Feels I'm being hauled in a fireman's lift by someone I wrote

I like feeling smart. There is a sense of comfort no? Knowing you're a little bit better than someone, even if it's in small ways. Maybe you make tea better or your internet skills are crazy good.  But this comfort of being better is easy to give up for that small and ecstatic moment when you grab hold of your essence. You find that one bit of you no matter what, will never belong to anyone. No matter what anyone says it will be independent and original to you. open to only you. No matter how great or terrible it is. 

It's this terrible feeling of being dead but your physical sense doesn't seem to reflect that. The other day you told me to conquer my fear. When one day you read of the characters in my head, you will see them as what I want to be. I hope I can show the melancholy and sometimes restless torment inside my head and make it beautiful. Being in control of these people in my head who know take such realistic forms, its hard remind myself they aren't actually there. These versions of who I'd like to be. Always at the back of my head is the fact that I control them. It comes as an epiphany almost, when these beings act of their own accord. They've become these shifted versions of myself. What started out as a person I so longed to be instead of me, is now nearly alive. I feel I live so much through them. They may not be present in a physical sense but then I've never felt I am physical.

So much, most, of who I am is not in the physical. And it's when I started to live only through my physical presence that I felt my death. Essentially what I did was force myself into something I've never been. And it was what I wrote yesterday, or what I write at all that resuscitated me. Slowly being brought back to my shifted self. Not back completely.

But it feels I'm being hauled in a fireman's lift by someone I wrote. Slowly with every step the breath is easier, but I am heavy and slips will happen.

So I guess if this was a Panchatantra comic the moral would be that I tried living in the moment and being present in the now and that the now isn't mine to be in. I don't live in the now... I live in songs that echo in the mountains of the treachery I did, I live in that monastery on the side of a stone cliff, I live as a monk saving my friends and burying another, I live as an winged person sent to accompany humans. 

Mine is not the present and I wonder why I ever thought it was.

The Case of Crenshaw's Block #5

#1 #2 #3 #4




Mr. Crenshaw realized his mind had run dry. He wasn't blocked he was definitely dry. He understood the world of the woman in twenties even though it was never his reality, he could understand her world and thus could write about it.

As he massaged his cramped back he realized he was dancing around an epiphany. Like when you wake up in the morning and you know the feeling of your dream so well but what the dream was is a little hard to remember and then little by little, the dream comes back to you.
Though he understood her world, the want to be in it was decreasing. Sometimes the fantasy is so real to him, his first nature. And little by little as he remembered what his dream was he realised what was first nature to him now. His reality was becoming stronger, it was its time.

As a writer all he really wanted was to have that voice inside him translated as truthfully as possible and that voice keeps changing. The woman in twenties no longer had a place in his heart nor did her world, it all shrank away from him. In its place he could feel his own story filling his heart.
This was the story he now felt compelled to tell people. But not just yet. The characters were filling his heart but they need to reach the point where they burst out and plonk themselves next to him.

Now would come the scene where you see our writer furiously typing away, in the throws of his thoughts, creativity pouring out and music swelling behind. If we all lived with our personal production and background score team, our lives would be pretty much that scene, but we don't have those teams and neither did Crenshaw (he did often daydream this though).

Crenshaw did what all of us would do in that moment, the moment when we had decided this was the night of the all-nighter, then fallen asleep at our desk and given up on the whole stupid mission and gone to bed.  He at least had enough sense to write down this new idea for a story on a post it note and then collapsed in his bed. One doesn't begin the post-epiphany day without a good nights sleep, neither did Crenshaw.

Stuck on the keys of his Remington was a blue post it note, which said "Detective Nani and her sleuthy sidekicks"

For the Lights

My light is out

My land seems lost.

Have faith my friend

only your path is bent,

all life isn't spent.

The dim like rain keeps falling

For whom do I spark my light?

The darkness is calling

I'm losing my fight.

Do not stray my friend

Your dream can stay true

Your light was meant to shine for one

one, will always be you.

What if when I reach 

no brightness is around?

For lights which I thought were plenty,

none seem to be found.

No one to take your hand 

No one to guide towards your land.

I am not the bravest or my fire bright

is there anything can be done by my light?

There is power in your fire

Strength & Might

It will make the forest brighter still

Defeat the ever growing night.

And if you find no forest

no beacon is in sight

You can be new hope

do it  For the Lights.

There are days with sunshine
a Bright Heart
a Blazing soul.

Days turn sour
minds turn grey
eyes search in a melancholy fire
for lost brightness

shrouded in their blanket of grey
cold tears run from ashen faces

like a spark hands extend to
beating hearts.
A swirling red pigments the grey
a Red of love, a Red of anger
a Red of heart
a Red of Human.

And like a spark again comes the yellow
its suddenness mirroring that of life's
A Bright fills in again.
A Sun warms a Soul.

Home

In light of all that has occurred over the last 6 months, I've been grappling with what home is? Where I felt at home? Where would it be now? Where would I feel the same as I had in the house that I had grown up in and lived in for 10 years. Would it be where my parents lived now? would it be the house they left behind, where half of my things are? would it be my hostel (but do hostels ever feel like home?!)

On the topic of home and the feeling of it, the words of Andrew Largeman from the film 'Garden State' would come back to me.

"You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it's gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

And to some extent I understand this well and agree with. Here he talks of the house he grew up in not feeling at home there, but we left the house I grew up in, it truly doesn't exist in my world any more. I don't understand this need I have to define what home is  but I have it.

The more I think and try to define what home means to me, where it is, the more the silly age old line would pop into my head "home is where the heart is." It just stuck in my head, when I put this line together with everything that has transpired in the last 6 months, there isn't a better explanation. I realise how cheesy this all sounds and I try and cut out the cheesy when I write to you (try!) But I guess that's the reason I haven't written in so long, because my life of late is only that, cheesy and wonderful.
With this realisation that home is truly where your heart is, where you feel so incredibly loved, I could see my life in flashback. When I started college and my parents moved, I was pretty sad (I love my familiar space and familiar people, that's why they call me a cat) But the amount I've been loved and looked after is amazing.

Home is having lunch with G and going every weekend to family, eating dinner together and just spending time together. Home is stealing your brother's t-shirts and playing video games together.
Home is having the entire family together for the first Diwali you thought you'd be alone.
Home is going to a friend's home and leaving tiny presents because you know you won't meet for christmas. It is, watching tv and eating crappy food till 12 with friends and getting scolded by others for being too loud. Home is the time spent alone in my room dancing around.

And for each of these instances it's as though my mind just goes "you're doing okay kid."