to its utmost to truly soar. And still there is something that makes me hesitate; for I have flown beyond expectations and broken ceilings...nevertheless, I still find myself as guarded as ever with this strange feeling that's so familiar and yet so different in the best of ways.

I've wished that I had been able to return here - my comfort zone where I can pen my feelings and thoughts in the comfort of my words. But in the last several years, this too has been tainted with that disconcerting sense of peering eyes; watching and prying. It's a feeling that has prevented me from truly returning to writing the way I have before.

I wish, as always, that I had been able to record those moments that were less melancholic. I've put myself more into living in the moment - and in doing so, I've detached myself from dwelling. Dwelling in the form of sitting here and writing, dwelling in nostalgia, or perhaps running away from the possibility of hope. Perhaps I've been running from myself even whilst saying that I've focused on the now, at the cost of sacrificing the one vehicle that has always been my sanctuary. It's now the stirring in the air, coupled with this strange stirring that I find within that's yet again spurring me to write.

I recognize that I am now on a threshold. I'm trying to pace myself in enjoying things at a slower pace even while experience a crazy rush of strange emotions coming at me all at once. It's driving me crazy but I think it's safe to say that underneath it all I am enjoying every moment of it.

Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris

We love to be miserable. Not really: we actually tell each other, and ourselves, it's miserable being miserable, but that's the point: we're only adding to that state of what we love.

Misery, melancholy, sadness, tragedy - why is it so much more meaningful to us to be within these states of minds, as opposed to being happy or fine or just in a good mood? The latter are so much more transient and we acknowledge that they aren't likely to last before the former comes back. And yet, it is our self-professed ambition to achieve the latter.

But really, we kinda revel in being miserable. It's a channel of its own where we can express whatever negative energies in an act that is actually an expenditure. Through the act of synthesizing these energies we achieve paradise through catharsis.

If we don't have this up and down motion, we don't feel like we're moving. The dynamics of emotion remind us that we are alive.

Sorrows of Stagnation

I dread that sensation of waking up with that deeply rooted sense of dread. And it usually happens when the days have settled into mundane routine. When the new things have lost their shine and the permeated odour of freshness has become stale.

Things have sucked for a long time, and as you can probably tell, I refuse to let them remain so. I mean, things can suck in context, but I am determined to let my perception similarly cloud and distort. If things aren't new, maybe I just gotta infuse that newness into the day myself. Even if I have to kickbox it in.

Peripeteia

Yesterday I had a conversation with one of my oldest friends that lasted way into the early hours - way past my usual bedtime anyway.

This is one of my friends who fall into that special category wherein you can not talk/communicate for a lengthy period of time and yet when you do connect, there are no hangups - no recriminations about why didn't you stay in touch, I won't talk to you if you don't, etc. - and it's as if that long period of radio silence had never existed.

Coming after my last post, it seems sort of like I have no idea what I'm talking about. Having no one, being nobody vs. having these kind of friends who know that there is absolutely no chance of being taken for granted, either way of the relationship. But strangely, it's all the same. 

One topic we went over was the corroded mental states we both were experiencing; both similarly disparaged and yet both on two different sides of a coin. One, the state of perpetual loneliness and the aching void that remains yet unfulfilled despite the growing residual feeling of yearning. The other, the agonies of being in a relationship that seems to be fracturing with a multitude of deeply felt problems.  And somehow in the meeting of minds we realized the commonality that there is never a meadow of permanent happiness (chorus: the grass is greener...). 

Happiness is so fleeting. And it is thus because we have made it so. Fleeting indicates the passage of time. And in this day and age everything is so temporally dependent. Time is money etc., etc. But what if we had the ability to live forever? We wouldn't have this embedded calendar of time ticking away, of the grains of sand depleting, of racing to accomplish x number of things by x units of time. Perhaps we would have no need for happiness; contentment would be king. (Or queen, if you prefer.)

If I lived forever, I would know that I had a tomorrow. I would have a tomorrow to wait for if today it could not happen. I could wait for love forever, because there would be no ending in loneliness. And I would have no end of patience. And patience is that which we all need a whole whopping load of.

