Soul-searching and Missing Cat

I have been chasing deadlines the past few days and my hairfall has increased ten-fold — this is an exaggeration. I've been anxious and stressed; holed up in my room, reading, trying to write and occasionally laughing at cat and dog memes.

Tonight, I took a break. It led to an unexpected journey of soul-searching. To put it simply, I have been beating myself up with questions. Fun.

How have I been growing as a person?

Do I even bring light and positivity to anything or anybody?

Am I that horrible toxic person to somebody?

Do I make people feel negatively about things, or even worse, themselves?

How do I come across as a person or a friend?

How? 

I want to be kind.

I want to be positive.

I want to make people feel,

I want people I have the privilege to interact with, feel good; about life, about the world, about existence . . .  about cats and doggos, and cute animals!

I have absolutely zero clue if I am doing any of these things, that I so desperately wish I could and would.

I am trying, I will keep reminding myself to keep trying.

I know that these are very unrealistic goals.

I am human; I have a gazillion glitches.

But I am human; I am not static. 

We are all human and we are not static.

We are unsteady and but changeable; these are things I am certain of.

After all of this self-beating, I am crying because I realize that I miss having a cat by my side. Having a cute furry-purry being by your side is instant therapy and a truckload of happiness. If I had my cat with me tonight, maybe I would not be here crying because I have convinced myself, after an hour of thinking, that I have been doing poorly at being a good human being. Maybe my cat ran away because I have been a horrible human?! — sobbing like the insane cat person I am —

If I had Tisa or Momo with me, I would have happily ignored these heart-crunching half-arsed soul-searching results and gone to bed. Maybe the universe is telling me that I need to sort this shit out before a cat can own me. 

Hmm.

Cool.

A Slow-witted 3 am Epiphany

I could not sleep tonight and I wish I had a better explanation, but I do not. I was thinking... pretty sure, not at the usual pace and rate that most humans do. I do not want to say overthinking because that sounds awfully cliché. I am also convinced that the thoughts keeping me up are moderately valid and lukewarm; just enough to sink into. Which is funny, because that is how I have been feeling as a human in general: moderate and lukewarm. When did I never feel that way though? If you haven't guessed, self-deprecating humour is how I cope with insecurity.

I lost track, sorry. Nothing new there . . .

I could not sleep and I was thinking about how most of my life is about writing. I am guessing, if anyone even reads this, that you know what I studied and study now. However, very big catch, I have not been writing, at all. When I logged into my blog to write about this slow-witted epiphany, I learned that my last blog post was on 22 September, 2017. That was 364 days ago! (I'm sorry, I can't be bothered to check about leap years) I remember writing my last blogpost/sad shite poem during one of my course classes, when I was failing to catch up and I felt moderate and lukewarm. Academia has its cons; very many cons for your mental health, especially when you are a human that is very highly aware of its moderateness.

This whole time I have been telling myself, and my friends, that I stopped posting on here because I wanted to write better and more mature content. I believed it, but tonight, rather this morning at 3 am, I don't think I believe it.

I started writing, many years ago, in my diary to express anything that I was afraid to tell another human. In writing, I could be vulnerable and never feel judged. This, I believe, is what I have been running from the past year. To be honest and vulnerable to people I know and love, who read what I write. Thank you for even reading what I write. I will never be able to cope with why people even take the time to read these moderate (I'm sorry, I'm overusing it) posts.

Yesterday, I was whining to my parents about how much time admin and paperwork takes. Dad made a joke about flying here to Delhi and getting it done for me, like he would have if I was little. It hit me then, I am a 24 year old adult — who very sadly does not look her age — living in an apartment in Delhi, desperately trying to juggle my academic, social and personal trash, while still battling very occasional bouts of anxiety and depression (Don't you even dare say it is a trend). I have been making a poor attempt at trying to show people I was not vulnerable. Maybe my idea of mature content meant portraying myself as a knowledgeable and cultured adult academic. That however, is a far cry away from who I am — even literally. I cried a bit before I wrote this; some poor crying start at being vulnerable. Fun fact: my phone autocorrects "trying" to "crying". That is how often I text about crying. My life sure is very mature!

I wonder . . . If I was just me, the mess that I am, would anybody still do the unpleasant job of digging through the shaky scrapes and maybe sit with me while I fumble over my words?
Rhetorical question.

