Life Itself

You know the real me? The one underneath all those layers? The real me that feels safe, secure and happy? The real me that doesn't care or wonder about your intentions? The real me that has an unconditional need to give? The real me that smiles at simple things and needs basic memories? The real me that cherishes old letters and torn photographs, that never throws away a thing? The real me who could sit by an ocean forever? The real me that loves to laugh till my stomach hurts? The real me that enjoys the sun on a cold winter morning and would be happy to laze on a bed in the lawn all day? The real me that loves to dance but only when no one is watching? The real me that can stare endlessly at the night sky? The real me that can sense and feel everything? That real me is the me I love you from.

Something you said struck me. 'We don't usually talk about these things to each other so reading all this intrigues me, like you are a different person.' So I am wondering. Is it that I am a different person in writing than I am in reality? Or is it that there are so many versions of me that if two friends were to describe me independently, they wouldn't be able to tell that its the same person they are talking about? Lately I have been thinking about this a lot. About what's my first impression on someone. Whether I come across as arrogant, as friendly, as warm, as cold. Sometimes what you think of yourself and what others think of you can be so diametrically opposite that it seems almost like someone is lying. And then you dig deeper and you ask the basic question. Are you coming across a certain way out of defense? Are you trying too hard, thereby defeating the purpose? Life has a strange way of bringing us to our demons and making us stare long enough that t

You know how you and I laughed until sunrise, through all the disaster? That's how I want to spend the rest of my life. That moment with ants crawling on you, with the coffee in my hands and the vast expanse everywhere we looked. That's how I want to talk every evening. Or that story you told her about us while I looked on baffled. I want that to be our real story. The secret superman moment or the crazy star gaze. I want those to be forever moments. The way you pulled me, firmly, far, but close, or the way you held me. That's how I want to feel everyday. Your intense intensity, your gentle gentleness, your sincere sincerity. You, in all your you-ness, just the way I like it.

Sitting in a moving car, reading, listening watching. Thinking. There, that's the tough part. Talking in a random conversation, analysing, dissecting, questioning, completing. Listening. There, that's the tough part. Walking into a room full of strangers, smiling, staring, pretending, shuffling, hiding. Security. There, that's the tough part. Starting something new, passionately, aggressively, relentlessly. Completing. There, that's the tough part. Waking up, fully energised, ready to go, to conquer everything. Early mornings, there that's the tough part. Loving for the first time, consuming, filling up, falling. Staying, there that's the tough part.

Every year, I think about you. Not too many times, but consistently, a few times. And each time I am not sure how I should feel. There is a vague sense of loss, a subtle tinge of abandonment, a painful realisation of independence. But mostly, there is just a numb nothingness.   Who were you? I am not even sure I remember your face. Your smile, yes. Your eyes, too. But in pieces, in context. I can't imagine your reaction in a new situation. I can't see you as you may have become. I can only see the frozen moments that I have embalmed in my head.   I wonder if you feel the need to see me. If you imagine what it may feel like to talk to me now. If you wish you had known me all this time. If I am even a real person to you. If you have convinced yourself that I don't exist.   Perhaps it isn't as simple as moving on, as erasing, as avoiding. Maybe it's an intense removal, a complete denial. I don't hate you. I don't love you. It's an absence of anything ta

I remember that time. You and I both woke up so early in the morning. Maybe it was 4 am. Who knows. We spoke like it was the last time we would get to talk. And I remember crying. Not because I was leaving, but because I was leaving you behind. Who knew, 15 years later, nothing would change. Yes, we grew up. Yes, our lives became more difficult, more complex. Yes we made new friends. Yes, we went in different directions. But today, as we sat together, I knew nothing had really changed. You were still looking out for me. I was still my slightly forgetful, slighty spaced out, very excited self. You were still your very eager, very caring self. With some people, life changes things. With others, the foundation is so strong that it's impossible to shake. You fall in the latter category. No matter where we go, the ease with which we can simply coexist and talk about nearly anything, is one of a kind. To me, that's real friendship.