I can feel my heartbeat slow down, my very breaths calm at the very thought of taking things slowly, at the idea of a forever forever. And yet, why can't I apply the ideal to our specimen of mortality?

Why am I building up these walls of bricks made of instances of time, effectively barricading myself into a cube of claustrophobia? Why am I resenting everything around me with my own conceived and self-constructed perceptions? I don't know. It is like shooting myself in the foot. Then shooting myself in the foot. Then shooting myself in the foot. And blaming everything else that brought me to that moment; without realizing maybe there is something I can be doing differently.  

Again, I don't know. But I've promised myself to put my energies into something productive, and not let them fester and become infected. Maybe if I think hard enough I will discover the way to foreverhood.

Elusive

Those who know me will recognize that I can tend to be elusive - a ghost - for the very purpose of not being known.

There are periods, therefore, where I will be less communicative; I will less likely be around. My absence can indicate some sort of cognitive clouding, a pulling away from opportunities to express what is on my mind, a retraction into myself due to some person disassociation.

Yes, it is true. I, like most people perhaps, attempt to hide my sadness. Whereas I have long dreamt and wished for the fulfillment of having another being to completely satisfy an innate yearning of empathy and compassion, I have simultaneously refrained from opening up as a form of self-preservation.

In the instances where I have mistakenly believed that I had found such a person, my tendency toward self-preservation had been further strengthened by the act of disillusionment; broken trust, a broken heart, the irreparable damage of being left behind, and perhaps somehow worse, the cold apathy experienced in a state of emotional vulnerability.

It is interesting to consider how more generally inclined our psyches are to holding compassion, patience and kindness toward those visibly impaired, whether it be psychological or physical disability. Anecdotal evidence rather proves this. However, why is it that when another being, not so as aforesaid disabled, experiences sorrow, suffering, and general weakness of spirit and mind, our threshold to compassion is so different. The latter soon becomes an emotional liability; to put it simply, putting up with their suffering becomes a pain in the ass.

I am as guilty of this as the next person. I will have been found to have sighed in exasperation and said, 'Get over it, already!' You know you have. But where is the line? That which differentiates a petty bout of complaints versus a long-standing promise to be there, no matter what?

For said reason maybe I hesitate at being that burden. The funny thing is, I have a chronic psychological phobia of being left behind by someone I have invested emotionally in -left behind not just in the physical act, but being displaced cognitively - and yet once I have opened up, that's it, that person's capacity to deal with this not-so-strong, not-so-independent girl evaporates. Catch-22, in a way.

The list of these experiences is longer than anyone could ever know, longer than could be known by even the one person in whom I placed everything, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, personally, on the basis that finally I found the elusive soulmate.

But maybe it's not just elusive. Maybe it just does not exist.

Right now I am broken and still breaking. And I admit this, the girl who would rather die before admit this. But I am already a ghost - unseen, unattended, invisible- after all. 

Questions

What is it about these changing phases that makes them so more loved? The way it blows hot and cold, this way and that, pulling us to and fro; variations making us...feel.

I have not had time to let myself think. Or rather, I have had the time, but less of the inclination. Or, well, to be honest, I am not even sure about what really has happened. I simply got lost in the pull and sway of routine, and while I longed for something to save me from it, I don't think I really made an effort. I let myself get lost.

But something has snagged inside me, and once again, I don't really know what it is. I let a whole summer go by unaccounted for, and that only heightens the irony since it is that heat and respective sense of relaxation that is supposed to go along with that season that should have let me fly loose. But it didn't happen. I cannot really tell you now what happened these months past; just trying to remember makes me feel like I had lost my memory and it's all been blocked.

It could be frustrating, but somehow I'm not letting it be that big a deal. So much more has happened, inside and out, that really sets perspective in its place. Rippling tides that have increasingly tugged me underneath and made me feel like I was drowning and only thing left was to survive, all other luxuries - writing - be damned.

