Writing is like therapy. When we read somebody else’s banter of wisdom, most times it feels like a pile of crap unless it’s of course quoted by somebody with some “validation”. I have a million thoughts everyday. I can’t talk about anybody else, but I can’t stop thinking. And everytime I go back to my diary and read through its pages, I notice myself contradicting my own wise words more than anything else. Sometimes I am in awe of myself. Earlier, my writing was a flow and I envy that earlier self. Today, I feel forced. I do it out of habit, habit to keep talking to myself, habit to stay restless or to find some “meaning” every single day. It’s infuriating. I feel so old.
Just so you know and for the people who are interested in this inconsequential banter – I am in love. Unlike people who talk about the abounding beauty of love, I think it’s nothing less than a world war inside my head.
I hate it.
I liked being single. My mind used to be restless for knowledge instead of thinking about his touch the night before. I used to create stories out of my fantasies and my happy hormone used to kick in with so much of hope.
And now – I am living a nightmare. Every week and I mean – every single week is a roller coaster ride and I don’t like roller coaster rides. When I went to Imagica a few months before, I did not play a single one of those “deadly thrilling rides”. No thanks, but I would rather not kill myself with the anticipation of having a heart attack in any of those insides-coming-out-as-lungs-fall-off rides. Same reason, why I don’t watch horror films.
So basically, I don’t like being in love. But I know there’s no getting away because I have a wise side too – which knows that I am going to regret letting it go when I am all wrinkly with a cat for company. You know what comes with this “deadly feeling of love”? Possessiveness, insecurity and if you are a self critical, realistic person – then, misery. I am miserable. Yes, like crying out loud miserable. And mostly, sad. Perhaps because I know that the only person who can make me happy is the person I am in love with. And that is sad. Even if all the great lovers of the history would say that it’s not, their record of screwing up is so bad that it’s not very encouraging you see.
They say frustration is important for satisfaction. Allow me to quote this interesting piece by Adam Phillips which I picked up from my favourite website – brainpickings.org :
However much you have been wanting and hoping and dreaming of meeting the person of your dreams, it is only when you meet them that you will start missing them. It seems that the presence of an object is required to make its absence felt (or to make the absence of something felt). A kind of longing may have preceded their arrival, but you have to meet in order to feel the full force of your frustration in their absence.
Falling in love, finding your passion, are attempts to locate, to picture, to represent what you unconsciously feel frustrated about, and by.
All love stories are frustration stories… To fall in love is to be reminded of a frustration that you didn’t know you had.
I wonder if all lovers try to help themselves in their illusionistic utopian world and console themselves that it’s okay. Because in reality, they are in deep shit and there is no way one can walk out. If you are a good artist, then you are good at convincing your misery to be utopian too.
I am doing a lot of breathing exercises these days. I am not constricted up my windpipe. I am just in ridiculous pressure of being in love.
I repeat. It sucks. And like most therapy sessions, this one ends with more confusion too.