Hold space, there is plenty.

I can’t really put a finger on it, but I have changed since the last time I posted on here.

I have become very comfortably whole, but in a rather porous way. What I mean is, I am not whole in the sense that I have no holes, and no space to accommodate the ebbs and flow of life. My earlier definition of whole used to be akin to that of a SOLVED Rubik’s cube. No need or space for change. Thoroughly well-defined, and really no scope for anymore human interaction to be involved in anymore. And then, somewhere along the way, I didn’t really feel like I wanted that anymore. I like my periodic ‘struggles’… they have helped me unearth aspects about myself that I never expected to learn. It has put me in positions that I hadn’t ever really fathomed, and it gave me a renewed sense of wonder. Sometimes, it did nothing for me, and I discovered that ‘nothing’ is not bad either!

‘Trust your struggle’ is a maxim I have come to accept over the past few years, sometimes grudgingly so. It’s become quite integral to my being now, and in the process, I have finally gotten a peek at the reality of ‘holding space’. Sometimes, life isn’t a project. Sometimes, even the most well-intentioned advice can be ill-timed. Sometimes, what you have to offer is not what the other needs, and other times it is not what they want. And that’s ok! It’s fine to step back and move forward with those connections that are felt strongly, and it is fine to loosen your grip on those connections that seem like they are slipping through your fingers.

I recently did something for someone with absolutely no expectations, and with genuine, uninhibited affection. It was liberating! It still is. I am in awe and curious, but I think I’ll just let this be this one time. I’m letting a flower be a flower; no need to pluck it. It’s already working its magic by just being. 🙂

I’m scared, honey.

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I still believe.

In the recesses of my heart, there is no doubt.

In my mind, I do not question it anymore.

It is a reality, and I am in acceptance.

However, it is here that I cleave.

To pursue dreams that were long before you were sought.

To become the person I always was at my core.

How these paths may converge, I can only sense.

Against destiny, I have no defense.

Violent, twisted, forceful love.

Love, for me, is an extremely violent act. Love is not “I love you all.” Love means I pick out something, and it’s, again,this structure of  imbalance. Even if this something is just a small detail… a fragile individual person… I say “I love you more than anything else.” In this quite formal sense, love is evil.

Ah, Zizek. In my naivete, I rejected your theories. Today, I willingly reconsider my stance.

Whenever I speak or write on romantic love, I seldom feel like I’m on steady ground.

Romantic love is widely, well, romanticized. It is portrayed as beautiful, soulful, inspiring, touching, calming, capable of inducing joy. It’s worth the jump, they say.

Consider this: you are wise enough to know your vices. You have found beauty in another. You wish them happiness, and feel like you have a shot at channeling unconditional love. This is the metaphorical flower which you must not pluck, if you wish to see it’s beauty continue into eternity. Yet, you do. It’s a selfish act. You draw someone out into their most vulnerable states, and expose them to your darkest, ugliest sides. And what is more, you insist that they love you the better for it.

How is this not violent? – Zizek says it is to the rest of the world; I say it is violent to the victim of your choice. How is this not as bad a manipulative tactic used in war?

I’m not saying I don’t believe in seeking love in romantic relationships. I am merely suggesting that we stop lying to ourselves. Love is ugly, messy, gut-wrenching, selfish, violent, despicable, deceiving. ‘Bad Romance’ is redundant copy. Romance never had a shot at being describe with a positive adjective.

Lachesism: Finding a word that fits.

A hunger for chaos. Patiently anticipating a meltdown. Something to give you clarity about what the world really is when it is tested by fire, and who you really are in such a state of affairs.

The reason I love words and reading them so voraciously is so I may stumble upon a hint, an explanation, a sign of shared perspective and similar inner worlds. Sometimes I find myself wishing for harmony to be done away with, to be stripped naked, to be confronted by the climax that ‘ought’ to happen, so there can be a face-off, a revelation of secrets, a submission, an admission, a certain moment of vulnerability and intensity neither of which can persist without co-existence.

There’s a word, and therefore there is a validation for the undercurrents of my soul. It is shared, I’m no alien or uncommon martyr or idiosyncratic eccentric or ill-tongued demon to reap this product of my tumultuous emotions. It is human, as it is shared.

A partner in grief.

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I have made myself an open wound to grief. I allow it to quietly settle into the recesses of my heart.

Its tentacles spread out in directions countless, frozen – it binds everything that it touches.

I nurse it, for I am addicted. Within its blue knot, there’s an orange fire secure.

That’s where the embers glow amid dead coal.

In that deep pit, my sturdy soul.

How does this map work?

When I was young, I thought I knew my story. My story was that of successful escape, that ended with glory. I believed so strongly in my story, that it was my map. I thought I knew what the mountains looked like, and where the rivers curved. I had barely traversed any territory, so I drew the map from reference instead.

Sometimes I feel like it was a childhood waste, for as a I grew up, little by little, I realized that my point of reference was wrong. My point of reference seemed like it was a satellite, but I realized it was just atop an obsolete watchtower. My map seemed to crumble around me, and it wasn’t long before it crumbled under me. I drove myself into the comfort of a pillow, finding the only security I thought I could retreat to. There was a life before this map – much of it was a lie, but it can’t all be.

Turned out that I wasn’t all wrong about everything. Some of the mountains were hills alright – very tall peaks, albeit. The rivers didn’t swing only in the places where they joined something called the ‘deep, blue sea’. I joined the dots again. I get this better now, I thought. I showed the map to other people, and some of them nodded. “You’re becoming a better cartographer,” they smiled.

Am I?

Only, one way to know. I set out on the greatest adventure of my life.

Seasoned explorers have told me that maps are only right about so many things. Sometimes they don’t show you the full picture. But that’s, by no means, a reason to throw it away!

Now that I have drawn a better map, it’s time to learn how to use one. Can’t stop moving though; I’ll have to learn how to do it on the move. Challenge accepted.

I think I’m ready.

I was going through some of my old pins – I love pinning quotes and poetry verses taken out of context to suit my own taste and whim. However, what I could relate to once so passionately,  I simply couldn’t feel anymore. Don’t get me wrong – I remembered them, and quite vividly, but I felt detached from all of those feelings with a whiff of nostalgia. I do not feel as vulnerable and heartbroken as I once did. It was a glorious time as I knew that it was rock bottom, and that I would build my way up from there – I knew not how and when, but I knew that I would.

Now, I feel able and courageous and strong and in control, in many ways the way I had dreamed of it, but I feel rather un-human. Like somebody who has been taught how to live, instead of somebody who thrives, whose soul is wild as I once knew mine to be, and whose life was on fire.

Now, I know I need balance. I would never go close to that sort of life if I could help it. It was miserable and shrouded in fear. It was lived with awkwardness and reticence and fumbling.

How do I put this – I’d like something to happen out of the sudden. 🙂