I find it hard to deal with death. Not my own – that would be quite easy to deal with, considering I’d be dead. I have trouble dealing with people who are experiencing the death of a close one. I tend to put myself in their shoes before contemplating the best course of action and I find that in this case perhaps this might not be the right thing to do.
I’d imagine the passing away of someone close to me to be a very personal and emotional journey that I’d like to traverse of my own accord, with little to no interference or condolence from a third party. I wouldn’t like to be reminded of how sorry everyone felt for my loss. Because in more than a majority of the cases they are just words hidden behind evaporating tears. Not to say that these people aren’t following the socially acceptable norms to deal with the situation, but that is exactly what I am questioning here.
What I would like is their silent acknowledgement of the passing away of a human being and if it really means something to them, their presence at the funeral ceremony. And once the remains of the dead have been dealt away with I wouldn’t want to hear of it. It would obviously be an ongoing period of healing for me but one that I wouldn’t want to go through with constant reminders of the tragedy, padded with people’s commiserations. It’s done and dusted, now let me suffer in silence and get on with my life, the way you are.
But I’m not sure if my way is the right way. It is for me, but am I causing more pain to the person left behind, who may not opine the same way as me? Would a phone call make it easier for him, if even slightly? My disbelief makes the act awkward enough for me to avoid it all together, but I can’t help but not think about the repercussions of my actions or rather inaction.
I didn’t know your mother, but I know you and we were once friends who shared many happy moments together. I came to know of her passing away today and though my day will carry on just like any other, I know your life has been irreversibly changed forever. I acknowledge your sorrow and look forward to meeting you in happier times. May you come to terms with her death and find appreciation for the part she played in you being the person you are today.
My apologies if you expected me to have called the grieving person.
I have truly loved a girl only once in my life. They say beauty is a subjective thing. I’d have have dared you to call her anything else and bet on it too. I don’t believe in love at first sight, nor in soul mates or destiny. And that’s what makes this a bitter pill to swallow. I’ve lost her forever.
I have a very simple definition of love. If you are willing to sacrifice your life for that of another, that is the love you share for that person. I love my family, a handful of friends, my dogs and boy did I love her. She was my muse, and in more ways than one, still is. Some of my best writing was in the love letters I never wrote her. Some of my greatest inspiration I found in the music she’d sing along to and I detest. We never had a song of our own, but we’ve left back songs from which our imprint doesn’t fade away, no matter how hard I try. Neither does it help that most of them were sad songs, about love and it’s abrupt death. It was probably meant to be that way. Or at least that’s how I get myself to sleep at night.
She wasn’t on Facebook, she wasn’t on Twitter and no she wasn’t imaginary – she was perfect, my ‘nirvana’. It’s been three years now since we broke up, correction, since I broke up with her, and the emotional turmoil that has followed everyday since has made me question my own sanity. It has always been a very personal experience for me and it still is, since the handful of people that read this space barely know me. It’s probably the only reason I’m doing this.
To be honest I have moved on, but the regret of that fateful decision always seems to come back to haunt me. Will I ever be able to truly let go? I have to! I need to love again. But comparisons are inevitable and not fair at all to the person on the receiving end. Trust me, been there, done her. Will I be able to love again? Or has love bounded me? Is there someone even more special out there for me? Of course there is. But how would she feel after reading this? I cannot lie about it. It will need to be a love more passionate and truer than before, for I cannot imagine it otherwise.
There will come a time when you too feel the love that I once felt. Then you will understand. And for your sake I hope it lasts, because she won’t take you back.
At some point in my life, I want to own and work in a recreational establishment. Located in a secluded corner of a luxurious residency, a homely place, open from the wee hours of the morning to the late hours of curfew at night. Where everyone would know each others’ names, old and young alike – appropriately young naturally. A place to sit back with a smoke in one hand and a cold beverage in the other. A place known for its niche but varied taste in music. Where the food is classy and the ambiance cozy. With galleries for walls, adorned with patron’s pictures and their precious memorabilia. Warm floors and sunburned furniture, with couches big enough to make new friends everyday.
