Incomprehensible babble

It is surprising how often you forget to talk to yourself. And then, someone comes along, someone you don't know and don't care about, and they remind you of how much you miss yourself. Miss being with yourself, talking to yourself. It has been such a long while since I've been just me. Now it's always me and him, him and me. I miss myself. And I know I'm not making any sense to anyone else, but I know I'm making sense to me. And that's the best part about talking to yourself, and being with yourself. You can't get tired of yourself, and you can say whatever you like, because you will never misunderstand yourself.

Beauty and cowardice and me

I will go crazy, in the ecstasy of the knowledge. Being one with the art, feeling it. I will have to let myself go. My heart will break free and have no control on itself. It will roam the streets, naked. Not knowing anything, but looking, searching, lost in its own memories. It will look deep within itself and see a big, empty void. It will see the transience of things and wonder at man's foolishness in the belief of eternity. It will walk on the high streets and turn off the big gas lamps. It will plunge into darkness and find joy in its midst.

 
 

I have seen so little, and yet I am overwhelmed. If I let myself go, my heart will set out on a journey of its own. But it is a journey into nothingness. There is no end, except in madness. The loneliness, the silence, Death's deep, booming sound and Insanity's mad cackle of laughter. I shall drown and not be seen again. My dreams will no longer resemble reality. But oh, what is reality? Is the madness I'm descending into part of my dream? How shall I live if I let myself go? I have no courage. What of everything they have told me, the people around me?

 
 

Show me no more. I beg you. Beauty is a dangerous thing. It is like seven sharp knives. And it destroys. It takes the body and rips it apart. And then it sews the soul together, slowly, stitch by stitch, carefully. But what good is the soul if the body does not exist. I don't want to be part of this madness. I will live my crass, crude life and ignore Beauty. I am too afraid to touch it. Do not attempt to burn your torch of life into me. I am too afraid to carry it. Show me no more, tell me no more. Let me be, I beg you.

Just Life

You know how half way through your life you find out that you haven't really changed that much. That in all that you did, there was always this common thread flowing. Well, that's how being a girl pretty much felt like for me. In everything I did, everything I was told, there was always this thing underneath, that I am a girl. It made me live my life in a defensive mode. Kind of like, when you think someone's criticizing you, when they're not really, and you get all excited and jump up and down and explain your point. You end up sounding pretty stupid at the end, because they weren't really saying anything mean to you in the first place. That's how I lived my life. I thought they'd keep putting me down cuz I was a girl, so I kept doing all these 'manly' things, so that they wouldn't. So I would play with cars, while all my friends played with barbie dolls, and I would act all brave in the dark, and I said girls are stupid. And when I grew up, I made faces at girls who did all kinds of 'girly' things, like waxing and wearing skirts. Oh no, I wouldn't do such things. I was the cool one in the loose t-shirts and men's jeans who cracked perverted jokes and beat up people I didn't like. Didn't I feel proud of myself then?

But then one day it struck me. That in everything that I did, trying so hard to not be a 'girl', I was reinforcing those very stereotypes that I thought I was dead against. I seemed to be saying that being like a guy and doing 'guy' things were way cooler than being a girl. And when I realized that, everything in my life just went phut. I was suddenly nobody. And I didn't know jack about myself. It's not a great feeling being nobody. Cuz you don't know anything about yourself and you can get pulled in all kinds of directions by all kinds of people. Like me. I went from wanting to be a kick-ass lawyer and rocking the world to wanting to be an idle rich. My latest dream is to be the leader of an oh-so-cool biker gang, marry a hot sicilian mafia don and then kill him and take over his empire. We're gonna do real classy stuff - classy drugs and amo, the best ever. And we'll do like horserace and casinos. Like in the old times. And then, I'm gonna throw it all away and become the captain of a pirate ship, with my best friend as the mate, and we're gonna sail the vast oceans and rob the government of it's unjustified power, and do cool shit like that. Me and my best friend, we're gonna be together all the time. It's gonna be really awesome. I have my whole life planned out. I even got my friend to do a fake tattoo. People actually fell for it, till it smudged and then it was real embarrassing. I'm still gonna rock the world though.

