The Pamphlet of Endings

For the last couple of months, there has been quite the lover’s spite between my writing and I. Perhaps our egos came in between; perhaps my muse wasn’t particularly inclined to make me “bleed” over the paper, like I often hold an obnoxious proclivity to describe it as such.

You see, I had commenced on a journey, both physical and mental, and at the end of either, I have found myself beyond exhausted, my bones broken by the weight of the world I have always carried on my rather fragile and useless shoulders.

I realize it takes courage, takes courage to finally admit today that I am so, so, so very exhausted. Perhaps I can only say this out loud because I have no desire to publish this little piece of writing on any public forum. Maybe that little luxury makes me spill my metaphorical beans.

I had been somewhere between 13 and 14 when I had first desired to be a writer, and that didn’t occur in some grand epiphany. There was, sadly, no drama involved. Just me, an awkward adolescent then, scribbling my heart out in my rather weather-beaten journal, only to realize by the end of the night, that I had actually started writing a full-fledged story instead.

Now that I look back upon it, perhaps I was more of a realist back in the day than I am now. I knew that being a writer wouldn’t be a particularly easy journey; that I would require a stable job, so to speak, to fund my rather arduous literary quest. But somewhere between getting diagnosed with clinical depression and a whole lot of substance abuse (rebellious teenage stands to be my favorite part of my rather young life, till date), I guess I started believing in dreams. I believed that the world had a tiny alcove for dreamers too, frozen in time between all the practical realists that loiter day in and day out of our lives. Maybe that was the first mistake of my ordinary life.

Love has a funny way of finding you in the most inopportune of times. My love stories are interspersed as such, I believe. I do not remember where exactly it all went wrong, with all my “what-ifs” sewn together like a garland of reminders of how truly, irrevocably lonely life is. Was it with the boy who found me too late in life, when he had already found the woman he called his lover, or was it the broken girl whom I constantly sought out to build a home for, even in my brokenness? Whatever be the case, as I sit on a rather dreary day at my favorite café, reminiscing about my incomplete love stories, I cannot help but feel like the picturesque twin of the bejeweled woman who waited for decades, pining for a lover who promised his return. I realize I feel closer to a painting of a fictitious woman in a rather cliché film than any real human I have encountered in my life. Maybe flirting with fiction all my life, instead of staying faithful to my reality, is the second mistake of my ordinary life.

I wish I could tell you my blunders number only to a measly trifecta, but the truth is that I have lost count over the years. Maybe my mistakes have been piling up, one on top of the other, like walls that surround me, hide me, choke me from the world outside. Maybe I waited too long to be called the home to someone’s world, maybe I waited too long to find the world in someone. Whatever be the case, I believe the bricks are the mistakes I made, and the mortar my own regrets. You see, I am quite capable of building a home with my miseries.

So I had decided to run away from it all. Run away until my feet bled, until I crossed borders, until faces changed, until I found a place where no one knew my name. I thought I could outrun my past, I thought I could walk away from my old life, and build something new, but I also realize I am a petty dreamer who believed too much in her storybooks than her singular reality. Perhaps only in books the protagonist is given the luxury to walk away from his/her past and build something new. Perhaps only in books we can find an Edmund Dantes or an Amy Dunne. We are never truly gone, we are never truly changed. We are just effigies of our old half-burned selves.

And now that I have come home again, a little more broken, a little more battered, older, wearier and weighed by the corpses of my dead dreams, I realize that I finally know what endings look like. When I had first scribbled and completed the first draft to my still-unpublished novel, when the last words had fallen off from my mind and into the MS word document, I had thought I had known what endings resembled. I had thought that the peace I had felt was the end of the journey. But the truth is I had only been waylaid into believing sweet-nothings by the childlike euphoria of finishing a story. Stories never end, they live on, sometimes when we trace their spines and read their words off the pages in years to come, and sometimes in just redolence of its memory.