It hasn't been anyone's fault but mine. I realize that I have become a different person; or rather I have let myself become a person that has always been me, only that it was not previously provided the circumstances and environment that would have allowed it to exist in its own right. Yesterday I was thinking how I used to be this buoyant bubble of hyperactivity and mirth, always giddy, always jokey, always 'that crazy, happy girl', and the inside scoop was all the while I was that girl, I was actually someone deeper inside, sad and lonely and craving for something more, and therefore all that buoyancy was somehow my defensive mechanism. It still is. But now, somehow, I have let my guard down and become this quieter and much more soulful person. And as I was thinking all this, I realized I also didn't like this much more honest person, because even while it was honest, it felt wrong.

At an intersection of myself, where the hyper met the depressed, I remember this was where the appreciation of who I was at a height. Meaning, somehow when I let it slip that, when people had figured me for this lighthearted ball of joy, I had hidden depths, somehow they appreciated who I was even more. One one hand, this was gratifying, but then again it also grated and was annoying because they had made assumptions. But then again, we all make assumptions, and I believe we make more assumptions about ourselves than anyone else, which is why we end up lost.

Sometimes the hardest thing is to figure out who we are. And either we face it heads on and try out mightiest to solve this universal problem before we kick the bucket and it's no longer a problem, or we just don't care. But to truly not care means we don't give a damn what anyone thinks, that we perhaps lose out in developing who we are, perhaps become hostile and anti-social, or amoral. It is the act of caring who we are with respect to who we are in the presence of others that keeps us who we are.  And to understand this underlying concept, we really actually need to take a moment to really think it through; just as we sometimes need to take a breath, or a step back, and consider who it is we wish to be.

So the next question is this: is the act of filtering ourselves for how we act, for what we say, somehow dishonest to the idea of just being yourself? That is where, if we are not careful, we may fall over the edge and get lost, especially if you spend too much time trying to answer this.

I have pulled away from 'interacting' in these past months. Like I have said, I don't really know why. I think it was so that I could find myself. I had things to deal with and the top of the list was nurturing the relationship that was most important. Time was in limited supply, so I figured that I would devote the time available toward this one thing, but then it was the very act of constantly keeping watch over how little time there was that somehow corroded the time itself.  Because you are ever more aware to how little there is, and if you are not careful, you find yourself wanting more, and more, and more when there is no more forthcoming. And the reaction to not receiving, and continuously wanting is not healthy. It eats you from the inside out.

Things which remain constant somehow lose their appeal. Perhaps this is why we allow ourselves to slip a little bit, and sometimes a lot, allowing ourselves to become splattered by mud as we trod onward on our journey, allowing ourselves to dip into a pool of misery or turmoil, because it adds some spice or flavour to an otherwise bland pool of sunshine.

So why is it that we internalize these changes, why the dynamic of movement from hot to cold, from up to down, from left to right, from dark to light, make us feel so much more alive? It's a question I have answered so many times and I am always still left asking it.

Endorphins

Ah those good ol' hormones. Can't live with em, can't live without them. Well, certainly - and literally- the latter, anyways.

We often associate hormones with two phenomenons, generally. First, that of our time of puberty, when we're suddenly awakening to an enhanced realization of our physicality, and moreover, the physicality of the other gender, and its effect upon us. Secondly, and unfortunately, hormones are often generalized and associated with the unforgiving period of err, ..yes pun intended. PMS.

But then again, that's not just it right? Obviously not the case, because our every moment is a flux of hormones running about our body, up and down and around and around. Every single stimulation that occurs, each reaction, that's it right there, hormones at work.

Having been a medical biology student, this was stuff of immense interest to me. Not purely in the studious way either, but the magical way these organic compounds within us seemed to make meaning of how we function and more importantly...why. Once I mastered the basics it was easier to come to terms with those spells of moods and feelings by knowing what was behind it.

Along the way came the relief in realizing that my strange inclination to become teary quite easily was also perfectly explained. Crying was not a weakness, but in fact a normal biological reaction wherein external stimuli which threatened our emotional well-being, or tipped that balance one way or the other (because, afterall, we can cry in happiness too), incited the production of emotional tears, and in so doing, stimulating the release of endorphins into our bloodstreams.