Blood

A big drop falls to the ground. My wrist is covered in blood, and the sleeve that I have pulled back has turned red. The liquid keeps oozing out, and I watch, my eyes glued, fascinated. I wonder how long it'll take to drain me. I wonder if I'll faint. I admire the rich red colour, and feel proud of it. I am excited, mesmerized, lost in a world of my own. I wish I could live my life like this, watching blood. Maybe I should become a doctor when I grow up, but then I'd have to stop the patient's blood flow and I didn't want to do that. I wonder what it'd be like to become a murderer. Maybe I could slit somebody's throat; I'd seen them do it in the movies my elder brother watches. Mummy doesn't let me watch them, she says I'm too young. But I watch anyway, secretly. The blood hasn't stopped. I don't know how long it has been. Mummy comes in to call me for dinner. She screams when she sees me. I always thought she was too dramatic; must be all the serials she watches. I tell her I'm fine, but I've started feeling a bit dizzy. She shouts out to dad to get cotton immediately. She walks to me, and takes my hand to examine the cut. She looks at the hand, and then at me, confusion, worry and pain in her eyes. The last thing I remember before I faint is the smell of freshly baked cake wafting from the kitchen.

 
 

ps: I was quite obsessed with blood when I was little. The fascination hasn't quite left me, but it's been toned down. I stick to watching gory movies now. I can't explain this charm, there's something ethereal about it. I am not a violent person, and I did not end up as a murderer. Close though. I'm in law school, and have vague plans of specializing in criminology.

My Suicide

I'm moving backwards, nearing the edge of a precipice. If someone doesn't stop me soon, I will fall down and be lost forever. With every step I move, I know I'm getting closer to a sure death. But I still walk, fear in every part of my body, unable to stop myself, almost as if hypnotized. It isn't so far away now, I will soon fall. Hope has now given way to despair. Someone must come. Surely, someone will see me and stop me. I keep walking, but no one comes. Now I resign myself to my fate. I can do nothing about it, no one was going to come, and I couldn't stop myself. Anyway, this was the best way, better than the slow, torturous death I was to bear. This would be quick, at least.

There were a lot of things I wanted to do before I died. Now I couldn't. I am only a few steps from the end. I start counting all those whose lives had changed because of me. The count did not even reach all my fingers. I feel bad for those who love me; they wouldn't even find my body. I wonder when my mother would find the letter that I had so carefully hidden. Maybe she would respect my decision…or maybe she would blame herself. I curse myself for writing it now. What was the point of troubling my mom? But I can't change that now. It's done, and I hope for the best.

I reach the end; the next step will throw me headlong into the raging water below. One last time, I look at everything around me, savouring it all. I pause for a moment in doubt. But I have come this far, and must not be afraid now. I take the fatal step. I can feel myself falling, but I can't look down. I look up at the sky, covered in dark clouds, and it depresses me. I close my eyes, and I feel the calm envelope me. I seem to have been falling for an eternity. The ravine was big after all, bigger than I thought. I keep falling, it doesn't seem to end. By now I'm scared again, I thought this would be easy, but it's not.

I don't want to die anymore. I try to clutch desperately at something, but all I feel is the cold air around me. I lose my senses as I hit water with force. I am drowning but I can't even feel it. I realise what is happening, and try to escape, try to pull myself up from the water. I am a good swimmer, I am sure I could get to land. But my foot is stuck in something, and my hands are numb. I try harder, but I can see it is of no use. In one last desperate attempt, I pull myself to the surface. I look up at the sky for a minute, almost thinking that I saved myself, but a torrent of water pushes me down again.

 
 

Pasted from <file:///C:\Users\stella%20james\Documents\Personal\The%20suicide%20attempt.docx>

 
 

JUST ME

I'm here

And there's just me

No fame no pride

No great medals

No great thoughts in my mind

 
 

Just a girl

Who loves a boy

And promises to love him forever.