I don't know what it's about the sea. But when I stand on the sea shore, there is a strange, never ending calm that begins to wash over me. It's not like the sound of water by itself is soothing, or the salty wind in my air is exhilarating. But there is something simple in that moment that makes me feel at ease. A feeling that is usually hard to come by.

I can tell you in many ways that I love you. I can tell you about how your smile makes me smile. About how your sheer presence makes me cheerful. I can relish in the many simple feelings that envelope me in your presence. I can write endlessly about the character and meaning you add to my life. I can see and sense and feel, every way in which you fulfill me. But how do I tell you that all that is not enough? How do I tell you that when the time is wrong, even love isn't enough? How do I break your heart, knowing fully well that I will regret it the very next second? How do I stop leading you on, when leading you on is the only thing that's keeping me from going insane? How do I tell you I love you, without it breaking you? How do I tell you I love you, and not love you?

When you feel death come towards you, fast, really really fast, what do you do? Do you shut down? Do you give up and wait hopelessly? Or do you start living with a new found urgency, packing everything you can into the last few days, hours minutes? And if you do, what do you fill them with? With last minute wishes? With apologies, last words, goodbyes? With travel, with books, with movies? With new things, with old things? If someone told you, you were going to die, would you change how you lived your life? Would you have loved more, lived more? Would you have taken more vacations, danced more? Would you write that book, with all its truth? Would you have called the people that disappeared? Would you have done something different?

I opened your empty house and saw everything. That main door, that name plate, the easy couches, the glass, the water, the boxes, the cupboard above the door, the balcony, the orange border, the oversized furnishing, the lace, the hung shirts, the towel rod, the tiles, the paint, the gas, the plates, the curtains, the rug, the glass shelf, the tap, the plants, the bowl, the heater, the speakers. It felt like my home. And then, just like that, it was your home, and I was only a stranger trespassing.

I have partly accepted your silence. Your choice to ignore, to pretend, to forget. I have mostly embodied your distance. Your sudden change of mind, your near indifference. I have nearly understood your intention. Your unbecoming smile, your blank eyes. I have barely felt your unending discomfort. Your unrelenting confusion, your one-more goodbye.

There is a moment. That small chance to retract and change your mind. There is always that almost-hesitation. Because humans are like that. We mostly can't be strong willed enough to just stick with the decision. In that split second, before we jump, we always stop and question. But with you, there was none of that. It was simple, straightforward. Maybe because you never left any room for doubt. Maybe because your strength and conviction were so strong, my hesitation didn't stand a chance. I have had too many experiences of involuntary action to know that this wasn't even that. This was merely knowing that at some deep level, I could simply depend upon you. That somewhere, there was no need to watch my back. That you had your arm securely behind me, in the off chance I would trip. There's too many reasons to not believe, to never believe. Too many experiences that convince you otherwise. But then there's you. And there's every reason to let go off fear, to s

That heady mix of what I would like to do versus what I should do. That rhetorical question of yes or no. How do you go backwards when your foot is stuck on the accelerator? You turn my world into a ball of questions. You take ordinary everyday and make it look incomplete. You start at the end and smile as I try to catch on. You casually slip into my world and don't even look for permission. Simple. Yes. Magical. Yes. And that's where the record gets stuck.

You remember that phone call? The simple question, the complicated answer? You remember that email? The honest confession, the complete denial? You remember that fight? The insane aggression, the innocent surprise? You remember that threat? The blatant force, the meager push-back.You remember that list? The itemized oppression, the stupid assent? You remember the pieces? The gruesome look, the fearful eyes? You remember that blackmail? The suicidal tendency, the gullible night? You remember the desertion? The empty street, the lonely find? You remember the music? The polar confusion, the naive cessation? You remember the silence? The deafening vacuum, the tragic sigh? You remember those tears? The careless laughter, the unassuming plight? You remember the blaming? The careless pin-pointing, the quiet lies? You remember the escape? The casual manipulation, the honest fright? You remember the speed? The near stop, the begging twice? I hope you remember. For, I forget. 