Endorphins? Yep, those feel-good hormones. You may be familiar with that rush of exhiliration that comes with a good dose of exercise, or emotional connectivity with another special person (i.e. love) or...physical connectivity. The chemical composition of endorphins are very similar to opiates...so forget having a joint of heroin or popping them codeine pills...whenever you need a mood boost, all you gotta do is exercise, or fall in love, or err make love. Or cry.

Rejoice

I almost let the day slip by without attempting to put it down in record; almost. But today being the most beautiful day so far in 2014, I can't do that, now can I?

It never ceases to amaze me how attuned I am with nature. The day seems to take me under my arms and throw up upward and I rise, and rise and rise, with the gorgeousness around me. Yes, this is definitely Spring.

And it's March! Well, the end of March technically. I realize I had psychologically locked my mind toward experiencing this rapture of springtime in May - my favourite month.  When the warmth is really and truly in place, when the unpredictability of the weather has been tamed down, so much that it can be said to be tamed.

And I don't know. I have felt unhinged. Just as unpredictable the weather has been these days - sun, rain, snow, high winds, no wind - it seems that's also been reflective of who and how I have been. Some days I am down in the murky depressing world, and the very next, I seem to suck it all in, and give the optimistic route another try. I seem to portray the typical girl with mood-swings, but it isn't that. Is it ever?

 So it's hard to understand women, I hear. Hell, it is hard to understand anyone or anything really, if you try hard enough. Can you understand the weather? Blows hot, blows cold. We observe patterns in wind movement, we recognize hormonal patterns.

But hey, I'm not saying it's all about PMSing. This certainly isn't. I mean, not all this hectic candidness about how I'm fluctuating my moods - don't get me wrong. I'm just saying it's the season of change, and somehow it seems to internalize also.

Does this mean that if I lived in a climate that was more stable and constant, I would be so also? I don't know. Maybe I should experiment and try it out. But I can't help but admit something. Despite the months of cold blustery winters, or the weeks of musty, dreary rain, or the reddened noses, or the sweltering heat waves and humidity - I love it all. I love where I live because of the vastness of it's climate canvas. It goes all over the place, and is so vibrantly, emphatically, colourful. There is just so much that we get to experience, and yes, I love it.

Similarly, even when I get down in the dumps and break up with hope, when I torment myself with negativity, and then get over it, feeling really stupid about it all, even when I get really excited about the smallest things and go hyper-bananas-crazy and then come back down to earth wondering what the hell's wrong with me - despite it all, I love it. I love the million trillion gazillion shades of me.

Seena Pada

aaj main jism nahin aaj main parchhaayi hoon
har jagah bhir ka sailaab tere chaaron taraf
main apne aap mein simti hui tanhaayi hoon

What's My Point?

For as long as I can remember, 'a sense of humour' was the criteria I checked off in the answer to the question "What do you want most in your significant other".

The question is a bit ludicrous in itself since it requires the dismissal of all other traits in favour of your choice. But a much younger me had no problem - I was always so sure of my requirement - because I was (am) a person who survives on humour.

But then in another phase, when I was much older - and more subdued by life itself - I found myself questioning this choice. I would ask around among friends and colleagues to see what their choices were and why; an open-ended question where they could choose whichever trait it was they most wanted in their significant other. This was a time when I was thoroughly in my 'one day' waiting phase and was very much immersed with thoughtfulness and daydreams about this 'one day' and 'prince charming'.

Somewhere down the line, I started considering 'understanding' over 'sense of humour'. But it was tough to let go of the hope that one day my prince charming would be the one to make me laugh like no other. I'd chosen 'sense of humour' for as long as I could remember most likely because for once I'd have loved to be the one being made to laugh, instead of making others laugh.

But what these questionnaires never teach us is the fact that despite all the wants and requirements we would want in our significant other, it's never so simple when it happens.

Lately, I have been down in the dumps with respect to 'communication'. Or the lack therof. I have been feeling way too depressed with feeling that the things I say aren't important. And it isn't just that. I guess I need communication. I need the bond built with words - however mundane or trivial - the communication, the sharing, is a bond as intimate as any other. And when it's breaking down...I just don't know. I feel lost.