 
 

She won't ask you for love

because she has a lot

She won't ask you for care

Because that she's got.

 
 

She'll just ask you

To let her be with you

To hold her hand when you need to.

To lay your head against her shoulder.

To think about her when you want to know you are loved.

 
 

 
 

I wrote this on 6^th October 2008. I've been trying to complete it ever since, and have failed miserably. I guess it's just never meant to be.

Relationships

Stand together, yet not too near together. For the pillars of the temple stand apart, and the oak and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow. – Khalil Gibran (The Prophet)

 
A relationship, any relationship shouldn't turn into a chain. Because if it does, then it restricts freedom. And freedom is important. Sometimes the chain feels good, it feels protective and warm, and you feel like staying in it. But you can't let yourself. Because if you do, you are bound. And to one to whom freedom is most important, no chain, however pleasant, can ever be accepted. Because it is, after all, a chain, whether made with silk or with metal. Every relationship between two adults has to be one of equals. Each adult individual is strong enough and capable enough to take care of himself or herself. A relationship of love is one of deep caring; it is not, and should not be, one of taking care of the other. Each of us in this journey of life, are here for ourself. Me for me, you for you. We can help each other, guide each other, hold each other's hand; but we cannot, and should not, want to or try to carry another. You take a partner in your journey so that your journey can become simpler, pleasanter. But if you end up changing your route for another, or trying to carry another, then you will only end up ruining both your lives.


 

 

Thoughts of three people aged 19, 20, 21 (more or less) on 20th March 2010 [9.30 to 10.30 am]

Fantasy. Free Association. Andhra. Telangana. Naghakshathangal. "family breaks happiness". Kavita's big belly.Pregnancy. Again love. YFA. The Beatles. Velvet underground. Sadomasochism. Libertine. Contacts. Lovely. Fuck All. Sade. Ignorance. Bilo and blue eyes. No love is better than other. Roald Dahl. New love grows on trees. ethereal minstrel. Corrs. Catgut binds my ankle to your bedstead, that ain't love. Blanknesss. Black. A glimpse of paradise in the middle of it all. Union of heaven and hell. The Way Up to Heaven. Imagine there's no heaven. The ultimate rockstar. Paris Commune. Our lady of the flowers. Only Red and love. Give me your blood, and I shall give you freedom :P. Send me the pillow, the one that you dream on. Balyakalsakhi. Malayalees and true love. Rakthanakshatram pole kadum chemaparna aa poovu. Basheer rules. IP sucks. Why should I be free? Who wants freedom?. Orkut. I have seen you wear your freedom as a yoke. John. Jeffrey. Not a penny less, not a penny more. Money, that's what I want. Money cant buy her, she's my valentine. Sookie Stackhouse and lame vampire stories. Philanderer poets. Shaw. Life's quest for something better. So, where are you tonight, Sweet Marie. Dead in the woods, where the cold wind blows. It's dark, too dark to see. When its dark, I will sing you a song, and I will love you forever, or till morning comes. Bob Dylan. Free Masons. Fuck forever. Jaimini and his eggs. The ugly grey eyed man who was killed. A dream you dream together. Just another dream. Dream a little dream of me. Tread softly, you tread on my dreams. Clothes of heaven. Rohan's lame curls. When the music's over, turn off the lights. And there's nail polish on his toes.

Calcutta and me

July 2008 - His mangled face lit up when he saw me, and he gave me a grin of genuine pleasure. I couldn't bring myself to return the smile, I was revolted. He was naked, his body blackened with grime, insects enveloping his body, seeming to do a better job of covering his nakedness than the tattered piece of cloth on the lower part of his body (which might have been trousers at some point of time). The rotten banana that he had picked up from the dustbin and was now greedily devouring stank, of death and degradation. There are thousands, perhaps millions, of these people, less in my area because it is newer, but when I'm walking down Park Street trying to find a bus or taxi to take me back to the safety of my room in the hostel, I occasionally trip over their huddled bodies, and recoil in terror. I don't think I'm ever going to be able to live in this hell-hole. I want to run away, far away, where I don't have to see their wretchedness.

