Writing for pleasure is code for, I’m into masochism. There is a lot of joy and happiness when you see a finished piece is a big fat lie. An orgasm lasts longer than that fleeting moment of joy. I’m proud of my work that has been published, but I always want to do better, or I see a possibility of how it could have been better. I haven’t wanted to write in the last month or so, and it has been nice. A huge weight is taken off me.
But now that this blissful ignorance has passed a month and has turned into a little fear in the corner of mental thinking space and has started collected to go full judgement day on soon and I’m defenceless.
This last month was fear and anxiety all the way, there were moments of pain, anguish, and desperation to write anything. I gave and wrote a line or a sentence and sounded like a bag of shit and I didn’t try writing again.
I remember comparing myself to Justin Bieber, he’s 10 days younger than me and has gained the fame and fortune that I’ve wanted since the age of 9. I wasn’t exceptionally talented, I had fairly good oratory skills and a knack to writing funny or impressive stuff compared to my group of peers, which impressed very few people if nobody. So the possibility never died in my head and still seems to survive somewhere deep.
Screw JB, I just want to get my degree without having to do a Sirsasana and this is when I regret bunking Yoga classes in Jain College, maybe it would have come handy. The biggest fear I’ve been nursing like my firstborn is of losing everything. It’s easy to say everything and not mean much, but there is a possibility of losing everything and it’s only growing stronger with every fleeting second.
My laptop had a bad case of the virus and I lost all the digital data I’d acquired over the last three years. I had a lot of ups and downs in recovering the data and I couldn’t carry my heavy heart anymore and decided to cry, but not a single teardrop escaped my eye. We read narrative reporting in class and the story of the funeral was piercing and cold, holding back tears felt impossible.
I’m on the edge, all the time, and it is better I take things slowly, rather than trying to juggle too many things. The pain won’t go away, but I can stop treating myself like a pin-cushion.
Emotional numbness, disregard, contempt, hatred are growing in my heart and I don’t want to uproot them. I don’t want to talk to people, there are a few I want to talk to but a minute or two into the conversation and I want to run. There isn’t anything I believe in, pessimism is my constant state of being and the height to which I don’t care has reached a peak. I can’t do anything else daily, efforts I put to get through the day are draining me of my, everything. Exhaustion has left me paralysed and with the bare minimum.
I haven’t wanted to write in the last month or so and it has been nice. There was a huge weight taken off me, this probably is the most relaxed I’ve been in the last three years. But now that this blissful ignorance has passed a month and has turned into a little fear in the corner of mental thinking space and has started collected to go full judgement day on soon and I’m defenceless.