I always felt uncomfortable to look at similar colors in close proximity. Like pink and red, orange and gold, yellow and gold–you get the idea.
But then, during my visit to Nepal, I saw this in an antique shop. It looked to me like a bunch of wall-hangings, and the colors jumped out at me. Under normal circumstances, the entwined warm colors would have thrown me away. But perhaps it’s the subtlety of the material, it looked beautiful.
I started reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but I couldn’t even get past half of the book.
But the funny thing is that I hadn’t accepted it, until now. I tried giving it another try, again, and again. And again, and again I failed.
I just couldn’t get through it.
Perhaps it’s just me, I thought. But now, I’ve learnt to forgive myself; it’s the book. I just don’t like books like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
I only tried it because of two reasons: One, my book-freak cousin recommended it. Every time she spoke about the book, her eyes would sparkle with dream-like awe. She had warned be about the dull start, but she also told me how awesome it would get after that.
I never got to the interesting part. I couldn’t tolerate it that long.
Second reason: The title. I do this a lot. I judge a book by the cover, but more so by the title. And ever so often, I’ve been wrong. But I still stick to my instincts.
It was an attractive title. A story about a girl with a dragon tattoo. I like dragons, tattoos, and girls who get tattoos. I drooled at the title.
For all the drooling I did, the book disappointed me. With my cousin’s word, I had expected too much of the book. Perhaps it was my fault to set unrealistic expectations. Still, the fact is, I don’t like topics that the book addresses.
Of course, I enjoyed Lisbeth Salander’s attitude and arrogance. Sure, I could relate to Blomkvist’s thirst for recognition, but I did not enjoy the plot moving all over the place.
I’m uncomfortable with simultaneous subplots and empty scenes. A lot of slow-moving incidents threw me off the main plot, and I couldn’t find my way back with the same enthusiasm as before.
And so, I stopped reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I wanted to like the book. Just like so many others. People kept saying how great the book was, tying it with the author’s sinister death.
I couldn’t see it, though. I couldn’t understand why it’s such a big deal. I tried, and I failed. And disappointed. I didn’t want to hate the book.
But shit happens.
Today’s prompt was a little weird. Deprive, it said. And I at once thought of a stern mother depriving her child of ice cream. That was too obvious. So I thought of one other thing you should never deprive yourself of. I came up with a list.
Because, well, not sleeping for too long will kill you and no one wants that. Besides, what’s the worth of living if you don’t give yourself some time off?
I couldn’t help it. I have a troubled relationship with food. Sometimes, I binge, and sometimes I cringe at food. But even I can’t say no to some bread and shredded chicken.
People say it’s the most important thing for a human being. I’d agree, but only if it involves self-love. We live in a world that teaches young children to look in the mirror at hate what they see. And from what I know, a child who deprives self-love deprives life itself.
Everyone should be able to read. It’s not just a gateway to worlds as mysterious as Narnia, but a book is a treasure to cherish. Plus, you’d look cool quoting Aristotle during a fancy dinner.
To keep us going…
It’s not often that you see both tea and coffee in the same list, but I’m weird like that. I like my tea first thing in the morning. And I like it better when I make it myself. Because, sometimes, you just need tea.
Never deprive yourself the treat that is Shakespeare. From “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” to “Thou art as fat as butter,” to “All that glitters is not gold,” the man is too precious to ignore.
I might have left out a few, but that’s my list. What’s on your never-deprive-yourself-of list?
“Look on the bright side,” My friends advised me. The glass was half full. I still get to keep all that’s important to me.
I get my privacy, for starters. My phone balance wouldn’t disappear. My tee shirts will remain mine, and mine only, and my messy room would be just as I like it.
But I didn’t want the “bright side.” I got to keep my stuff, but my being felt empty. She had left me pining, and yearning for something stronger than the oxygen that puffed up my hollow insides.
I remained on my couch, in my track pants, reaching for a fifth beer, munching on the fourth burger.
It’s just a phase, people thought. I’d recover, they said, replenish, and then move on. Everyone did that.
But I remained on my couch, in my track pants, —
“Hey, why are you saying the same thing again?”
I sighed.
“It’s a narrative, honey,” I explained to my impatient wife who stared at my manuscript, scratching the side of her chin. “There are no rules.”
She gave me that look. The look she always gave me while she looked in through my eyes, into my soul before blurting out, “Oh, you writers!”
Her parents hadn’t bothered. Her classmates thought her a loser. And her teachers didn’t want to acknowledge “the weird girl” as their student.
She was weird and bespectacled. She’d have a pencil between her teeth and another behind her ear. She’d choose the notebook over the Notebook any day.
Twelve years ago, she ran away from school. To explore the world. To write.
She didn’t stop waver for one moment. And after all this time, or The Screeching Voice in My Head, came out two days ago. She hadn’t slept since.
James thrust the review magazine at her.
She opened to happiness.
The Chaos Within 