Strange how we change with time. From innocent babies who trust every tiny object and soul to fearful adults. I wish I could pin point every experience in my life and explain, in as many words, how it changed me. But I can't. Life's just a big messy goop of hours and minutes, experiences and expectations, memories and introspections of them.
Five years ago, I first learnt what romantic love is. I experienced the full extent of it first hand. Now I look back at it and realise how much I loved, how simply I loved, how freely I lived with love and how easily I got wounded by love. But five years of hard hitting truths and lessons have changed me.
Now I feel old and wrinkled inside. I do not believe in anything positive, I cannot control my cynicism when I meet someone who makes me feel warm. I don't just prepare for the worst case scenario, I automatically assume it is the only way my future can pan out. Now when I look into a man's eyes who I might possibly have a chance with, even if it is for a little while, the fear that controls me and every ounce of my being always takes over. Sometimes I think, maybe that's the reason why things never work out. Maybe I make stupid decisions, say the wrong things and develop self-harming behavioural patterns because my fear makes me. In my head I might think that this very fear is good for me, keeps danger at bay. But is it really?
It's just unfortunate, in my opinion, that life gives you so many lemons that after a point you forget something called lemonade even exists. And no matter how much you try and retrace your steps back to simpler times when your brain was less complicated and your heart was less broken, the damage is already irreparable.
The only regret I have with this circumstance is that I do not know how to be happy anymore when I see something pure or rewarding. Because somewhere deep down my doubts have already piled up till the ceiling, my fear has already started gripping my throat. What if I make the wrong move? Is it really true, or is it all a hoax? No, this seems too good to be true. Things like this don't happen in reality! Am I delusional? What do I do? Do I stop, or do I make a move?
And thus it goes on.
Looking out the window of the hospital room and munching on egg Parantha and pickles, I think to myself - what is home? Different people have different perspectives and mine is probably the same as many others out there. Home is familiarity, home is safety, home is love and protection. But what if your Home is constantly tumbling and falling and resurrecting like a phoenix out of the ashes? Home is stability, home is trust. But my Home.. my Home is more of a wreck. Every night my body aches with this odd sort of uneasiness. Like a part of me wants to escape. I know where it wants to go.. I do. But reaching that destination and finding a place to stay is a far fetched thought. You see, my Home is found in the most unstable of places. In my broken relationships, in my search for myself, in my lack of true friendship and in my uncertainties. My Home is not home at all, if we go by the dictionary. Funny thing is, my Home and I.. our feelings aren’t mutual for each other. It rejects me...
Comments
Post a Comment