But life does end. Life needs a full stop at the end. And there is no peace there. No closure, no solace, only a raging numbness that threatens to drown you under. Sometimes, you give in, sometimes you fight. Whatever be the case, we always turn into dust buried underneath an ocean. Endings aren’t peaceful, endings aren’t formed of bittersweet smiles and half-lidden eyes. But endings are beautiful, just the same. After all, they always said sunsets are breathtaking, didn’t they?

“Still there. Still there. Gone.”

Somewhere between childhood and the pangs of first love, I discovered that I craved nothing more than conversations.

Conversations, heart-wrenching, soul-crushing, alive-in-this-moment, words-existing-beyond-lifetimes conversations.

And in every turn, in every new love, in every new touch, I think some part of me has been searching for words, and forever shall.

Richard Linklater’s trilogy came into my life in such a way, when I had traveled across the lanes and by-lanes of the city, sitting for hours at cafes or by the banks of the city’s mud-worn river banks, it had come to me in silence, in fleeting nudges and somehow I had found myself engrossed, enthralled and enlivened in a matter of some ninety minutes.

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Some movies you grow with, some movies come find you in their own time, and only a few grow with you. The Before trilogy consisted of those few movies that grew with me. Somewhere between watching and re-watching them in the wee hours of the morning, being entangled with Celine’s beautiful accented English and Jesse’s lovelorn eyes, I discovered the secrets of the universe.

The idea that even a day, even a moment, is enough to live a lifetime, when encumbered solely of words, mesmerized me. And perhaps I grew up romanticizing the very idea of it, that two days (Before Sunrise and Before Sunset) are enough to decide you want to live with someone till your very last breath, because all you need to do is take the leap.

My words, I realize, are unmeasured in this moment. It lacks the competence of a generally well-researched blog post, but the truth is that no matter how many times I try watching these three films as research, I fail miserably.

From the evening lights of Vienna to the sun-kissed Seine of Paris, I traveled every time with Jesse and Celine’s words, with their reticence, with their longing, with their cynicism, with their dreams.

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And the best part of this trilogy is that it is not fictional, not really. It has the coarseness of mundane reality, it lacks the magic of falling momentarily in love with a person instead of their memories, and it profoundly glistens over the hesitation of two adults fearing to believe in happy endings again.

Before Sunrise was a prelude to the swansong of their love story, it still existed in the mystic land between dreams and reality, of two people connecting intimately without having to touch one another just yet, all for a snap of serendipity. But Before Sunset was rawer, grounded further into the heart of reality, almost lost like their souls, but still withstanding the barrages of cynicism. Yet it is Before Midnight that most lingers in my heart. A film where Linklater masterfully exposes the bare intricacies of the so-called happy endings, of failed loyalties and burgeoning insecurities.

I remember the moment when Celine talks about her fears, how she feels that now, in her fifties, if she sat by the same train to Vienna, Jesse would never come and speak to her, never realize the story that awaited them. And I knew that Linklater’s voice was clear, resounding, and hollowed by the truth that happy endings don’t really exist, that endings are just the oversimplifications of moments still left un-lived and unexplained.

Because Before Midnight thwarts you, it thwarts you to rethink the rose-tinted glasses you cannot stop wearing while watching the two preceding films. And those moments, when Celine confesses that she no longer loves Jesse, or the one where she acutely realizes how very different they are, and their togetherness is just a freakish absurdity, it makes me believe that crumbled realities are still art.

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And love doesn’t really win in this love story, not by a far shot. Reality takes that victory cake, sometimes even at the cost of leaving a bittersweet aftertaste in your mouth. And it is not perfect, it is not the ending you wanted, it is not even something you wish to see, but believe me, you need to. I needed to, because even imperfections can be excruciatingly beautiful.

And this is me. This is you. This our reality. This is flawed. But for now, it is enough. Because in this moment, it is, “Still there. Still there,” until tomorrow, when it is “Gone.”

