I have always said that I write to preserve my sanity. But by writing I end up chronicling thoughts, thoughts I keep coming back to. Being a Virgo does not help, because I end up reading, analyzing, dissecting some more and in turn hurting twice over.
A couple of years back I re-read The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough. The first time I read it was when I was 13. This has been my favourite book and it was only when I was gifting this book to a loved one, I thought of re-reading the book. After two days of upset reading I completed the book, but it took me more time to snap out of the shocking realization that a book that I read at 13 had defined my thoughts and life unknowingly. In reflection, I dont think I am surprised, even as the events were happening and I was going through a roller coaster in life, the calmness with which I dealt with them, the ideologies I have and the reasons behind each of those choices I made, had a very strong influence for that one book. Revisiting the book probably made sense of all those confusing times when I was shocked at my own decisions.
Then there was this journal I kept in one of the darkest phases of my life. The journal chronicled about 6 months of a time when I just wrote to keep sane, to remember by penning down memories, bit by bit with care. I wrote about events that happened. what I felt, how people reacted, how situations were. I wept in anguish. I burned in anger. I wrote passionately, fell in love some more, in my fervent penning down I found a way to redeem myself. A year later, stronger, wiser and lot more in control I went back to this journal and broke down, actually feeling sorry for the naive young girl who changed the course of her entire life with just one mad, passionate, love filled decision. I cried in mourning, as if i was an outsider seeing someone else wince in pain. That was it, I felt such devotion like love and the pain it entailed should not be revered if it is not valued. There at one go, I ripped the pages out and took pains to make a billion pieces of it so that not even one word could be deciphered. Hot angry tears flowed, it hurt like hell but to see the remains of a beautiful phase of my life now reduced to just heaps of paper littered in my room; but it did give me some sadistic satisfaction!
I feel my education and my fiercely independent lifestyle will be my undoing. I question and analyze much more than required. The more I read, the more the vagabond in me feels wild, wanting to break away from pre-determined societal and familial norms. I find it hard to conform to the very basic tenets of relationships, social obligations and norms which at some point of time I used to adhere to. Existential questions plagues the mind and robbing the mind of peace. I think then, that my books and journals are the only things that allow me to escape the mundane world.. It whets the bold and fiercely independent spirit me that wants to defies the accepted and create my own niche. It becomes the only escape that I am permitted and it is through them that my parallel world is established, where all things I love and hold dear exists without a cloud of gloom or uncertainty shrouding it, this part of my existence no matter how ethereal, it is the only way that my existence feels worthwhile.
Of books and journals,
Of words which aid me in finding you,
Time and again
Time and again
Words, which weaves a world
Of just you and me,
Of just you and me,
A world where there are no time frames
Where the day begins with your smile,
And ends with your arms holding me tight.
Through words, I live our forever after
A world where there are no fears for tomorrow
Just this moment that lasts a lifetime...