The clock shows a little before it hits quarter to 5. I’m half sprawled across my ginormous bed, trying to toss and turn myself to slumber, somehow not quite succeeding.
In a frenzy to find a purpose, my left arm reaches out to the night stand, fumbling through a stack of old, degenerate writing pens, and the right one ambiguously scales across the pile of books, who’ve mystically grown fond of the right side of my bed.
The exchange happens.
I look through my journal, something I have maintained since I could write sentences, although my devotion is admittedly uneven.
At a glance, my retired years(which aren’t too many, just enough to build character), granted themselves before me and I poked around. I observed how difficult it was to be someone the world finds charming, someone who satiates the conventional image held out blatantly, and leveraging this quotient of disparity, how there is nil fuss in evolving into yourself.
Have you ever felt living through life, thinking and doing things all along because you have been put on a pedestal, and expected to mirror the reflection of somebody’s unsteady, preposterous imagination ?
The answer doesn’t quite matter here, the question being rhetoric. Just for the record, we all have.
It is almost always a fulfillment to know that the circle of humans around you, look up to you and love you. Always something to feel warm about inside when you are being counted on. People set parameters for you to indulge into, and no matter what, some of those people strike off no conditions on their list before loving you. Effectively, whether you make them proud or dishearten them, you love them, reciprocating theirs in much great a measure.
In all this poignancy and wistful exchange of affection, there stands but one question, nudging at me, and I’m disconcerted. Visibly so.
Have we loved ourselves, fairly and enough ?
Contemporary drama, in no way, leaves room for self introspection and perspective. For some, the space is defined by just that(shout out to Colorado). It has become too challenging to look away from the competition culminating into wars before us, and get comfortable in our own skin. We are always in motion, pushing ourselves through meaningless jobs, relationships, deeply convinced with the miracle of a MBA degree (the more overseas, the better), piling ourselves with over-achieving examples in galore.
They are not altogether redundant, and not for everyone. Exceptions, examples, tralala.
Once in a while, it is greatly helpful to stand back, way back and watch ourselves being tardy, irresponsible, emotional, cold and purely dawdle in self-awe. It is valuable because it makes us see the years that have gone by, as comforting streaks which have made us the person we are, making us love ourselves and accepting the fault lines better.
Be proud of what you have accomplished, revel in the success of the love you have accumulated in all the years, learn from your mistakes, and find dignity in your decisions.
Self love is self doubt, and only when we can doubt, can we hope to ascertain ourselves.
And not just shape a person who has succumbed to diktats, never fully acknowledging an action from a reaction.
While internet and media would, if given fair chance, transform us into Kim Kardashian’s sculpted derriere, let’s not fall prey to the mediocrity of standards set by people and seek ‘acceptance’, only to learn that no such term is acceptable to the world. This concept of satisfaction is as unreal to the world, as it is real to us, because such delusions can hope to exist only within oneself.
There is no ahead or behead in the game, there is me, who has to live with myself and my choices, and they sure as heaven, cannot be someone else’s.
In between the times that have so willfully attempted to hide beneath the decadence of years, I see that I have grown, grown up to love the versions I was, and the one I am determined to become.
I return my sword to it’s sheath, lucid of sleep, cocoa is next on this rogue mind.