Distorted Images

Image

Over the years I have refrained from talking about the people who mean something to me, not because I don’t value their presence in my life but mostly because the need to validate a relationship that is taken for granted on all levels seemed futile. That and I’m not a subscriber to the worldwide-declaration-of-random-days that are mostly there to sell over priced cards and flowers. I like things to be more nuanced and subtle, maybe.

I can confess that my flair for the dramatics comes from my mother and so does the hate for it. It’s hard to imagine an adult who is confused when you are a kid, but right now,  I  experience it day by day as to how confusing the choices of  adulthood can be. My mother and I both fit in the same shoes now, metaphorically and literally and yet somehow my world selfishly revolves around my needs and aspirations and her world selfishly anchors itself onto mine. She complains that giving me freedom has spoiled me and I argue back that it is not freedom but more like permission if it is meant to be given or taken. The talk of fighting patriarchy is a new term for an old pair of shoes in our household. There are instances that I look back to in my childhood and it amazes me as to how easier the world was made for me by her. For unlike me she did not fight the ingrained Indian system of girls-cannot-do-these-things in the rebellious and strong-headed way that I do but instead she coaxed out an understanding with the people who subscribe to such mannerisms with patience. Did it take time and copious amount of wearing out patience ? Of-course, but it also ensured that the same people did not question her ever again.

We are always at war for the silly things such as  why is it essential to get married (I question it,she merely goes with ‘you are an idiot’ line)  or why one should not vocalize disagreements ( I hate confrontations, she thrives by them) or why trusting people isn’t easy( lets just say she finds people far easier than I ). As we both grew older, she taught me the need to soothe down my temper and I explained to her the world of complicated modern dating relationships. We taught each other about our belief systems and why being an atheist was as essential to me as it was for her to believe that the goodness in this world works on karma.

It is often easy for me to forget that she was just a kid of 21 when she had a daughter to raise . It is also convenient for me to take it for granted the privilege of a nomadic lifestyle that I take pride in, where she at my age did not know what it felt like to live in a place alone. Although  I  do suspect that she vicariously lives it through me and my constant restlessness. Once after a few glasses of wine she told me that her mother would have expected a lot more of her; she’d have wanted her to be more generous ,more ruthless and more successful. Then again, I guess mothers are made that way no matter what generation we are in , expecting you to conquer the world but at the same time nagging you to smile graciously, treat others kindly, never let anybody know how much they effect your life in any way and perpetually yelling at you to keep your room clean and your bed cleaner.

PS: This picture often reminds me of how much we’ve grown to look-alike despite our best efforts not to. It is also a proof of how both of us are hideously happy when we are drunk on multiple glasses of Chardonnay and trying to figure who’s better suited to be responsible more level-headed mother (obviously me).

Destruction in Four parts.

Quote

Unsteady, this life,
Falling into the pages,
Between others stories,
Encouraged by mere words,
Finding neither the end or the beginning.

Unsteady, these dreams,
Built from dusk to dawn,
Unraveled thread by thread,
Forced into the misery of now.

Unsteady, Blaming none,
These dark inked fingers,
Washing the evidence of blood,
These bruises of defeat,
paying an ode to the carcass of memories.

Unsteady, Moving ahead,
Breathing, smiling,
Tripping into the furnace
of naive hopes and mad dreams
once again.

I haven’t written in a while now, the words wouldn’t come to me. When words become your friends, their alienation hurts. You can’t complain to anyone about them, just that  the loss is a ghost pain. So when they do come back, I celebrate!Gregariously and morbidly even. As always, the mending of a broken person is a treasure trove of inspiration.

Confessions : Of Mistakes

Standard

This is my last confession. Not because I’ve been absolved, but because I think it is time to move on with exciting new things to write about. However, this series definitely wasn’t one of the mistakes. I’ve run out of old sketchbooks to extract writings from my past and I might as well begin conjuring up some words for my future self to ponder upon.

 

 

This is a part of confession series. Written in old sketchbooks,  brought to life here.

 

Confessions : Of Nostalgia

Standard

I don’t forget the birthdays of people who actually do matter to me and I am slightly proud of it, but I almost did today owing to the million parallel thoughts in my head. In my search for some funny material for a birthday card I went through all my email conversations with him from a time when emailing about the happenings of your life was a cool thing to do. Long story short, I found this  piece of advice I gave him  for whatever life crisis he was going through during that phase. I guess my 19 year old self was truly 19 going on 60 ! 😀

 

 

This is a part of confession series, written in old sketchbooks/emails brought to life here.

Confessions Of : Inadequacy

Standard

It is funny how  I’ve conveniently forgotten how it feels to be inadequate.  I move around in loops in my life evidently  and it’s that phase again where I stumble into life with wobbly legs and butter hands unable to hold on to my sense of confidence and questioning my existence.

 

 

This is a part of confession series, written in old sketch books bought to life here.

Confessions : Of Uncertainty

Standard

The whirlpool of “what ifs” is terrible. Running around in circles of uncertainty can make even the most confident person falter their step. I’m not sure when I wrote this little piece, for I have moved far too many times to far too distant places, dreamed of it even. But now that I re-read it, the timing seems apt and a love far too real gets left behind again.

 

 

 

 

 

This is a part of Confessions Series. Written and forgotten in old sketchbooks, bought to life again here.