Maybe my seeking these things, sense of humour, understanding, appreciation, communication all stem from a lifetime of never having them.

I have always been made to feel that when I say something no one really listens, or that what I've said just goes unnoticed or unremarked. Or the things I say aren't deemed noteworthy because I was the one who voiced it. Or I feel this cold impatience from the other person. I've spent most of my life feeling like a ghost or a shadow. And I suppose, that is why I've ended up writing to express myself. A symptom of loneliness.


So here I am again: writing.

Snow All Winter

I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?”

― Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler's Wife

Luxury

Emotional isolation is usually conducive to the optimization of creativity. Experience, at least, indicates this is so. I have always found a natural rapport with my creativity through the inevitable sense of loneliness that has always accompanied me wherever I went. Wherever I go. Even in the closest intimacies of friendship and love, in companionship with those closest to heart, it accompanies me. Perhaps this might be concerning, and definitely would be to one more practically and logically inclined, but to my own mind - inexplicably emotional and sensitive - this is only natural.

Duality has always existed; black, white, dark, light, good, bad. It exists as existence itself. To be, therefore somehow only balances this immeasurable sense of loneliness. Maybe, therefore, it exists for each and everyone  of us, but as each individual is as unique as its DNA, our own capacity to recognize it varies on millions upon millions of frequencies.

I have always seemed to find a mutual and comfortable rapport with those similar in emotional-frequency to myself - which after having been said, seems already an obvious observation. But I do: I feel at home with those who also recognize and bear witness to their solitary dependency on feeling. I hesitated there to label the sentiment and restrict it to that label; that feeling is melancholy, even sadness, but it is not only that. The poignant place within oneself where words clash with emotions and churn out beautiful masterpieces on one end of its spectrum, or equally nullify themselves into a white noise of a blank canvas of silence.

Labeling to maintain order sometimes makes things more confusing. This post, for example, would naturally be posted in my "Prose" blog at Lucid Iridescence, for all the emotional sentiments shared herein, but for some reason, I am not posting it there. This post was initiated by a intention to explain myself - perhaps once again, and maybe at the risk of becoming a tedious repetitive bore - and my inability to write the way I have been used to. Oh, I know that I don't need to explain a thing, but for some reason I do.

Maybe it is only to myself, afterall that I seek explanation. January has seemed to come in its own stead a whiteness and coldness that has isolated us all within the warm cocoons of our own being. I miss a lot of people, and yet, somehow I do not. Because I accept that we are all in our own places and that this too will pass. But I do miss them. I miss you. If it has been understood, perhaps I feel a need to have it said regardless. Friendship is that which I have always maintained as important, crucial. And when you make some which are deep and resonate beyond normal frequencies of superficiality, sometimes it is often as if we have merged as one and consequently become incomplete without that strong resonance coming down the string of our instrument.

As an empath, I've always felt the being of others very profoundly. It has allowed me to understand and absorb the aura of that person within me, and to learn to be another person through that connection. This is a phenomenon that is almost indefinable because it involves letting go of words and descriptions, because they only form barriers and restrictions, and to open oneself up to actually being. 

Like my prior post which entails the conversion of "ME" to "WE", I have found myself observing a number of abstract ideas all superimposing: in one way, maybe we have all been submerged under the waters of recovery; under water we do not dare open our mouths to speak for we shall drown. Our silences could be our time for 'me'. And yet, it has been noted, we have also been quite much more busier with the practical aspect of life, and consequently had less time to devote to 'me'. Even as I have been loitering around on my own blog, and those of others, I had undergone a phase of not wanting to actually 'talk' - I felt an inexplicable resistance to comment, or respond to comments. In sorting out cause and effect, I am not entirely sure which came first. Was it because I had grown used to being silent because of being too busy 'with life' that I was more reluctant to communicate more? Or was it because of something deeper within, which had triggered a phase of radio silence and only prolonged more through the excuse of being busy?

