I hate the words lukewarm and what it signifies; i find it stifling that it is neither here, nor there. I hate how the word should dictates our lives. I am livid about but, and what usually follows it. Certain words leaves me defeated and sad, like overlook, as it reminds me of the Anais Nin quote, “What I don’t love, I overlook“. Hope and i share a tumultuous relationship; sometimes it makes me lie on satin sheets, covers me with a soft quilt, runs its fingers through my hair and lulls me to sleep saying how everything will be alright when I wake up; sometimes it drags me by the hair to hurl me off a bridge into unknown depths. Acceptance is a frail old man who holds my hand throughout it all, but he is so tiny that sometimes i forget his existence. I love love, even when it is about chasing the horizon.
Drowning in secretly nervous words,
inappropriately excessive and reckless,
I gasped for breath in a vast space
teeming with all things restless.
Your words- rationed and reluctant-
mocked my volubility; laughed softly
to test limits of patience and desire,
overlooking the unsaid quite firmly.
My utterances were often profuse.
I fear you eyed them with disdain;
I stuttered, fumbled, and went mute.
Laconic, my love continues to remain.
I underestimated the mercury drop and woke up with numb feet, which have a predilection for sticking out from under the quilt. Tiny, warm fingers linked with mine; and I cuddled my little cousin till sunrise. In this tranquil dark hour I purged my mind off the chaos; the irrelevant thoughts, the laughable hopes, the self-induced melancholy. Yes, what I’d been subjecting myself to IS really stupid; creating unnecessary boundaries, wallowing in illusions; I was battling a memory from which I’d been wiped off a long time ago.
I dropped my mask for a while and tried to blend in. I was myself. But the volubility confused people. My friend reminded me that the way I see the world, is not how the world sees me. People are used to the rigid mould I had carved for myself in the early years. I don’t fit into that mould any longer. Where do I start anew?
It will be just another year; but the transition can be a collective turning point. A chronological metaphor for changes. A new year. A clean slate. A bright, white sheet of paper. A fresh lease of life. And the good thing is that I get to start it one day at a time. I had never believed in destiny. It’s our actions that shape it. I lacked discipline, misplaced priorities, centered my life around objects beyond my control, let persistence succumb to hurdles; and my life slumped. I picked up the pieces back, one at a time, slow and steady; smiled, promised never to look back, dumped self-pity, and got my life back.
This year I want to do what I have to do, take care of my family, read books, travel whenever I can and write; one day at a time. I won’t dream impossible dreams. Heart will hibernate. They say, everything happens for a reason. I will hand the reins of my life to the one I had never believed in, destiny. Where will you lead me?
I have a fondness for certain words. Swirl. Deux. Myriad. Opsimath. Delight. Anemone. Osculate.
Autumn. Snug. Fjord. Smorgasbord. Soliloquy. Maudlin. Ennui. Cocoon. And it creates a pleasant thrill every time my tongue strikes my teeth, which promptly approaches to bite my lower lip, just in time to let a whiff of air escape to sound ‘love’. That’s a favorite too.