I promised my sister I will write a post – that was six months ago. Every few days I’d think about my promise. Every time, I failed to write a single word. I have a lot of excuses: I graduated, I got married, I was in a car accident (near death experience) and I moved houses (three times). The dust has settled so do I have anything meaningful for you all to read?
I don’t know. But a promise is a promise. So here it goes:
Today, I am going to talk about myself (go ahead, call me a narcissist). I take inspiration from my sister who wrote a post a month or so ago talking about her revolt, freedom and passion (long live, Camus). I am going to talk about the change that I see within myself. Do I hear you mumble, ‘why do I have to read about how you’ve changed?’ Well, you don’t. Nobody HAS to read it but if you need a reason, here is one: I am going to die.
And so is everyone I know – the cycle of life, etc. Genius, huh. Okay, no more sarcasm. This is serious, with pursed lips, I let go of the words…and with it the last two years.
To the outside world, the last two years would seem to be the most productive years of my life. In fact, most people around me congratulated me and reminded me how lucky I am or how jealous they are (the honest ones) while others remained silent or kept their distance. I don’t care either way. What people think of me has never bothered me, really. On the other hand, I am curious and sometimes amused by their words. So think about how you are investing your time.
Catching the train to my thoughts. Yes, the last two years were – in simple words – hell. Somehow I missed morphing into a butterfly (mental beauty, folks). Instead, I was starting to feel like a shrivelled up, boneless creature…almost like a slug. People around me gave me nods of approval, pats on my back, encouraging smiles. As the fog cleared, I realized I was becoming them. I was morphing into a HUMAN ADULT. The more I realized, the more I withdrew into myself – I became a slug with a shell. I became impatient. I forgot to smile. Some days, the food tasted like gravel in my mouth (lucky I like gravel, no chance of starvation). I couldn’t sleep. I’d wake up from nightmares. I forgot to dream about flying into the sky (I love flying dreams). Only Murakami’s books gave me pleasure. Healthy discussions seemed pointless. I felt indifferent to people’s daily troubles. I lost companions as they forced me out of their group because I was adult-ing. Or so it felt. They’d ask me, ‘so how does it feel to be this, or do that or have it’. The first few times I tried being honest but realized they already saw me as a different person (a better or worse version, I didn’t ask). Then, I’d nod, smile and give the ‘right’ answer. An answer an adult would give – I am certain.
The adults around me were of little help. There were a few who steadied my rocking thoughts. If you are reading this, I thank you. I remember your words. I always will, I think. Others were useless and hopeless. I figured by their conversations that they’d forgotten what it meant to be my age and this transition. Naturally, I felt hopeless and – I admit – useless too.
Outwardly, I was flourishing. Inwardly, I was becoming what I feared the most. Then two months ago, I was in a car accident. After the accident, my world constricted even more. I became fearful of driving (I sense another post). I became fearful of life. I became fearful of death followed by an existential crisis (which is a good thing btw). It meant the fire within me was alive. I felt anger at my own being. How could I be so weak? So boneless? I still didn’t have the energy to form my thoughts completely. I didn’t know what to do with my questions. I wasn’t sure if the answers would be pointless.
Finally, two days ago, I dreamt: I was flying again. I was in my element. Best sleep ever. I woke up and decided that I have had enough. I refuse to be an adult. I refuse to be a slug. I may die tomorrow. Or I may live. It is 50/50. I’ll take my chances. I may not be able to revive my passion that I felt at 17 or even at 25. However, as Murakami says: ‘Life doesn’t require ideals. It requires standards of action’. So, I am going to work on my standards of action (Yes! My NY’s resolution).
P.S. None of it includes rekindling friendships – I was never very social. Sorry. In saying that, I might form new connections. All in good time.
– Sehar Moughal