Go Make a Home for Yourself Today

A wise woman once said, ‘Even being alone, it’s better than sitting next to a lover and feeling lonely,’ and I wouldn’t have discovered her words later in life, wouldn’t have been none the wiser if I hadn’t walked out of my home that day and watched a movie alone, forever igniting my passion for watching films by my lonesome.

On a drizzling day of February 2012, when the lovers strode past me, huddled in each others’ arms, towards the theaters, I had taken my cynical self for a movie, something that I would laugh about in the coming years, thinking how I had specifically used the term—“Dating Myself”—to describe that incident in future dinner-table conversations.

I had been bitter, and chewing the corner of lips, as is my habit and that of the characters that I end up writing about. Cursing every last of these oblivious fools, for they were oblivious to life and her many woes, for they were oblivious to the incumbent sadness of never really belonging anywhere.

Because I had never belonged to anyone, especially not to myself.

After all, even my self was just as temperamental as I was. When I tried to woo her, she had made it abundantly clear that she needed to be courted, loved, adored, and given a sense of belonging before she would let her secrets be known.

And so, when all hope was almost lost, I had taken my self to a date.

I had got myself a bucket of the most cheese-infused popcorn, not to mention the overpriced glass of Coca Cola.

Now that I think about it, I don’t remember the name of the movie I had watched that day. I am sure it must been something absolutely horrendous. But I do remember that I had decided to “date” myself on Valentine’s Day ‘12, as is the cliche of every stubborn heart in the world.

The results had been horrible—I had cried buckets over some character dying, I had spilled Coke on my new tee shirt, and I had wasted almost half a bucket of those tasteless abominations when I tried to get up from my seat at the end of the movie.

Soaked and poorer by five hundred bucks, I had returned home from the disaster, promising myself that I shall never let myself be tortured in this way.

Suffice to say, I never really kept my word.

As the years passed by, I befriended myself. And in turn, she showed me my loneliness could be turned into something akin to a pleasant solitude. She gave me words, filled me up with characters from books and movies, and strung up the emptiness of my otherwise silent world with music, even if I was quite disinclined towards the new addition.

Inside us is another person, another self that is waiting for you to only ask, just ask, to show themselves. And believe me, even if you drag them through the worst movie dates, the most tasteless of dinners, and even the worst of heartbreaks of your life, they will never abandon you. They will never say goodbye.

I see myself, I see her and I saw the empty unfurnished room inside my soul that had existed before she welcomed me in. It was a greyscale box of nothingness, with no heart and no memory to treasure in the darkest of times.

And together, we had colored it, painted it with a thousand more colors that the spectrum still hides from our eyes. We had furnished it with love, hope, even our sorrows, and our most secret of memories.

Sure, there were heartbreaks after. My self and I found ourselves decorating our home for guests who wouldn’t stay long enough to call themselves family. That they would sometimes leave with a piece of our furniture, stealing our memories, our hopes, perhaps even our belief that we could love again. And sometimes they would be kind, kind enough to leave a piece of themselves for our safekeeping, a memory, a memento of a scent, a voice, or a phantom touch. And she and I, we would caress it, keep it safe, locked inside the most secure corners of our room until they came to claim it again.

But for you to see all of this, you would have to know yourself first.

Know how beautiful, how wonderfully, heartbreakingly priceless you are.

I found that when I had taken myself to see some film in a lovelorn theater.

Perhaps you would find yourself in the midst of words, or perhaps in the unread corner of a storybook, or even in the melody between choruses of a song.

Who knows?

But that is your story to discover.

So find yourself.

And love yourself.

After all, you are your soulmate.

Hold onto yourself when the storms rage, when the sea seduces you to leave out the rest, when the mountains call you to leap forth, when life whispers your last goodbye.

Hold on, because your strong and fragile heart needs you.

Hold on, because that soul is yours to keep, to protect, and to cherish until it is time to depart, together.

Just hold on.

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