Another blogger recently wrote a post that put to words another of my thoughts: the disparity in walking in another person's shoes vs. still not being able to be able to see life through their eyes and mind. This blogger is one of the few persons who this entire post is somewhat dedicated to. This blogger has made an effort recently to write more often, and interestingly, though no longer surprisingly, the thoughts which have been expressed have been mirroring my own. Another blogger, impressively, has been writing (obviously) undeterred, and the theme and sentiments which always pour forth from this blogger's mind and heart have always soothed my own because of how easy it is for me to slip into that same melancholic place.

I somehow stumbled on a quote a few days back that said something with regards to melancholy (one of my favourite words), by one of my favourite authors. And I find it again for my reader's sake:

"..Melancholy - that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries . . .” -- Charles Dickens

For, despite it being a torrential affair that could involve a plethora of negative connotations, it is a beautiful luxury. I firmly assert that it is this state wherein some of the most beautiful creations are born. 

Maybe, we are given the opportunity to rail away at what we do not like or want just for the realization what exactly it is that we do like, what we want. If we were always appeased and content, we would not know better. 

I want to be able to write again, and I want to because I know I have done so and done it well in the past. But then I have to remind myself, that most often in the past writing has been my sole companion; it is because of my loneliness that most of my best writing has occurred. Once, in longing for that one soulmate to be able to share and tell everything to, I turned instead to the pen and paper, and put words down to keep my memories intact. Now, I am at a loss for things to write, but again, this is because what I wanted most has happened. Brings to mind that classic warning: be careful what you wish for. Because I got it, I guess...and yet I shouldn't be railing against this fate, because it is the best thing life's given me. 

In duality again, perhaps one passion could be viewed to oppose another, one as a substitution for another. But why, exactly does this have to be that way? It doesn't. That's all.

Torment

Most of us chase after unrelenting angst simply because that perpetual dynamic of perpetual torment gives us reason to feel, reason to be.Our state of mind also follows Newton's Laws. It's not always the physicality that defines physics.  Often we refuse to let go simply because we fear and dread lapsing into a state of inertia wherein we cease to exist. Torment becomes our confidante and companion, validating our existence by its fuel of desire, and lack of fulfillment, & therefore purpose.

(In the style of Monsieur LaBeouf, this post has been plagiarized 

from myself)

Strong of Heart

Hardship is nature's way of weeding out the faint of heart.

Quite frequently, with the spreading of death and destruction across our world, the question arises: how, if there exists a merciful almighty power of any kind, could such calamity be allowed to happen?

Logic often supersedes emotion, in fact, in its quintessential acts independently. The laws of evolution as they have been permitted to be known in generalization often emphasize upon the fundamental, 'survival of the fittest'.

The greater power, if so exists, may be not more than a scientist that dabbles in a hobby, or perhaps even a passion, for art - for the beauty encountered in much of our daily life is such that we cannot but help remark upon it. But scientist he most assuredly is, for if he has created anything, it would be the laws which govern our world, physically, metaphysically, and perhaps metaphorically - and otherwise.

He is the programmer, writing code which easily loop, executes, and performs conditional if and then commands. If it goes up, then it must come down. If it is born, then it must die. And that is where it comes in: the balance of life.

For the perpetuation of this species relies on the fundamentals of survival; the fit are defined as those who survive, and yet the condition to survive is to be fit. Therein exist conditions which test the population in ceaseless and incessant scenarios, so seemingly randomized yet so profound - and rare and therefore unprepared for - that understanding is often beyond our capacity, let alone acceptance.

For we are governed by hormones, the chemicals programmed to induce reaction, responsiveness, to perform this way dependent on stimuli. We are markedly made human by our ability to feel, emote, to communicate our sentience with a modicum of intelligence and emotion.

Logic then dictates that external stimuli of negative connotation, or perceived as such by our developed humanity, induces hormonal conditions to set in motion corresponding emotions: despair, disappointment, anger, despondence, remorse, resignation, fear, etc. These are such that can, in excess, tip the balance upon which our threshold for survival rests. It gives opportunity for us to reliquish our hold on our own health and well being; for us to be that much less careless about our safety; it means we are the weak -- and the weak are weeded out.

So keep in mind, when next you're sad, or struggling through hardship, wondering why. It's the test, the game, the way of life; hang tough, fight on, be strong. Survive.

