On being in-existent

When the tides of emotions rise like a tsunami and fall into cracks like an earthquake, there is nothing, no- thing to save. And when there is simply no- thing to save what shall one get by saving beings?

 The depths of the forest are so dark that stepping in for a trek seems like a foolish idea. But what do you do when you know that the only way to get going is by finding the very map which, inside the very forest, holds the answers to your future life? With weak steps you move nonetheless. The fear walks on one side and the courage on the other. In between walks a being of insurmountable potential often beating itself over the obstacles that come in its way. Perhaps it’s the easiest thing to give up on life when you know that the quicksand will gobble you up as you decide between losing and fighting. That’s what wallowing in grief makes people do: to give up on not just one’s dreams and endeavours but on one’s life. A second look makes one think “There’s a reason I came this far, with all the hurdles that came my way. If that is the case, giving up would not only be a coward act but missing out on a bright future which holds the promises of tomorrow!” But, like many other stories here’s a but too. It is of the never ending struggles, the anguish, the unspoken needs and the ever destructive masked face of anger. The cloak of this but is a long one. Every part of the body covers itself, feeling filthy and disgusted. The wonder is, amidst all this “how is it still surviving?...... How?”

Know Thyself

She says that having courage does not mean that we are unafraid. Having courage means that we have faced our fears. We are able to say “I have fallen but I will get up”. As she listens to these words of wisdom, tears choke up her throat. There is a her-story ( not history) that lies behind the choke felt in the throat. Thinking of the days where she had struggled, alone, brings immense pain. Every day was about fighting with the weak spirits, a tornado, tugging on the door and thrashing on the window pain, of a room she called her ‘home’. Every night, the waters of anguish would get dried on the pillow she would try to rest on. The next morning, cloaked in the colors of her clothes, she would stride, to face the dreariness and the new-ness that the day would bring along. There were some days which would teach her so much about the pain of others that her fears seemed like a tiny ant in front of an elephant. Each day she tried to be grateful for things she had and people she met. There were days she would be so absorbed by the cacophony of existential questions, that the thought of leaving the life offered more solace than finding the answers. But she knew that life was a gift, that no matter how much she cursed and berated herself, there were parts of her which she loved. The only difference was that she had stopped loving herself. Life had become a never ending struggle of proving her worth to people around. Faith and Hope had become her long lost friends. In the midst of all this, she continued to rise. She had heard someone say “Fall down seven times, stand up eight”. In fact she had become habitual of standing up so much that she lost the count.

Today the struggle continues. With-in self. There are a million tug of wars that have churned out threads of this ball of heart. The mind is rest-less. Peace is yearned for. At times she wonders “Does peace feels peaceful enough? Or is it just our projection of how peace is synonymous to bliss?” Life never stops; volcanoes shall erupt, waters shall rise and earth shall split, yet life shall continue…..Till when? She asks…….

A whisper says“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them”

With tears streaming down her face she said “ I’ll try” as she always did…………

P.S: The lines in italics in the beginning and at the end have been said by Maya Angelou.

questions

One after another pops up

Stifling, stifled, losing it’s form

Of existence, belief, faith and doubt

Their ears can’t hear

The thousand voices in their heads

The eyes cant see

For they are blind to the light around

Ripples are identified

The horizon in distance

Too far to walk or swim

The birds fly away

To homes they built together

Here the pieces are broken

Waiting to be born, to form

Waiting…..waiting.....