Comfortably numb

“She lit a cigarette with bundles of tears racing down her cheeks, and after her lips somehow found the strength to stretch into a smile, I thought to myself: “Sometimes, when chaos burns like wildfire around us, we have no other choice but to fall in love with the warmth.

How melancholy is beautiful sometimes. Ever being sad in a happy moment because you know it won’t last forever? Ever considered how impeccable would be the life of the fortunate residents of snow-globe. Envision having an eternity to completely savour the magnificence of a perfect, divine moment before it inexorably passes. Since only the Divine Gods of anecdotal land rule that territory, and you know regardless of the amount, you clutch to a beautiful moment, quick it may feel, will it turn in to a memory for you to live with, till until the end of time.

How long do we want a moment to stay before it passes? Is any length of time, enough? No. Couple of things are never enough. Ever.

Melancholy is actually not such depressing, if you look at the situation objectively. It makes us noble and elegant, which is really unusual, if you think about it. I was listening to Pink Floyd, which by the way have a platonic art within them, can any other band make you wonder and chuckle and cry and feel a hundred things simultaneously. So perfect!

Bit strange how people are so different. How everyone discover joy in different things. We are expected to be upbeat these days. We ought to be sprightly. On a trip with friends, I realized, how different I have become. I’ve come too far in the light of being an adult and responsible person, I’ve lost the touch with almost everyone I used to be. I liked to get clicked. I liked to capture memories. How I used to roam around with my camera in my hand in my college and capture everyone, each memory. I can still click, I‘d love to. Just don’t ask me to be the other side of it. I am surprisingly, weirdly and unpleasantly uncomfortable around cameras now. I was in the moment and I was enjoying it very much, but some silly joke, some picture-posing, and I would be a different person, more than anyone else, to me myself.

Yet, I wasn’t annoyed with myself. I feel there needs to be a case around my sort of inclination. I am not anguished or sad or depressed, or under-confident as some people might say, I know I am not a celestial marvel, but I’ve made my peace with it, long back. I’d rather be someone a great deal more than only a wonderful face. Instead, I am possessed with my own perception of perfection, with my commitments of taking care of the things with no grumble and resistance. I look at sky, I discover them in the same disposition as I am. I look at the water, and it feels the same way I do. I’m not serene like water. I don’t have the calmness of sky. But the way mistral leaves the mists sailing starting with one spot then onto the next, and wave after wave slowly drifts, the course times of the day change from first light to twelve to sunset, and the strings of violin, are they upbeat? But are they sad? They are routine. They are alleviating to me.

My kind of mood? It’s not tragic. I’m content and happy. I too have the strength of greeting the life’s sadness with poise, stoic and elegance just as much as you do. I’ve the calmness of beating the follies of the world with a smile. I smile when I mean to smile. And no I am no Goth. My ultimate aim is not to die. The problem with me is that I get too overwhelmed with emotions. I’m on extremes. I am either on the zenith of jubilation or on the depth of utter silence. But it’s silence. And I feel I have a predisposition for silence. I prefer to live in my own beautiful snow-globe with everything perfect inside. And of course there is a craving of exploring the unexplored and imperfect yet unpredictable world outside, but somehow I feel I’m not able to do that.

People say all the time,” I just want to be happy”. Rarely do we hear someone saying, “I want my life to be meaningful, even if it implies that I am not happy all the time” People do chase meaning in life to be happy since a little measure of meaning is a pre-imperative to be happy, but again, those who chase meaning of life do not always look for happiness. Like, a rich may be happier in his life, but that doesn’t devoid a poor of adding meaning to his life. Why I seek meaning more than happiness is because I feel it’s more permanent. It may not be what I look for, but it is going to stay with me for a longer time. If I like people, I do not just invest my time. I invest myself. And every time a person leaves, he takes a little bit of me with himself. And everyone who doesn’t come back, leaves me hollow and incomplete of me. While spending time with pals, say drinking beer, gives happiness, it’s immaterial to significance. On the other hand, spending time with family, either blood relations or emotional attachment, adds meaning to life.

In my defense, I’m not lazy or boring. I cook sometimes, because I like to, not on account of I’ve got something to prove. I am a simple person. I prefer to sit near the window when it rains, reading a book, I won’t be tried on, ever. I like to shrug the rules off my shoulder and do something which feels right at the moment. I am more comfortable sleeping late in the night, just before the dawn and wake up gradually, with absolutely no rush to surge off somewhere. And I do not follow the money or time constraints that force me to become a social animal. This adds meaning to my life. I find it funny when girls pose countlessly pouting and bending and what not. Rather than clicking the nature’s beauty, which won’t be around once they leave the place, they click selfies. This happens when people put beauty over brains. I have no idea. Then, they call us, introverts, self-consumed. Err really?

All I want is to reach out to someone who will touch me, not with hands, but with feelings and intellect, and then I won’t be this silent person. I’d have fun too. I’d talk endlessly and explore the choices, both theirs and mine. I dream of a shadow, who dances perpetually, when nobody is seeing her. It escapes the window pane and goes to the garden where it relishes the beauty of wind and flowers and it dances with the shadow of trees and birds. It goes to the church, light candles and sings carol, full of hopes. It wanders streets and sits beside waterfalls to savor the beauty of spontaneity. It meets another shadow and trades stories with him in the moonlight under the stars, where there is something otherworldly in the night that tie them together in its spell and charms them with its excellence. Intimacy is not just a four syllable word. Intimacy is not about being physically close. It’s when I wish to share with you all my dreams and insecurities. It’s whom I text in the middle of night about my fears and apprehensions. It’s when that special someone gets my undivided attention, when hundreds of other are seeking it. It’s when I lay my soul naked by your side.

The greatest lesson I have learnt in this world is, nobody really knows you well to become your true friend or real lover until they are aware of every faint emotion, every dark shadow inside you. It is almost impossible to like someone whose shadow you have seen. But do you know what is even more difficult? To despise anybody whose story you know. As a great poet has said and I quote, “To be human is to be broken. And broken is its own kind of beautiful.”

It’s both a blessing and a condemnation to feel everything so profoundly.


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