Two and a half years ago
All I had to do was put pen to paper and I would feel at ease again. I left the chaos in my head confined in notebooks, and seeking solace in them when I lose my way again. I was so proud of my writing. The only place I could be myself with no fear or judgement.
I filled several notebooks with poems, random musings and scribbles. On some pages you can even see where ink had rubbed off off my hand.
I wrote furiously, I wrote with no hesitation.
I expressed myself fully, I expressed myself excessively.
I tried writing again. Words and sentences used to form themselves, seemingly without effort. I took an hour, churning my brain for any sort of emotion. I left the cafe with an empty notebook.
I used to write till I was in an absolute mess. I cried my heart out. I messed ink up with my tears. In those moments, I felt extreme pain in my heart. In retrospect, it was probably because I had found the only place I was completely honest and understood; instead of tears induced by my depression, those were probably tears of relief.
This is an incredibly frustrating period of time. Jumbled up by a plethora of emotions and thoughts yet not being able to express them through the only outlet I know is making me even more confused. What is happening here?
I haven't lost my magic, have I?
― Woody Allen
In Plato’s Symposium, we were all said to have possessed four arms and legs with two faces and were much greater beings. After an attempt to bring the Gods down, we were split and condemned to look for our “other half” for the rest of our lives.
But is there really only one soulmate for every one of us?
The inner skeptic in me finds it hard to believe that there is only one person for everyone. What are the chances of you ever meeting your soulmate when there are billions of people worldwide?
How would you know if you have met your soulmate? Is it instant recognition the moment they walk into a room? Or is it only after some time that you’ll know that that is “the one”?
People rave about how their soulmates seem to be able to know everything that is on their minds, how they can complete their sentences, how they make them happy all the time. But after prolonged interaction with anyone, those aren’t feats at all. The depth of the connection between two people is what you make of it.
The scab that hasn't entirely been healed.
Pick on it.
Pick on it too much, now it's an open wound.
It starts smarting,
Continue digging into it with only the tip of your nails.
That white stuff
You have to claw past that.
You can't stop now--pulsating with adrenaline.
Light a cigarette
Smoke till the last drag
Put it out in my wrist
Pumping so furiously
I need to get to that
All that dark viscous liquid... The blood
The dark memories of good memories it used to hold
The last birthday
The last anniversary
The last song we sang
The last time I saw your face
The last breath I take
1. Flipping the pages of a book
2. Crescendo of music
3. The dead silence in that instant a vehicle stalls
4. Roar of restarting the engine
5. Wheels of a luggage on the road
6. Almost inaudible drizzle
8. Crisp of dried up leaves under your feet
9. Flapping of wings
10. Growls in the stomach
-1. Cutlery skidding across a glass plate
-3. Gunshot (heard it once in Paris)
-4. Popping champagne bottles
-5. Staccato in music
-6. Pronunciation of "R" in French
-8. Creak on the stairs
-9. My alarm
-10. Dragging chairs
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I could live in solitude (could I?) somewhere quiet, sit at a cafe by the roadside, sipping tea, reading English classics, watching people walk their dogs, draw in my sketchbook. Head home, stain my glass windows, do some stenciling, fill the tub with water and lie in it all day with my clothes on. Type a manuscript on an ancient typewriter, tear the pages out everytime I make a mistake, throw them on the floor, crushing them with my hands sometimes, leaving the bathroom in a mess. That would be perfect for me at this moment in time.