Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust, French novelist, critic, essayist and a philosopher in his own right. You know when it’s time, you know when it’s that one moment which … Continue reading Marcel Proust
I stopped working when I had her, there are thousands of moments I would have missed otherwise (this doesn’t mean working women don’t spend time and dote on their kids, … Continue reading Being Mom
Every piece of writing by all those profound writers influence me.
For a while I slip into a stupor, drunk in their words, the meaning of life in between their sentences- and it’s a wonderful feeling to live the lives they create and weave in between the printed words one after the another.
The social and cultural milieu a writer belongs to reflects in the fabric of their prose. It’s beautiful, it’s like minuscule architectural beauties embedded in a huge structure.
I’m taking a break from all the web readings for a while and go back to the roots where I begin my life, ghosh, Woolf, Marquez, Conrad, Bronte, Eliot… those are the concrete pillars I hold onto whenever I feel myself losing to the insanity of the world around me.
It’s difficult to understand everything, it’s like reading in shadows, fleeting light from the creeks of windows and doors. Life has become interminably incomprehensible, dried and cracked. There are spaces enough to get in and probe yet so hardened that I perish the thought of what’s beyond those cracks.
I have no patience nor energy left to fight and grapple with people, and the world around me. I’m just letting it be- everything. I want to be left alone in peace and not be bothered about.
May be it’s me who is a difficult person or may be not. Whatever may be the case. I still would prefer to be left at it and not be badgered about that. Sometimes, leaving one in peace is enough to settle down the nerves.
It’s therapeutic, they say when you pen down what ails you. Why, then I’m lost in this maze of words every time I write my thoughts out. It’s not that simple to come out of this cesspool of human emotions.
There is so much welling up inside, but there is no vent for it. People who profess they understand, doesn’t even know what it is to understand someone. They like the idea of you, they admire the-social-you-the-outer-you. nobody even bothers to feel you, listen to the words you haven’t spoken but had them on your lips. Nobody reads between the lines, in between the glances you give sideways.
And, then comes day when I’m so done with looking around, I’m tired of expecting and resort to only one person who has always known me the way I am – Me, Myself.
Oh, the girl within me has kept all my secrets tucked in a beautiful vintage looking trunk, and from time to time, she dusts it and open the leaves and reminds me the beautiful moments of my life, the pain and hurt I had endured, the decisions that made me what I am today.
This girl, who lives within me, she sits by me during sunset and we both look at the setting hues of sun with awe.
Is she enough for me? She knows me, she is one with me, she is me, but is she enough?