Its middle of the night here, there is a lot of silence around, people are sleeping, even those who might have had a good love making session are having a sound sleep that took birth out of tiredness, there might be people on the streets, as they say, criminals, who are trying to mess around but all very quietly. I can’t hear them move. Sitting in my room, which I say is mine but it is not. A sheer sense of belonging is still alive but somewhere, someday it will change.
I stand by a tinted glass plane, stick my self on the cold glass, my nose almost squashes against it, I can feel my lips touching it, the cold surface. I am trying to keep my eyes wide open until it all gets too hazy, to see and when I just lean tight, too tight, I can feel the end, cold, pale, end of the glass through which I am seeing my world, at least I am trying to.
I have been living for 20 years now and in a world that has stretched longevity medically it is too less. My life is very scaterred just like the pages in which I write my songs, my poems,my ideas. They are all loose pages which gets blown whenever there is a gusty wind, I run to collect them back just to dump them carelessly on an untidy table. My parents, they are very dear to me, they will be but somehow I know I have lost them to my absurdities. They have been fighting a lot and I have been witnessing it, somewhere, in those days, I have lost the attachment that I had with them and the distance has grown so much that I have completely forgotten those innocent battling of my eyelids when my dad scolded me. I am always on my toes, I dream too much to make them into a reality for me. There are a lot of them, too many. I love to keep my eyes closed and force myself to sleep but then there is a constant need to wake up and go about doing things that don’t give me happiness.
I used to be my daddy’s pampered child, who used to listen to anything he had to say. I was blinded by his love, I took it all until the day I realised I am losing a lot in life. My dreams were not mine that day, they were some imposed decisions packaged with a fatherly love. I decided to tear the package and I tore it.
My mother, she is a person whom I never really understood. I am angry on her, I yell out when she tries to pull me close these days, I feel sorry later and decide not to do it again but the reaction repeats itself and I feel helpless to me, my reactions.
From the day I stopped receiving support from them, I went out and unintentionally started to look for love rather a support. I am basically the girl who likes to be guided for good but sadly as of now, to people, I have emerged with an image where they consider me as a very independent girl. I am pretending very hard to keep up with my public image but at the end of the day when I am alone and have nowhere to go, I just unpack myself and let me be just me.
For the name of it, I have my set of relatives and I know they are there to claim my good but for a girl whose dawn breaks with her mother popping three pills into her mouth, choking her with the water when she is still half asleep, care has its own definitions. I am a bit tired of living up to people’s expectations everyday, tired of learning a lot to keep up with my knowledgeable peers, for I have had to discover, make, invent everything by myself, so I am here with them but a little late and that gap only I know, within me. But this tiredness doesn’t help me sleep like the people who sleep out of tiredness of work ,of love, of the all the things they have in their life.
I am still lost, I don’t know what I really, like really want to do in life. I have been like this. I live for the day. I want to be a successful woman, a singer, an actress, a director of a visual some day. I want to do all of them but I am caught in the web of prioritizing them. Yes, I can go and have a talk but I don’t really want to talk about it because at the end of the day they are only words and not the work I want to do. People, will have their reasons and I too have my own, to become stubborn, to close my doors as they have always come and went away taking a piece of me with them, as they left me. Now I am left with too less to just let it go.
My dad never believed in me. When I came out of the examination hall proclaiming I wrote good he was busy telling that I must have not understood what I have written,when I wrote a poem which people appreciated he was busy searching texts just to ensure I have not copied. When I found myself some good work, he got busy in proving that I have not made the wisest of decisions. He forgot that what I was doing made me happy and no matter what happens only the happiness inside can push me to do good in life.
People talk about me, they do because I have always been a wanderer for them, my aunt says I live a bohemian life an my mother thinks this is not a life a girl should live because I smoke, I am the bad girl to her. I don’t mind that because that thinking don’t hurt me but I mind their actions, their blatant lies to me, that hurts, it does, big time.
I don’t know what I am searching now, I just want some peace where I will not feel dejected by random people’s actions, where I need not pretend that I am just happy, where I can sit down calmly in that chair of mine to study because I love to read and know at my own pace. I want to bring myself to the composure where my thoughts will guide me through, to achieve something that makes me happy.
I have made a lot of stupid decisions, I have given into people who I know were pretending but I feel I am done doing it, pretending to be fine, pretending to be cool, presentable, apt.
I just want to go back to my study table and put my words together into a paper, arrange those loose sheets together, tie them up and make them happen. I want to read the lines written by great men of their times and just talk with them through their creations.
As I stand on the tinted glass, my nose squashed on it, my lips kissing the cold glass I can see through the haze a small little girl on her chair very meticulously trying to solve some algebra, she is too indulged in it to look back at me as realize me stare at her, helplessly.