The Paradox of Choices

We spend half our lives complaining about how life does not give you choices. You do most of the things, you blame all your failures and unhappiness for the lack of choice. 'If only I had a choice' , 'But I had no choice' are the most common things that you will hear unhappy people say.

But what if you do have choices? Today, the urban youth has so many choices that one would not know what to do beyond a point. This becomes worse when you are good at a lot of things. It feels like a million bubbles popping in front of you. When you go near it, it just bursts on your face leaving little drops of salty water. It is like a crooked tree with dry branches popping out of your head. You want to be a doctor, a dancer, a corporate head, a good wife, a researcher and what not. Oh the torture of knowing that you are good at a lot of things!

The choices that one has makes them neurotic sometimes. If you fail, you are solely responsible for it, and you know it. You can no longer blame lack of choices for your incompetency. The fear of failure, coupled with the guilt for taking a path to doom when so many choices were available can drive you mad. It does not always help to be skilled and with lot of choices. The world gathers around the judgement table and points an ugly black finger at you for your mistakes. It laughs like a hyena and the laughter echoes in your head over and over again. It is like sitting on a rotating chair and watching a spinning wheel for hours together that you lose all sense of direction and you feel your eyes will fall down from your head from the spinning. It is almost like entering into a state of trance- a perpetual eternal trance when you can not stop the rotation of your chair or the spinning of the wheel that you see. This, is the state of a neurotic.

This is the paradox of choices- you want it but do not want the responsibility with it. You want the right number of choices- not too many to confuse you, not too less to make you feel imprisoned. But how would you know what number is the right one? When the world is filled with opportunities and choices, how to make a call? What if you are interested in a lot of things? Can you handle that much on your plate? Will you be able to sacrifice all that interests you and go only for one path? Or will you dabble in different things? This is a question that one can never answer...

My Song

Slow creek of the door standing ajar,
Damp smell of a cat licking its paws,
Images of yesterday’s lost love,
Visions of a better tomorrow.

A lonely road leading to the end,
End of the horizon and beyond,
The waning moon rises above
Giving signals of an impending doom.

Soft whispers of a haunting soul,
With the lost eyes of a hurt lover,
Quiet screams of a schizophrenic
A belief in an illusion so strong.

My Song echoes through the winter chill
With the dry crackling of a dead man’s limb
Reminding me of a lost world
Circling around my dead soul.

In the Closet

Well everyone has a part of them that is 'in the closet'. Something that is not typically normal, or so the society thinks. Something that you want to hide from the rest for the fear of being shunned, ridiculed or even burnt for.

Now this brings me to ask a million dollar question- what is normal? One must agree that what is normal to one is abnormal to the other. Normalcy is highly influenced by society and culture. It is normal to practice polygamy and polyandry in the African cultures. Can you even imagine doing something like that in India? Or in any of the so-called 'civilised' countries for that matter? Well, let us not get into such controversial topics like multiple marriages or abortion. Lets us talk about something very close to me..something that is in me.

I know that I don't think normal, like anyone else. When my friends played with Barbie dolls, I sat there admiring the beauty of a hooting owl on a full moon. Quite romantic as this may sound on paper (or blog), in reality is not nothing close to that. People though I was weird, abnormal and quite funny. Others though I am doing these shocking things as I'm craving for attention. No one really understood the budding individualist in me.

At this point in time, I live a double life. It is quite hard, I must say as the other side of me often peeps out to the world. It is lethal and it can kill me. But it is also the true me. I hide her, my other self. The one I call Maya. She is an illusion to the outside world as much as it is a reality to my own. She makes me laugh, cry, smile. She makes me feel.

But what I hate the most is the mask that I must religiously wear everyday. I live under the fear of the mask being ripped apart and thrown naked into the world. This fear is eroding me, like a termite savouring pieces of wood, causing slow and steady damage to the wood. There is no escape as the other end is equally scary- the fear of being ridiculed.

But what can one do if the natural instinct and attraction lies in a place that is deemed a taboo in society? What can one do when the call comes from a so called taboo? Do you ignore? No, that is not possible. I can't fake disgust when I look at a beautiful piece of gothic art or literature! It gives me a pleasure that is unmatched, unparalleled- sudden yet slow, passionate yet soothing and smooth.

I guess I must make a choice now. I am at the crossroads, unsure of what path to take. As they say, the road less travelled is the more exciting. But it also is a bit scary, when you have to walk alone not knowing the demons lurking just around the corner to pounce on you and rape your individuality. But my individuality is equally molested by the mask I wear everyday. I can't go on like this, being torn by a crocodile on one side and a hyena on the other. I will probably decide something. Something that will free me from this world of misery and sorrow. Something that will lift my spirit and take me to the other world, so that I can finally walk without a mask and smile at things I truly enjoy without having an inner self mocking me at every turn.

My Muse..

Every poet, artist or creator has a Muse. The one that he calls upon quite loyally and asks to bless him with her wisdom. The one that will intoxicate him with her tender touch and inspire him to create that which will be preserved, criticised and cherished eternally. Great literature, such as Odyssey or The Iliad had all started with the invocation of the muse to bless them for the adventure they are about to embark on – a creation.

I always wondered what my muse was. Could it be the one that inspired Homer to write an epic that is almost confused today with myth and history? Nay, I don’t think so. The muses of these kinds have become dormant these days. Also, you need to have a fat bank balance if these muses plot to amuse you. Well then, could it be the one that kindled the fire in Yeats and Shelly? Definitely not! I don’t think I am the kind that is capable of describing skylark in such detail (with due respect to Shelly).