Mnemophrenetic

I hoard memories. It seems to be an Achilles' heel of mine; I don’t let go. Or rather, there are things I generally am able to 'let go' of, in the way the phrase itself lends itself to every other philosophical doctrine we encounter with regards to life itself. But I do admit, I’ve got a thing for memories.

Usually, the reason is that I love being able to go back and relive the actual moment. Tangibly, this entails saving snippets of conversations in writing, or memorializing emails and suchlike. The reader may be familiar with my subset blog “Golden Memories” where I do exactly that. This blog is a resurrection of another thread I used to maintain where I recorded almost everything and anything that, for the most part, made me laugh.

And one may rightly observe that that’s not such a bad thing. It’s a lovely sentiment to be able to keep such memories. But there’s the flip side of the coin – the happenstance of coming across memories that unearth the negative memories. Those ghosts of the past which haunt us consciously and, quite usually, subconsciously.

The natural inclination then, is to wonder why even keep such things. I have no answer for that, simply because my own common sense tells me – flashing in neon lights – Delete! Delete! Delete! However it’s quite much more complicated, when one realizes that even innocuous memorabilia that seem to be beautiful snippets of good times can be connecting dots to an equally bad set of times. In fact, the contrast can be quite stark and harrowing.

Sometimes a good moment is couched in between or in the midst of the worst times… and even when one goes into that phase of reminiscence, when the emotions start flowing as you relive those moments, sometimes neighbouring emotions from those times return, unannounced.

And then you have those bittersweet moments, when something you preserved or something that simply brings back moments that, at the time, were absolutely memory-worthy – hilarious moments with friends, inside jokes that had you holding your tummy with tears of mirth running down your face – those memories that only stay in that haunted past simply because today the truth is so far away from it, so much has changed.

Those achingly poignant memories that make you sigh or smile wryly, or even bring tears to your eyes. And yet, we continue to move onward, losing and gaining, and changing. Everytime we form those bonds that make you think that 50 years later, you’ll definitely want to come back and revisit these moments, so of course, why not preserve them for posterity (for of course, if we are going onward our memories are inevitably going to go through that infamous pattern of eroding).

Forgive me if I sound morbid, but this same train of thought, or rather not simply the thoughts but the truth of experience that upholds the very thought, has often made me resist the phenomenon of forming new bonds. I have had phases where I decided that I couldn’t bear the pangs of again looking back at friendships that had deteriorated, and therefore wouldn’t fall into the trap again.

I’m not in that phase right now, neither am I in the opposite side of jumping at any opportunity to make friends. I guess I can say I am in a comfortable position of having garnered some wisdom through all these years by nursing the drink of moderation.

The last few days, yes, I’ve been overwhelmed by going through old memories. Some made me feel absolutely grateful for life itself, some which despite that gratitude, still managed to reduce me to sobs, simply because of how deeply evocative they were, and still are. Some memories are just that way, firmly entrenched in the way you feel and think today. Nevertheless, despite my tears and despite the embittered tinge of loss over time, I’m still able to recognize something. And that something is that, incredibly, in today itself, there do stand a handful of people who have traversed that spacetime from memory to reality. That despite whatever upheavals, or how much other people have come and gone, however far we’ve become or less we’ve been able to keep in touch, they still exist.

And to exist, I don’t only mean they live. To exist is an attribute of personal perspective; they exist in my mental space, and more so in my emotional space. They are special. And I guess, that’s the whole point. I mean, you cannot expect to grab a whole handful of sand and expect to keep hold of every grain, right?


Likewise, it’s not just the special people who I cherish today, but the special memories. Achilles heel and all. Sometimes you’ve just got to know when to let go, to truly accept , some grains are better off gone with the wind.

Perpetuity

In the turmoil of sleep - five million images, emotions and voices clashing - struggling to reach the surface of consciousness, comes the warm tractor of whiskers, nuzzling, sniffing. The amazing feeling of love that bounds the connecting forces between us in that moment instills such deep profundity that can only spell out healing. To be remembered, to be wanted, to be needed. To open an eye groggily and meet that yellow green slit peering curiously back, and in meeting, she proffers her pink nose forward to meet my own nose.

