Do you think we lost touch
somewhere in the middle?
With
whatever we used to believe in: fluttering eyelash on skin, bacon for breakfast
& a sad twang of the guitar in the sunlight. We mixed up people &
objects & desire. Or maybe I did.
Then
what happened, you ask?
I
moved. With bags, a confused head, & foolish youth-centric misconceptions.
Each
time I search, I end up in Calcutta. With the old buildings, a favourite
terrace & the many roads travelled and the many floors sat on. I miss the
buses, the quick auto rides and conversations. I miss one old house, with
bizarre pencil scrawls on the wall, where I discovered myself in bits and
pieces. I miss my home, the terrace where I used to sit for ages, or walk,
ominously talking to self. I miss that nestling feeling. I miss my friends
& my trysts with romance and life, I miss my old ghost wandering around
aimlessly, effusive and often intoxicated.
In
Bombay, I’m constantly on the edge, looking looking looking for peace. I do
things at a feverish pace. I feel like I have to establish this ground for me
to walk on, like I’m striving for a sort of perfection which doesn’t even make
me happy.
This
is not what I want to do and the strangest thing is, in a way I am okay with
this chapter. I don’t see a continuation, because that would indeed make me a
lot more restless than I already am. It’s like a gypsy wind, this kind of
restlessness.
I
fantasise about being grubby, filling reams and reams of paper with the stub of
a pencil and travelling. I fantasise about a kind of liberation I have never
let myself have. Looking up at the sky, cooking for people, caring for sick
animals, writing- in sand, in cold air, in tents, on a boat, on a mud-filled
truck. No children, no lovers in the sky. Enough money to sustain.
I want
utter freedom from the shackles of my mind, it’s various crevices and darkness.
I want light, I want to rid myself of petty anxieties, doubt, panic and
paranoia. I think I shall start with a baby step.