When I look back in time, I see that most of my best work (according to me), come from my chronic depression phase. In pain, I believe that I emote truly. In pain that I actually feel something- pain itself. Pain awakens every cell of mine and the creative juices flow like a river. When I see tears, I see words dancing there in a joy of their own. When I see blood, I see thoughts and images smiling at me. I feel joy in pain, creativity in sorrow. Well then, could Pain be my muse? A muse that gently kisses my tear-stained cheek and taps the grief that my heart feels? A muse who urges me to vent my sorrow and decadence in words- words that lay imprinted on a parchment for ever. Words, that are to be etched in my soul forever.

I am quite happy with Pain being my personal muse. After all, how can one truly emote something unless they feel it? But here is one problem - No Pain, No Gain. So does this mean I have to be in darkness for my muse to make love to me and give birth to creativity? Will I never be able to talk about green grasses and red roses? Will a clear blue sky or a pink cotton candy never inspire me? Sadly, I guess not. Like I said, I can not write something unless I feel it, in every breath and every pore of my skin. So be it! The artist is more important than the man, a poet lives not for himself but for his work. If pain be the soil and tears the water for my creative plant, I shall be happy, as long as words are its fruits.

Coffins and Confetti

It suddenly struck me that I'm an endless contradiction. I mean, seriously! My tastes in anything and everything is a confused mirage. Could it be possible that I'm suffering from a mild MPD? Ah no! No way, it is a very big, scary and spooky term to use and only silly looking doctors in movies use such terms. I will convince myself that I'm perfectly normal and it is the world that is a little deranged. Ha! How does that sound.

Anyway, the dear reader here (if any) will be wondering what made me come to such conclusions. So, for the benefit of the dear reader (again, if any), I will explain.

I have these sudden influx of emotions, like a wave that wash my insides, leaving me completely blank. In those moments, I wish I could roll into a small black ball and vanish completely. What can be worse than feeling pain? Feeling numb, of course! Life has been a 'fun' roll-a-coaster ride so far. It has thrown me into ruts and gutters and occasionally lifted me and shown some sunshine. But there again, the rare visit by the Sun is only to let the darkness lingering and sneaking just around the corner pinch me harder... even darker...even sinister.

Many times, I don't know what I do. For instance, why would I spend a fortune buying pink shoes and later spend another fortune buying black boots? Certainly, there is some conflict of emotions here. If not, there is definitely conflict of colours! I want to scream my feelings out, at the same time I want to be the mystery no one understands. I like Carnatic music, but my instinct tilts its head towards Goth metal. I love death and decay, but also love smiles and sunshine. I will sell my soul for Sylvia Plath but I would also sell my favourite shoe for Wordsworth.

Hmph...anyway if the dear reader has travelled this far, I'm sure they are bored by my contradictions. So what do I do? Honestly, I don't think I'm that crazy to enrol for counselling, but what if my insides are torn everyday? I want to confirm in this non-conformist world. Or do I? Do I really care?

I have a recurring dream of falling of a cliff. I constantly fall, forever, never to hit the ground. In the process of this eternal fall, I can feel the grainy drizzle that surrounds me. My feet can still feel the wetness from the grass I just left behind. It is a beautiful image, for a painter to brush on, for a poet to pen about. But what about the one who really falls? No answers, just eternal silence. I guess I just have to remember the dream and remain silent. For now, there is some confetti. However, the coffin is not far away.

Never really worked so hard, never felt so good!

I never used to believe that shifting house is a big deal. Not until I had to experience that myself. Packing, moving, loading and unloading, setting things...phew even the mere listing makes me tired.

Last week was entirely occupied in packing. We then got a decent movers to shift. The moving experience was priceless. Though the movers offered us a seat in the front of the van, we insisted that we wanted to sit behind. It was so much fun to travel that way. It felt free, like flying, except when there were speed breakers! Then it felt like we were going to break our backs.

Once we moved totally in, we knew about the water scarcity. Then I was warmly welcomed by two fully grown lizards in my bathroom (yuck!) and in the balcony I saw a huge lizard, so huge that I mistook it for a rat. Then started the hunt for carpenter to fix a mesh in all the bathrooms and ventilators.

On the moving day, we walked across our street a million times, to buy milk, to find carpenter, to buy fans and bulbs and what not! I was a little uncomfortable with the place and the thought of whether we made the right decision to move was clogging my head. That night, I almost broke down. The next day was yet again hectic with carpentry work.

We then went to a near by lake with two other friends. It was such a relief, to talk about something other than house and shifting. When I came back, I felt like I lost five pounds of worry :)

The story now- totally comfortable, thanking God every single moment and praying that this house will make us thank Him over and over again :) Really happy, that I can't stop smiling even at work!

Finally

Finally... we found a house. Yes! Someone actually believed that we are harmless after all, and definitely not capable to eating the house. So, he agreed to rent out his precious house to us. We were so happy that we couldn't believe this happened. In fact, I was a little numb when he agreed to give us the house. The news took days to sink in.

At first, I was confused. 'What? Someone is giving us a house? Can this be true or will he change his mind?' But he gladly took the advance and was pretty happy with us. We would have made countless trips to the new house to see the place, the locality and shops. We thought we can manage. Every visit was like a big adventure, packed with a lot of expectations and anxiety about how the neighbours will look at us and will we be welcomed.

It looked like all was settled. Then started the hunt for packers and movers. To our shock, packing and moving costs was almost double the rent we paid. I couldn't believe packing and moving charges will be so high. It was yet another big head ache. Then we asked the new owner about packing services. He offered to help us and referred a good moving company. His charge was less than half of what we estimated. Yet another joy! 'Life, after all, can be sweet', I thought.