People grow, but not by putting up a front. I can grow, at my own pace. If not, I'll take being a stunted bonsai. I think they are pretty cool.

Thank you making it to the end. Please pray for my sleep schedule that has now gone faulty, yet again, for the nth time.

A Bit of Honesty?

I don't like forced conversations. They hang on to the boredom of every tired soul and pull at my slouched shoulders.

I don't like forced smiles. After I am done lying to the world, my still face returns to me and sticks to my tongue like an ice-cube.

I don't like forced anything. There is a slim chance that maybe I don't like anything right now and I choose not to force myself to like.

My First Blackout Poetry

Exploring Kathy H's emotions in the novel, Never Let Me Go

My Grandmother, My Home

Today I looked through folders of old pictures of you on my computer,

Trying to find that picture of you weaving with mother a few years ago,

When all was rosy red, when in your memory, I was your granddaughter.

I wonder if this was how you would comb through your fading cloudy memory,

Going from one failing door to another, trying to find my name and my face

In one of those old thatched rooms, one cut bamboo crossing over another.

I thought you were just being forgetful when you would ask me for my name.

The truth was a cup of bitter; dementia eating away the memory of me, of us.

You lived through the traumatic groupings that once hunted the Naga Hills

Just so we could have our now, and a sad history of brave grandparents.

Your mind kept going back to those days when you had to leave your home

And live in the forest for days, holed up in groups, with bullet-cold nothings, 

And the hope of the souls around you, huddled together in the rain and the sun.

Your mind kept going back to the two wooden boxes you kept at a crossing

During one of those groupings when men in uniforms came to our hills.

You kept asking me to go and look for them, and the clothes that were in them.

Azü, if I could, I could have done all I could to get back what you lost.

I could have walked hills for you, and with you, if it could bring it all back.

I watched you going through all your things, looking for the two shawls

You said you lost; we were looking for things we both knew were gone.
“What’s your name?” “Whose daughter are you?” “Where do you live?” . . .

Were all questions that I got used to answering everyday; once, twice, thrice.

I do not want freedom, if it means you finding your two wooden boxes,

If it means you remembering my name on your last days, I’d give it up.

I remember you sitting in front of the television, watching fishes underwater,

You had a cushion by your leg because you thought the water would come through.

I play another Nat Geo video, for no other reason but to feel just a little closer to you.

I keep my pillow next to the screen, by my leg; I bring it close to me and I hold it,

Next to my heart, imagining it was you, imagining you were sitting next to me.

You loved the colour red and anything I owned in red became yours one day.

You were always dressed in red, or something close to it, always ready to love.

I can’t bring myself to buy anything red now, without anyone to hand it down to.

One day I was your younger sister you took care of when you were just as old as me,

Another day, I am just another girl, in the house of the woman who takes care of you.

Even when I was just another random person, you were always willing to pray for me,

Your hands ever reaching out to me; if hands had memories, you had memorized me.
You were the only person who loved me enough to pray for me, even when I was

Just another human being sitting next to you, your mind ages away from the present.

I was just some other girl, but you told me I looked beautiful when I had my hair up,

You laughed at my long fingers and how short I was, but you laughed at it with love.

I did not like it when you kept walking on the wet floor that I had just mopped,

You left your dusty footprints on the wet concert floor, and I’d keep going in circles.

I now know you left your footprints, so every blessing could find its way to me,

So you could find your way to me, even when your memory would fail you.

If I could go back, I’d leave a permanent red line that took you wherever I was.

I’d go back and paint every door that could lead you to me in bright red, all for you.

Even when in your mind the army was taking over the village, you’d still start to walk

To the place where all forgetfulness was marked into you, my brave Grandmother.

My vacations are never the same without you. Sometimes I do not even want them.

I can’t go downstairs first thing when I get home, because you are no longer there.

You would always sing this line, “Why are you leaving your friend behind?”

You were gone Azü, even before I got to say goodbye. Why have you left me behind?

I still look for you, in someone with a red sweater, in someone that prays for me,

But no one loves me as wholly as you loved me. I still look for the two wooden boxes

Every time I see a crossing that looks like the one you told me, I still look for you.

You have left me behind and I can never truly go home, because you were home.