October 26, 2003

Blindfold

So how do you manage it? How do you make it work? How is it that you believe strongly in something or the other? How do you get all those things right that I cannot ever seem to? How do you know you have loved too little or you have loved too much, or even just about enough? How is it that you know so much, while I know nothing even after years and years of being a student? Why is it that a single expression on your face says volumes more than what I can ever say with even a million words?

Cross-purposes, I keep seeing that everywhere these days. I keep busy most of the time in hiding me from myself, only to find that I cannot often find myself when it is needed the most. And once I find it, we go back to square one as it has no place or importance in this world. Unrelated incidents often set off chains of thought like coils of blue ink in water. They spiral up from the hidden depths to the surface acting as painful reminders of the very rare presence of colour from the past.

Work is the only thing that keeps me from falling apart. It has gradually become my most favoured choice of rock to smash against in the same way that waves do in the ocean. I have passed the critical one week period and I am slowly finding my way around the new place. It is absolutely monstrous in scale, things take its own time and the job has way much greater visibility than the previous one. So there won't be any entries here related to it. Being an unknown goes a long way in getting people to talk.

It has become a matter of considerable amusement for me to now try and figure out ways of not being 'different' or 'special'. That too after years of trying to be precisely the opposite. Cross-purposes, remember? But why? It is very simple. When you have contorted yourself in every aspect into shapes different from everyone else, there is nothing in common to refer to. And if I ever write an autobiography, it would surely be tilted "My Life: The Endless Damage Limitation Operation".

No, it is not that I regret anything. I would not do most things differently if I had another chance. But what bothers me is that with time the degree of understanding I have of any damn thing has only gone down and right now it is hovering somewhere near zero. What tires me is to dig deep into my soul's empty pockets and have nothing but bits and pieces of emotions turn up. I do not know what is more scary, that you do not feel anything most times or that it does not seem to bother you that you do not feel anything.

And that is what infuriates me. That, I cannot seem to make it work either way. That, me as the public face is still as high maintenance as me just by myself. But I guess that is the price you end up paying for having a extraordinarily high quota of intensity in your blood stream. It is a 24/7 operation then to save yourself and others from yourself. It just gets way too tiring at times and once in a while you do wish for some reprieve from it. Some corner where you can be yourself for even just a little while. It is as simple as that.

Most of the time, life in its present continuos sense feels like being surrounded in a holographic image. The elements that it consists of, like people, memories, places, voices are almost like stars in them. And I am the man with the magic brush who puts together constellations from these same pieces. It all feels so artificial at times. Especially when you have to remind yourself at times what you are supposed to feel with regard to a certain star. And at times the real people just fall away, but the stars remain in their place.

I am very adept at pointing out to others the element of fantasy in their lives, especially the degree of make believe in most relationships, but like every other bad thing I throw around, that too comes back at me later. My life is nothing but a case of extreme make believe, a castle of cards of complicated constructs with a 20, 000 page operating manual. And the crowning glory is that it is mostly my own making and I have only myself to blame for it. Bravo. Well done. What a spectacular mess.