An owner for a waiter, a waiter for a friend and a friend for company. That is how I picture myself, greeting old friends from across the room while chatting up new ones over some eggnog on the house. This place would be more than anything else about the people that come here, and the memories of the times they’ve shared.
I haven’t worked out all the details yet, so it’s all still a little sketchy in my head. But one of these days, I would like to sit down and draw up a business plan for the same. It would of course have to be a profitable venture, but with a little more leeway for giving into my own indulgences. So with you as my witness, this venture is a promise. And when complete, I hope you won’t wait for an invitation, to come share a joint, at ‘The Joint’.
Now when I think back, I have so many regrets in life. But before, I would convince myself that I had no regrets. Every experience, good or bad, was something that would go on to mold my life in some small way or the other. I’d tell myself that if I hadn’t made that particular mistake, I might have never learned from it; and if I hadn’t learned from it, life might have taken a different course. Every action is a reaction to a previous action, and at a subconscious level this is us acting based upon our past experiences.
But with time, it gets harder. Convincing yourself that life wouldn’t have been better had you taken the blue pill rather than the red is a mentally sapping, incessant and futile task. So then why do we do it? I do it, because deep down, within the pits of my soul, I have regrets that I cannot get myself to forgive. Life could have and would have been different. With no surety can I say better, hence different. But then why do I regret it if it’s outcome has no surety? It took me a bit of deliberation to come up with an answer I was content with, but the answer in itself is dismaying. We (read I), regret the past only when we regret the present. I’m not as happy as I would like to be and so I carry the burden of regrets.
Now I cannot regret having these regrets, and so I fight on, continuing to live out each day in the hope that the red pill gives me a quicker death.
It’s true. Ever since I can remember I have always been an ambitious kid. Perhaps ambitious would be a more appropriate usage now, but back when I was much younger, it was more a sense of extreme individualism that made me believe that I was special – destined to be great. Call it narcissistic; I prefer to call it ambition.
Mediocrity and I don’t get along too well. I would rather not do something than be average at it. So I asked myself, “Am I that money minded a person”? Truth is, in today’s world money happens to be the best measure of success, and hence “billionaire” is a tag I could live with. A common retort is that happiness is the true connotation of success. But what if for someone, success is the true connotation of happiness? So I came to the conclusion that success was my true inspiration, with money being a convenient side effect. Convenient indeed, isn’t it?
Again, it wouldn’t be wrong to assume that this is the case for most people, if not all. So if you were happily married with two kids, living out the rest of your retired life in a condo along the beach, would you consider yourself a failure? I would. I want to be the CEO of a multinational company, renowned for his ruthlessness in business and a hearty appetite for charity. Throw in a couple law suits while I lay there on my deathbed and only then might I die with a smirk of content on my face.
How healthy is this pursuit of mine, only time will tell. But this is me, this is who I am. I wanna be a billionaire, so freaking bad.
It’s been a while. I’m finding it pretty hard to be truly inspired enough to write. Though I’ve had a pretty interesting past few weeks, weekdays are overcome with work and the lethargy that follows. Weekends seem to fly by in chaos. But this doesn’t mean I’m gonna give up. There’s so many things I want to do as well, other than writing, and so I’ll be working on creating a time table to allocate a specific time for each thing. I’d do this back in my school days and it worked then, so let’s see. I don’t want to write just for the sake of writing. As I said, I’m still trying to figure this out.
In other news, I played Football after a very, very long time this weekend. The last time I remember playing regularly was back in high school when I was quite the thing at the sport. It was a rude surprise to be average at something that defined your personality not so long ago. I had the stamina of a virgin, and a physical presence barely comparable to that of my arthritis stricken Nana; may her soul rest in peace. Of course I had to come home and contemplate hitting the gym once again, but something like that requires so much mental dedication, something I find extremely challenging since my mind craves so many other far more interesting and challenging exercises – like writing a blog post a day.