A Lexicon of 'Missing You'

This has happened a few times. I am sitting on my bed or sofa, reading or watching something on my laptop, and suddenly I feel the bed shake - ever so slightly. My first instinct is always, is it an earthquake? But I know too well, it cannot be. Not in this part of the physical world.

It's strange because there are some words that you know the meaning of, but cannot definitely tell that you are feeling it. And there are also times, you feel something, but cannot connect a word with what you are feeling. Is it just me, or are there others who also live this 'almost life', a seemingly disparate existence, one on the surface and another somewhere deep down - perhaps in their soul?

I learnt the meaning of the Japanese word '恋しい - koishi' after moving back to the UK. 

It was during the only Japanese-English language exchange meetup that I attended in London. Someone asked me what I feel most 'koishi' - missing the most, yearning for the most - about Japan. And I was completely taken aback by the question - no, not the question, but the word. 

How was it possible that I had never heard this word before? Not that I want to boast about my vocabulary, but honestly, this is such a necessary word, I thought, how was it possible that after 3 and half years of living in the country, interacting with people, having seen an uncountable number of animations, and passing my Japanese Language Proficiency Test Level 3, I did not know - never even heard - what at that moment in time felt like such an important word?

Is it possible that I never went looking for it in all this time?

Of course I oversimplified the answer to the question - I missed my friends the most, the food, the people. It was the truth. But I also knew, that somehow what I miss the most is perhaps what I cannot explain to anyone. Maybe I have not yet learnt words that can help me describe this entity, and I was in no rush to learn either.

Most times I am happy to live with ghosts of feelings, which are neither dead, nor defined - but reside in some shapeless, wordless corner of my mind.

The Silver Sunrise

Even on days that I don't believe I am PMSing, slowly and steadily I can feel the coolness of distance. 

Living together and being too close definitely takes a toll. Over time, a translucent wall appears, and all we see is an outline of the person on the other side. We rely on memory to make inferences and extrapolate intentions. But we don't bother to confirm. After all, we are no strangers here. There is no need to impress nor confess. We eat, speak and sleep with this grey outline of the other and ignore the occasional ugly head of doubt that shows up unexpectedly, like a blurry dream.

*****

I woke up to what I thought was the moonlit silhouette of a sleeping wtp, only to realise in a moment, that it was 7 a.m. and that it was in fact, a silvery ray of sunlight from our west facing window, that escaped into the otherwise dark room. Winters in England - I thought in my head - for a rather moderate weather place, this country can make you feel quite cold at times. This morning was particularly so. 

And I suddenly remembered the dream I had just woken up from.... Are dreams made of what we long for, or are they what we fear the most? Why does something so unreal have the power to unsettle us?

I decided to lie in bed for a few more minutes. With eyes closed, I failed to see the gradation of grey that no doubt transformed the morning.

Thoughts that escape

That's three times this week that I felt mild discomfort. And after a very long time, a story made me think. Like every time, this time too, I was surprised that I am still capable. Are my periods of comfortable numbness increasing? Am I taking longer each time to surface back? I don't really know. And possibly there is no merit in trying to keep track of this statistic.

So about the story, I did not relate at all to the main characters. Or even the side characters. All I know is their core sentiment resonated with mine. Liberation, or freedom - for as long as I know, I have pined for it. Not really knowing what from, or where I wanted to escape to. My very first verse that I ever wrote in life was about a bird flying away. Even as a 3 year old, you can say my strongest emotion was that of setting myself free. And yet little did I know, that any strong emotion or desire is in many ways a chain that keeps you firmly tied down.

In any case, the characters in the story, they question, rebel, fight, cry, let themselves down and occasionally manage to reach a place of compromise or even few seconds of happiness. Life cuts through their story at it's own pace and not once care to balance the good with the bad, or wrong with the right. There is neither reward for being good, nor punishment for the bad. Like a train on it's predetermined track, time moves along, and so does each character while making the best sense that they can of their lives. None of them feel free at the end of story, and yet somehow the author is not hesitant to drop the curtains and leave loose ends for the audience to take back with them to chew on.

It annoyed me, I guess, that the author like me had no answer. Or if they did, they did not want to share. Either ways, it did make me think. And some times even that is a small victory.

On repeat loop

 Yes, I have been through this before, I thought to myself as I picked myself up this time round.

The misery followed by the cold numbness, and then a glimmer of hope, followed by anticipation of an anti-climatic outcome. 

I wonder if to be human is to live with perpetual bouts of self doubt and inadequacy. The more I live, the less I can trust any of my emotion. It is as if I have lived through this already, I know the drill, I know the cycle. And I know that nothing is real. Yet I live in hopes of finding something that feels real. Something I can touch, feel, depend on. Something that is not transient and can stand the test of time.

Thinking back, there was one moment that broke the cycle and did not repeat. The day I saw wtp on his bike in his white shirt, cool sleeves, quarter folded to expose a bit of his arm. I don't remember any more if he was going away from me, or coming towards me. Guess it didn't matter that much. Perhaps it was my inability to define my exact feeling at that time. But it is a feeling, I think I never felt again. 

Age and Grace

Life is a long tunnel of questions where every now and then we pass by an answer. Momentarily it lights up our way and then we hit the next crossroad of uncertainty. If you are afraid of darkness, practice closing your eyes, take a deep breath and take a step. 

As I entered the bookstore, I wondered why I was so afraid to feel uncomfortable. Even the imagination of discomfort made me feel uneasy.

And hence I wonder if to age, is to be too afraid to move forward. Too scared to lose the amassed sense of comfort over the years. And to spend time romanticising a past, clutching it tightly,  reminiscing it, even making up memories to fill in some blanks and letting the mind play tricks where necessary.

Is grace the art of cool composure that you gain with the experience of your practiced self-act? to feel comfortable in the knowledge of an image that we call ourselves? Why would we allow ourselves then to be lost, to struggle, to flounder any more? 

Is it appropriate to match the mess that we are on the inside and let it show on the surface? 

Am I allowed to age gracelessly?