 
 

December 2008 - An overwhelming feeling of pity had me hunting around in my pocket, and triumphantly handing her a 50 rupee note. The shock on her face pleased me. I smiled. She did not return the smile, but quietly took the money and went away. I was positively glowing in my feeling of self-righteousness. Two minutes later the smile on my face vanished, as did my conceit and vanity. She was being brutally battered by a man, almost twice her size, either her husband or her boss. He had seen me hand her the money. Her pitiful pleas that she needed the money for her two month old baby, fell on deaf ears. I saw him pluck away the note I had given her, and slap her so hard that she was knocked over, her baby falling with her. I saw him coming in my direction, and left hurriedly, hoping he hadn't seen me watch. I couldn't talk to anyone for a week after that, my food tasted bland and going to class seemed hypocritical. I questioned everything, my existence, the purpose of my life, wondering at the unfairness of it all, believing in the absolute pointlessness of trying to help anyone. My bubble of idealism had just burst, and how!

 
 

October 2009 - The tug on my t-shirt annoyed me. I knew what it meant; I was being accosted by the usual horde of ten year old pests begging near the City Centre. I turned around, and angrily screamed at them to go away. It was pointless. They wouldn't budge. I tried ignoring them, and took a sudden interest in my friend's boyfriend troubles. They still wouldn't go away; walking behind us, begging, making pathetic faces. I finally gave in, and handed them a 10 rupee note with a look clearly expressing how exasperated I was. They quickly pocketed it, and ran away, but not before sneering at me, some even blowing me exaggerated kisses. I turned back, nodding my head in frustration, realizing for the millionth time perhaps, that they were the real masters of this city.

Nothingness

They look with their eyes half closed. They see my body, but not my soul. They see my religion, but not my God. They take me to be what I am not, because they don’t look, not well enough, not deep enough. But why do I care? How can I blame them for not looking inside me, when I cannot see inside me either? Maybe, I want them to tell me who I am. Maybe, I want them to be deceived. Maybe, I want to look through their eyes, and see the person I am not. Maybe, because I am afraid, afraid to know myself. I don’t know. If I did, I would know myself. But I don’t. Sometimes I think I do. I feel I’ve searched my soul and know everything there is to know about me. And then I sit in smug satisfaction, feeling good and righteous, and pitying all those poor souls who don’t know themselves; not realising that it is not they who are blind. It is I.
I don’t know what I believe in, maybe because I don’t know if I believe in myself. They tell me I am thus, and I would like to believe it. Sometimes I do too.
I don’t know who I am, or where I come from, or where I’m going. Or whether I’m standing still. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be going anywhere. Is there a road I must travel, a path I must trudge? Sometimes I just want to be. I don’t want to do anything, don’t want to go anywhere, don’t want to live, and don’t want to die. But just be.
Be nothing, but be everything; the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. But that is not me, that is God. The God of the poor and the rich, the God of the living and the dead. But who is this God? Is my God the same as theirs? What if I say I have no God, that I am my own God and my own Devil? I am the Good and the Evil, the Love and the Hate. I am Woman and I am Man. I am, but I do not exist. Not in this world, not in the next. Not in the past, nor in the present, nor even in the future. I am a black hole, a burnt out star. And yet I glow with the brilliance of the sun.
I do not believe in anything, but I believe in everything. I cry but am indifferent, and laugh but don’t know why I do. My Love is as pure as my Hate, impure yet chaste, sacred yet unholy. I think faster than light, and yet my thoughts never move. I know everything and everyone, and yet understand nothing. I feel nothing, yet am full of emotions. I care about nothing, but am full of worries. The world’s burdens are not mine, but I am weighed down by them. I don’t stand up for what I believe in, and yet protest in my loudest voice. I can’t stand injustice, yet watch it every day. The world has made me what it wants me to be, and yet I am of my own making.