The compassion of my kitten in the last few days works wonders in my slow recovery. Those who might doubt that a cat could not experience such sentiments would need to know that, while yes, it is usual for her to be rather selfish: demanding pampering, endless fighting to escape the embracing arms of human -- she has negated these actions for that of affection. Endlessly her little snout has presented itself to be loved, and in so doing, providing her own love.

And in being needed, there arises that deeply entrenched proclivity of human nature: to mother. The state of parenthood  -- and here I pause for she sits beside me talking away to me in her own language, something she has been doing these several days -- is something which beckons in us this inexplicable sense of purpose.

Mortality is the theme that has invaded my mind in these last days. To try to explain so many ruminations about it, I am at a severe loss. But to pass on, and have no new blood behind - lacking a state of parenthood - and have an entire family line just disappear, that is something that occurred to me quite starkly one day. In the midst of all generations coming together to witness that loss, one looks around and thinks, where do we go from here? Where do we continue on from? Who will be us when we are all ashes and dust, when we have embraced the spectre of death, in generations ahead - will we be none?

Today

Lately, I feel that I don't have the patience....or ability to write something. Not exactly the ability itself, but rather I really don't know what to say. I've had this roiling feeling inside me, a confluence of so many emotions that I'm beside myself with an inability to comprehend it, nevermind explain in words what it is I am thinking or feeling.

Somehow I'm here now though. Because writing always was my companion to express even when I was not able to understand. What I write may or may not make sense, but I will write for the sake of attempting to let out what seems to be brimming over.

I feel like a sad faced emoticon. One that just stands for a whole plethora of emotions and one that, in being a picture, doesn't need to be defined in words, because I don't know if that is sadness, or something else. I cannot explain what it is that I feel because I really don't know where it stems from. But that's how I feel. I have that pressure within that feels like it must burst out, perhaps in the form of tears. But I don't want to cry. I don't want to cry for a reason I do not know.

I visited an old memory today. An old dream. It's hard to explain how vulnerable a feeling it is, trying to share an old dream that perhaps you've never let go of, because it belonged to you in the past, and that past you is still who you are now, or what has made you who you are now. It's difficult to explain the sentiment of how important that dream was at one time to anyone else who is outside of it. To have it viewed and critiqued, or worse, not understood. But lately, I've had these old memories clogging up the drain of my mind.

I do not know if there is a distinction between these memories and dreams. I do not know if it's just the one or the other that's pulling me this way and that. It's a feeling of simple loss. Bereavement. To know that you have already buried and held funeral rites for that handful of dreams that have never made it to life. But that is after all the case with dreams more often than not, so why should I be so bothered now at the realization?

Yesterday I encountered a thought from something I was watching: "to have a soul means suffering". I wonder if it is this suffering that makes us feel vindicated in our existence. Why Devdas prolonged his pain, why every person who ever loved without reciprocation felt their love was ever more deep and longer lasting than those who have found love returned and have then forgotten or cast away the romanticism of that love, simply because they have gained it and are not suffering in longing.

But  I am not one suffering in longing, or rather not in that context. I am missing something that has never tangibly existed. It is akin to pulling together two loci far apart on the string of time....and witnessing the dissonance. That's what I feel, dissonance. An alienation of myself from myself. A whole shoebox filled with scraps of memories stored on the top shelf of an old closet.

It is easy to disassociate oneself by leaving it all behind. But perhaps it becomes harder when you come face to face with another vessel bearing these memories afresh. What happens when you go back to the question of 'do you remember when...?' and it all comes flooding back without warning.

What is it that comes flooding back, though? In snatches they come to me. Memory of strongest attachments falling apart. Memory of happy dreams of a future yet to be filled in. Memory of a conviction that we were young therefore the good was yet to come. A haunting recollection superimposed with images of today - recognizing patterns that should teach us survival.

I do not know what it is that is aching within. Both foreboding and lament. But that is for tomorrow and yesterday. Why should these ghosts clash and upset me today?