Before I got my pen and paper, I decided to take a good long look in the mirror. No, not out of vanity but merely out of curiosity. Because, you see, six months ago, the person at the other end staring back, she used to almost know it all, she would provide me with biased, concrete, direct answers, answers to questions I never even thought I had, simplified truths I didn't want to (or have to) admit to myself. Today, finding myself in need of some heart to heart assistance, I went back there. I hoped, with every cell in body lacking melanin, that given everything that happened, nothing changed. So I waited. I looked and I waited. At one point, I think I started losing her. Nothing, not even a nod or anything resembling a twitch. Okay, maybe it was a bit naive of me to think that after all this time things would stay the same. Truth is, few things do, and the way I see it, change, as drastic and overwhelming as it may be at times, is life's way of telling us we're growing up. You can fight it, you can try to ignore it, but it's there, it's inevitable, and you just have to learn to live with it. Most probably, change is life's way of telling us to stop hiding behind mirrors in search of emotionally exhausting expensive answers and just get on with it. Because if the person in the mirror would care to reply, she would probably tell me to just shut up, reminding me that my crave for change is what started all of this in the first place.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Let me tell you a little story. But wait, before I go any further, you should know that this story is not real and that any resemblance it may have to a true story is purely coincidental (no it's not). You may find yourself enjoying it, you may even relate to it, or you may think it's crappy or cheesy, in which case I will totally understand. Anyway, enough with the chitter chatter, and here we go.
There once lived a little boy in a little house in a little village in the middle of a little island. This little boy, he loved everything about his life. He appreciated the fact that he could talk to trees whenever he wanted to, he was absolutely fascinated by the way the deep blue sea and the big beautiful sun made love to each other on an almost cold yet still somehow warm September morning, he loved seeing the flowers smile as the gentle breeze caressed their innocent pretty faces. Mostly though, he just enjoyed taking it all in, bit by bit, second by second, hour by hour. He knew that everything he would ever need was right there, right there in front of him. He was sure that no matter what life held in store for him, that that was going to be enough.
And then the little boy grew up, and it wasn't. It was no longer enough. He knew that eventually, sooner rather than later, life, and his love for the little things, would come running back to him. So he waited. He was always a patient boy, and so waiting had never been too much of a problem for him. He waited, on the front porch, for the caterpillar to metamorphose into a beautiful butterfly, for his little brother to come back home to him, for winter to turn into spring and then into summer. Yes, this little, now grown up boy, had no trouble with waiting.
And then he grew up a little more, and he got tired of waiting. His little house in his little village on the little island stopped giving him everything he once thought was everything. Or maybe it didn't exactly stop. Maybe, just maybe, he just stopped seeing it. And so, with his heart on his shoulders, he did what he thought was best, not for everyone, just for him. He was not selfish or anything, he just felt like he needed to do it, he felt like he had to. So he left.
He left and he kept on leaving. Eventually, he settled in one place, on another island, a much bigger island (not much sunnier though). Here, the people were different, maybe better different, maybe not. He still hasn't figured that one out yet. What he realised though, was that on this island, being different, weird rather, was okay. It's okay to talk to trees, to smile to yourself in public, to have an existentialist crisis (whatever that means). It's okay to just be you, good and bad.
He misses his little island sometimes, the sea and the sun making love, the sand looking at both of them and cracking a smile while trying to close his eyes. Oh yes, he misses it. But it wasn't his fault it stopped giving him what he thought he needed. It wasn't his fault that he grew up. He never asked to grow up. "Growing up is for amateurs", he thought.
So now, an expert on growing up, he decided to make a very elaborate plan. Okay, maybe not that elaborate. He decided, once and for all, that against all odds, he is going to stop growing up. Not in a Peter Pan kind of way, but rather in a boy-with-his-heart-on-his-shoulders kind of way.
Because only then would he be able to go back to his little island and feel as if nothing has ever really changed.
The End. (or The Beginning).
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Nevermind, it was all just a dream, and what you think just happened, didn't, what you thought was real, isn't. Because the unavoidable truth about reality is that it doesn't exist. It is only real for the people who believe in it. For those who don't, it's just a heavy burden. Reality is nothing but a cloud in the sky giving you the wrong kind of impression. It's an almost tangible optical illusion. It's a mother load of memories stuck meticulously together, side by side, on a bedroom wall. It's a trick no one wants to discover, a parrotlike belief involving a rabbit (or a parrot) magically coming out of a replica of Sir Abraham Lincoln's top hat without any hidden agendas. Yes, reality is basically just an imagination. But then again, what if this reality is unreal making the unreality real, what then? What if this is real? What if this is actually happening? What then?
Wait.. but this isn't real, is it?
Wait.. but this isn't real, is it?