To my speck-tacular self...

Quick, I need to capitalise on this flow.

Ride the waves of this perfect rhythm that is propelling me forward. At times like this I always feel like standing with my arms open and accept- wait not even that - possibly challenge myself to stand up and be more than a speck while a drone camera is circling around me and taking the perfect zoom out shot.

Not that there is a problem being a speck. Every speck has a life of its own. Especially when you look at that speck through a magnifying glass and zoom into its delicate, symmetrical fractal self, repeating and asserting itself. Who am I to deny this beauty?

Speaking of beauty, a concept so ephemeral and dynamic, yet we want to put a lock and key on it by defining it through a myopic lens of branded posters. Seriously, how did we even fool ourselves into loving static images of ourselves, when in reality we are such fluid and ever-morphing beings?

Sometimes I end up having these real honest conversations with people who I think don't really understand me. So once when one such person asked when I'd be ready to write my book, I simply told him I will do so, when I find the courage to be openly vulnerable, and that I am not there yet.

And this really is the honest truth. I have known since a while now that the reason I cannot write content that I myself like reading back, is because I have fallen into the habit of hiding behind words. Art is a double edged sword. It can be used to express yourself, but also to create a pretend wall that can hide you from yourself. And there is never a single answer. Some people revel in creating make belief universes, but for me I never felt comfortable with that genre. I know for me to be able to write, I have to allow myself to reveal the truth, the mediocrity, the darkness, the insecurities, and the myriads of not so dramatic anti-climatic relationships that make me what I am today. I have to own my every little nothing, and even if I am not proud of them, at least be accepting of them to be able to create my kind of expression for my kind of audience.

And my favourite audience has always been this electronic void - even today, as I come back to you, without any polish and rather low self confidence as a writer, I still want you to feel what I am feeling, and understand me, as you do yourself.

Fight club - return rendition

Fight

The only word that seems to always make sense. The only word that I don't want to hear, because I am afraid it would need me to move my arse.

Having gone through a phase of being a perfect consumer, I have come to observe something. There is content that makes you smile, cry, be frustrated, rejoice, hope or feel good - that's just drama. They know what they are doing. There are page turners, and those that hit you hard and make you pause and think. In the end though, you move on to the next one.

But every once in a while something comes along and makes you want to fight. Fight for yourself, fight back. Save yourself from becoming merely a consumer, but stand up and be part of life. Or just be something.

In the past I had many such moments. During those impulsive moments, I have made step changes to the course of my life. These days however, it is hard to come by anything or anyone that moves me that much. Is it because I am not paying attention? The world outside seems to only affect me on the surface. Like no wound is deep enough. Like everything is a mere moment, disappearing before it even takes a concrete shape.

Is it that the pace of life is such, we have to fit in too much in too less a time?

Or is that time is only an illusion?

Am I running out of excuses?

It is silly to look for an excuse to want to claim back your life, right?

At this point I will accept even a short return of faith. Because there really is no point in life, if we don't fight any more. Fight to be something.

Alas, that's the only word that makes sense, after all.

p.s. After my previous mournful account of one sided love, I guess I should have taken the time to at least say that it was not all that unrequited after all... I guess I was not rejected. For more than a year, I thrived in that joy and even today, I am not sad. I am grateful for the acceptance, and for being loved back by the place I fell so in love with. Today's monologue is not about feeling sorry for myself, but on the contrary it is because of the love and acceptance that I have always received in life, I always feel I am not living up to the expectation from myself. Like I know I can do more, but I choose to vegetate at times, and make silly excuses to justify vegetating like saying 'it's only organic'.