I am fearless, but my heart trembles with terror. I stand my ground, but try desperately to run away. I try to be rational, but no there’s no reason in what I’m thinking. There’s just fear, unreasonable, terrifying fear. Fear that engulfs, that swallows, that pulls you down into nothing, that leaves you faint. Fear that overwhelms, fear so great that it fills everything, and leaves you dazed, and trembling. Trying to run away, but not knowing from what.

There is no yesterday, and no tomorrow, and no today. There’s not a single whisper, yet it is booming with sound. There is no Light, and no Darkness. There is no Fire and no Earth. There’s just me, and the abyss of nothingness.

Money

Don't listen to those people who tell you that it's just some pieces of paper. By my grandpa's graying beard, I swear they are lying. No one who hasn't experienced a limited inflow of it, coupled with an unlimited outflow of it, can ever claim to know what money is truly about. It has the power to change lifestyles, to change beliefs and principles, to change friendships, and to change character, in essence to change, you. It can completely alter your idea of the priorities in life, making what once seemed trivial, the most important thing. It can lead you to equate that ill-famed "material goods" with all the abstract concepts of pleasure and happiness that you have only heard of. Your idea of the 'small joys of life' changes from watching the sunrise, to going for a fancy dinner. Everything is suddenly about money - "How much will I get if I do this? How much do I have to spend on this? How much money do I lose if I go for a movie instead of working?" I have been bitten by this 'money' bug; learnt its value the hard way. And yes, not only did I equate money to pleasure and happiness, but also equated it to my ego and independence, and gladly turned into a workaholic. Oh they may only be pieces of paper, but they made me age by a decade, and turned me into a real, typical law school student.

Workaholism

It's addictive, worse than a drug I should say, though I've never taken any. Now I understand why the suffix meaning 'obsession' is attached to it. You can't stop it, can't help it. You'd gladly and willingly kill yourself in the process. The stress keeps you going, the adrenaline giving you energy that you never knew you had. Another deadline. Another late night. More coffee. More mint. Another waking up feeling like shit after two hours sleep. Putting off that hunger so you can finish a little bit more. Another friend who wanted to talk biffed off cuz you are 'busy'. Another week without talking to your folks. Feeling restless if there is nothing to do. Oh yes, it's addictive alright. Like a drug, but more. You never ask yourself why you are doing it; you can't, you don't have the time. You've lost a ton of weight. Your skin is already wrinkling up. But you haven't noticed; looking in the mirror is not high on your priorities. When your friend says you look sick, you give a faint smile and go back to work. Even half an hour of sitting idle seems like a waste. Talking to a friend is just crazy; you have so much more to do. It's never enough, how much ever you work. There's always a little bit more. Another deadline. Another late night. More coffee. More mint.

Hugs...not so warm anymore

It upsets me. There's no reason why it should, and my friends tell me that it was only to be expected, but I cannot seem to get that nagging disappointment out of me. It has upset me enough to write about it. Yes, I am talking about Anupama's 'Free Hugs' gesture. It might be crazy, but I never thought people had such a problem with being friendly to strangers.

'Spread cheer in the world', we used to be taught in my 5th grade value education class. I never took it seriously. But I never did expect that when one of my friends tried to do exactly that, she would be met with such resistance. People looked at her like she was drunk, like she had gone crazy, like she was a suicide bomber, and I'm sure some people thought she was just looking for attention. All supposedly perfectly understandable emotions, but not to me.

For me, a hug has always meant a lot of things. A warm hug from a friend when I'm upset means she or he cares. A hug from my dad means that he'll always support me. One from my boyfriend means he loves me. An awkward one from my brother means that he is fond enough of me, to let go of his stupid image for a bit. A clumsy hug from my little cousin means I'm her favourite. But the most precious of them all, for me, would be a hug from a stranger. Because that would mean that, that person considers me a significant enough unit in the universe to share his or her happiness with me.

Maybe I am naïve, immature, don't understand other people's feelings. But it upset me, because I don't understand it, and would like to.