'Everyone has at least one secret that will break your heart.' Each time I meet someone new, it is almost a quest to dig deep enough to see that which makes them who they are. Whenever I have spent the time, I have never been surprised by shallowness or disappointed by predictability. It is because we settle at the surface, because we don't begin to probe, that we aren't awed by just how beautiful ordinary people are. 

Perchance, I caught your eye. It was a fleeting moment, A simple Hi. You were mostly speaking About nothing at all I was mostly listening to nothing at all. There was no game, no players, no bets, no rules, nothing set. All lines fairly blurry. All boundaries slowly melt. Friends? Strangers? No conditions, no reason to fret. What about awkwardness? I asked. What about it? You said.  

Wait, stop, consider. Question, wonder. How could life lead you so gracefully to perfection? I have never known things to 'just' work themselves out. There has to be a catch right? There has to be story, a trilogy, an epilogue? Or does there? What about the real possibility of near completion. A chance of almost fitting all the pieces, of finally seeing my masterpiece, crafted and painted in every single hue - out for the world to watch. I have always believed in grey, in confusion, in what could-have-been, what should-have-been. But this is here and now. This deserves action. This deserves to be acknowledged, experienced, fully comprehended and accepted. This deserves more than a mere cynicism. Because if this isn't it, then what is?

We were so close to perfect, so near completion, so well pieced together. Until we we were just not. Sometimes it takes you many months - many cycles, before you figure out that what you see is only a shadow, only a mirage, only an illusion. Reality is 'un-perfect'. It doesn't care for emotion, for sensitivity, or even for compassion. Reality is brutal, honest, straightforward. Reality says it like it is -black & white. Grey shades only exist in the blank spaces between denial and acceptance. The moment you crossover, its fairly simple. Either its good, or its bad. Either its right, or its wrong. The only questions then are those that live in the hope of white, of good, of righteousness. Everything else stares you blankly in the face.  Intellectually, I know this better then most other people. I can slice the problem, dissect it into all its views, state it clearly and present the most rational prognosis. But does that really count? When the question confronts you

Nothing goes as planned. You were an accident. A chance, a mistake. If I could, I would redo I would erase the mischance, I would rewind to our day. Everything will change. Nothing will stay the same. You & I will move on. Maybe I will hold your hand. Maybe I will kiss you goodbye. Maybe you will stay. 

What does it really mean? All of this shiny-sparkly-attractive mess? What does it mean to have to wake up without an alarm clock? To get up, because you simply couldn't sleep any longer? To lie down only when your eyes can't take it anymore? To talk like a strange person who has a million simultaneous thoughts? To listen, but mostly pretend. To have a million thoughts cross your mind, a million lists on every page of every notebook you ever owned, a million things, and very very little time? What does it really mean? All this powerful-driven-crazy mess? What does it mean to know that you are the last word on something? To have people look at you for answers? To not have a back-up, a safety-net, any option? To have all eyes glued, all attention received, all ears in your direction? To hear the applause, but not feel it? To reach a point of so much crazy that even dinner seems like an indulgence? To listen to your own story and not relate to it? What does it really mean?

[For the last two years I have been putting up an end of year post: 2010 , 2011 . This year, I turned this blog off sometime in July. Now this post needs context, so here I am posting again.... something's are so hard to let go off.] You were a year of turmoil. A year of change. A year of growing up. 2012, I never should have let you have your way with me. You were uncertainty  You were pain. You were the incomplete lyrics of the poem that never became. You were the start of the end. You were the road's last bend. You were achievement. You were insane. 2012 started off as a year on drugs - quitting my job, setting up my start-up,  and somewhere in between finding, losing and finding myself again. I learnt that real friends stay with you, even when you give up on them. I learnt that people change, that some places do too, that some always stay the same. I learnt to depend, I learnt to trust, I learnt to let people in. I learnt to halt. I learnt that things that hurt are