Skip to main content

Fear

Fear of the unknown is the greatest fear. But i chose to be different, not agreeably enough though. I fear. Yes. But of things people laugh at.
This fear in me usually takes a form of mild depression, ultimately resulting in multitudes of tears. Initially people sympathised, few empathised, but naturally no one understood the cause of this kind of, other-worldly outbursts that i had. In many instances, i called up people i thought could probably make me feel better, or least, would understand what i am going through. I spoke to people ranging from my parents, my brother, cousins, my closest friends from school, until this time i never took it seriously, and so din't they. Further more, it had kind of become a joke amongst people who knew me. I needed to talk to some one who was just completely from the other side of the world, i mean just like the anonymous traveller, who would pause from his journey and listen to me. Listen to me and do what, that i never pondered.

I think it was two years, two years of my life i ignored myself. These calls from my inner self. I know i am not one of those serious kinds. God forbid if i ever have to be one.

I randomly started sulking, for no apparant reasons. It would be the occasions that made me sulk, i soon realised. For instance, i sulked before any celebration, be it my birthday, a friend's birthday, anything. Nights made me gloomy. I began sulking at random nights. I ve had Diwali nights where i spent the biggest festival of my house, crying throughout, alone under the covers all night. Makes sense? No. Not even to me. Not even to those who spoke to me about it, trying to figure out my problem, a genuine attempt. The thing is, even after all this consoling business, who would like to stay with a cry-baby. The general psyche tells you to not be with such people. So do i. I never wanted to be such a person, like crying to the extent of supressed depressions. Trying being this for once.
Its a mess.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Block by Block

OVERCOMING THE SO-CALLED 'WRITER'S BLOCK ' Writing is a measure of emotional intelligence. Why would i say that? Maybe because the first-time writing experience din't last long enough. It was moving. It grew with time. & then faded away in the memory of glory. Where does it come from? True to the heart, even rubbish sentences & word salads sound great when they're penned down by deep-seeded need to explore the long lost aspects of the self. Its been 2 years I havnt written anything meaningful. Did something stop me? No. Dint anything motivate me? Countless things did. Then what went wrong? Its the process. Words flew around in circles & giant tornadoes. Sentences kept forming as words settled into their positions. An idea was born. However, it was soul less. Becoming who you are, finding the one thing you really like, and then the disturbing thoughts of having to let it go. Save the heart. Save the soul. Save the words.

Glass house and the Nerdy Dreamer.

Stop thinking. Will you ever do that, given the fact that someone asked you to do it? You’d probably ‘think’, and then ask that person, ‘…and do what? And what do I get in return, if it’s an experiment? And why me? …’ If you belong here, I shall tell you my story. Before that, are you one of those people, who get loved by others, and then are left to their own, only to know that they should wait for someone better in life, because they deserve better? Each one of us, we, 6 billion people on this earth, has a story. One that talks about us. One that is unique in more than one way. 6 billion stories that is. But do we ever think about it. No, no one really cares. No one does. I have my own work, my problems, my people, my dreams, my nightmares… Everyone has a story. I have one too. One that’s worth telling. One that’s worth listening. I am a girl of no problems. I live in my own little world I prefer calling … ‘the world’. And by that you guessed it right, I hate to think, be it naming m...

Shelf of unread books

'Where to mister?" she yelled at me from a distance, loud enough for everyone to notice.  "Hey, I'm not some kind of a thief, just looking around, grabbing a book to read. That's what they're meant for, right?" "Yea, if you pay for it!" "Of course, here." I paid for the stack of papers bound together in knots of tiny rounds, filled with words that were about to change my life. As I walked home, I was beaming with a sense of refreshment. I hadn't read a book in months, and calling myself an avid reader wasn't true anymore. It was a cold Saturday afternoon, and I was dreaming about a warm coffee in my balcony with my book. However, my footsteps had a different afternoon planned for me. "No, sir. Dalal Street is where I want to go. Could you help me?" I heard an unfamiliar accent from the corner of the street. "Seedha rasta hai" "What?" "It's straight from this turn, approximat...