It is precisely 11:08 AM as I write this. I just took a study break and decided to read something. After perfectly wasting 5 mins of a 15 min break, I open Bukowski. And I am instantly reminded of this really famous quote, “Find what you love and let it kill you.”
And I juggle with this thought: If we go palindromes on this, does the thing that is killing me is what I really love? Because the thing that’s killing me is loneliness. After I graduated last year, I have had many breakdowns and few confrontations (one just last night). In order to avoid those confrontations, I started avoiding more people. I built a wall (stronger than what Trump intends to) not allowing even my close ones. As I entered 2017, I had decided to break that goddamn wall down. But here we are, it’s the sixth month of this year and nothing has changed. I was more social media active, no active human interaction. Until last night, when one of my confidantes ripped the bandage apart. And, it hurt. It hurt like hell (though I don’t know the status of pain in hell). He laid it open, patiently explaining why my withdrawal to a shell made me weaker rather than stronger, what I am missing out, not the Facebook and Instagram glamour, but real life connections. And, you know what? The truth is sickening, it’s evil, it’s deathly. But, just like a vaccine which may be painful at the start, but does protect you in the long run; if you accept the truth, it may hurt you but it will save you.
I still don’t know what I love, all I know is that I have to practise acceptability. No, it’s not mediocre or less courageous; it decodes the situation, giving you clarity. You start from the scratch and fail again and again and again, but as long as you keep pushing it, you’ll once reach your destined place.
Well, my break almost extended to 24 mins, 36 seconds. It’s bound to happen when you’re with Bukowski. And my tea has gone from a warm cup of happiness to a sordid cup of melancholy. Sigh! That’s why I hate tea-bags and prefer to brew my own tea. Leaving you with some lines by Bukowski:
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
and we sleep together like
and it’s nice enough to make a man
weep, but I don’t