Category: Thoughts uncut

Being Messy

being messy

Whether you’re sulking about life, complaining about the neighbour’s loud kids, or panting from running away from a street dog, sometimes, one good piece of writing is all you need to calm yourself and see beyond your range of vision.

This poem was one of those. There’s so much to life than being fresh and clean all the time. There’s more than a well-made bed, laundered linen, warm meals, chilled wine, and a comfort zone.

This poem reminded me: There’s life in being messy.

Dirty Face

Where did you get such a dirty face,
My darling dirty-faced child?

I got it from crawling along in the dirt
And biting two buttons off Jeremy’s shirt.
I got it from chewing the roots of a rose
And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.
I got it from peeking into a dark cave
And painting myself like a Navajo brave.
I got it from playing with coal in the bin
And signing my name in cement with my chin.
I got it from rolling around on the rug
And giving the horrible dog a big hug.
I got it from finding a lost silver mine
And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.
I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears
And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.

– Shel Silverstein

Alone on Holidays

holidays

I might be late to talk about being alone for the holidays, but I just felt it.

I’m not one who needs someone by her side to feel wanted, or important, or significant.

I’m fine with watching The Abominable Bride alone on a Friday night. I’m happy with watching Friends with my Sunday brunch. And it never mattered to me that the Friday was Christmas, or the Sunday was Valentines Day. Because for me, they are just holidays.

But as I saw my friends, colleagues, and almost everyone else I know go home for the holidays, or ride to the city of alcohol to celebrate New Year’s Eve, I felt strange.

Strange — not lonely. I will never accept I’m lonely when I’m alone. I know the difference between the two and revere personal space. I wasn’t lonely, but I felt so “ungrown-up.”

Everyone I knew wanted to spend time with their spouses, children, and parents. When did everyone around me grow up so fast?

Now that I think of it, almost all of my acquaintances and friends are couples. They are either already married with kids on the way, or are just about to get married.

As for the single ones I know, they are too generous to barmaids to grow up.

Wondering about the strangeness of it all, I realized the people who went home to their spouses and kids at 6pm are the same ones who once accompanied me when I pulled an all-nighter. They were the first to volunteer to stay back and clean up after a party, they were the ones who’d take up customer calls from a different time zone and conduct midnight webinars. And now, by 6 pm, they’re gone from the office.

But I’m still here. And I still feel strange. But that doesn’t stop me from munching on some fried snack, drinking a cup of coffee, and laughing at Friends while nodding my approval at “Joey doesn’t share food.”

What Is The Point Of Breathing

breathing

“Breathing’s boring”

The more I think about it, the more I realize the truth in that statement. Breathing is boring. Day in, day out — inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Do it again, and again, and all over again.

Until — you reach a point where you don’t do it anymore. And — that’s all.

It’s like commuting. Like taking the bus to work; you keep going until you reach your destination, and once you’re there, that’s all. At least until the next day.

Breathing is a lot like commuting to work. For a few days, it’s interesting; you’d become aware of everything around, you’d identify some of the strain, you’d enjoy the view, go quick in some areas, and take it slower in some others.

But once you’re used to it, once you know what to expect, and the schedule by heart, it gets boring. You’d crave something more. Something more than the unnerving steadiness — of the commute, and the breathing.

Something to excite, something to raise the heart beat, a good dose of adrenaline. Without that, breathing is boring.

We need a change, a rush, a thrill. We need a life. A life that’s more than the 9–5 clock in and clock out. A life that’s more than going home to an empty life just because you have to. Because there’s no point breathing like that.

I Don’t Want to Become a Writer

infinite loop

There’s something finite about the word, “become.” As if you need to reach a level or a stage to become an official writer. As if there’s an achievable height in writing. As if conquering a peak, or a dream. You can’t dream of becoming a writer. That can’t be ambition. Because there’s no such thing as “becoming — a — writer.”

Anyone who claims they’ve become a writer is only losing their grip on reality. Because once you become a writer, you lose the ability — and the privilege — to be writing.

I don’t want to become a writer. Instead, I want to write — I want to learn to write better, and better — until I die. It’s one infinite loop. No one becomes a writer. Because writing is naught without rewriting.

Shakespeare wrote plays, but he never became a playwright. He wrote plays and sonnets until he died. And then, other people rewrote his plays and sonnets; they refined his writing to make it better — or worse; I can’t say for sure.

But I’m sure Shakespeare never became a playwright. Because if he had “become a writer,” we wouldn’t have the classics we do now.

So then, what’s the deal with “becoming a writer”? Who fixes the standards for a writer?

Agatha Christie is a writer. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a writer. And so are Chetan Bhagat and Ravinder Singh.

At what point did these people become writers? Writing a story, a book, or a piece of prose doesn’t make a writer. If that’s the threshold for becoming a writer, then every student who’s written an essay for their exam is a writer.

That doesn’t make a writer.

Real writers acknowledge the process. You publish a book, and perhaps rewrite the entire thing and republish it fifteen years later. That’s a writer.
A writer doesn’t just write. A writer rewrites. A writer knows her writing isn’t perfect and learns to learn from it, learns to live with it, and to write better with it.

I don’t want to become a writer. I want to be writing.