I have sufficiently worried myself, and panicked myself to the edge of the grave after the health scare last week. That I haven’t died is because of the patient Bookhads (and some scolding from Ut k), N, Boy, and yes, my mother. Everyone else, apart from me, is convinced that there’s nothing wrong with me, and yet, as I type this I cannot shake off the fact that my hands are cold, and that my left palm is paining. I have induced my own paranoia. When I stop to think with collected sanity, I cannot come to terms with the fact that I have joined the ranks of those who take their work so seriously that they end up in hospitals because of it. I could be going to one as well; that largely depends on what my doctor has to say this weekend.
A few days ago when N and I were driving to the office, we were talking about how comfortable we are in asking for help. We discussed, and came to the conclusion that I’m much more comfortable than she is. However, in the last two months, I have been charting my own course, and not asking for support at work simply because of the fact that I know I will get none. It feels like a silent sort of struggle when you may have a hundred people around you, but you know that you’re got to have your own back – pretty much like life itself. This, I contrast with how once upon a time foster father said, “Go out there and do what you want. If you fail, I’ve got your back.” I am yet to hear a more supportive line than that. There’s something so re-assuring in knowing that you can do your own dance, but if you fall, someone will pick you up. But these days it feels like no one is going to be there if I miss a step, and so I do very hard to keep dancing.
In my induced paranoia and state of utter saturation, I find myself collecting all the ghosts of the past, present and future and having the weirdest Christmas party, ever. Yes, I am overworked. I don’t read anything at all. My NaNoWriMo quest was stalled at 11 days (when I fell ill). I have half a dozen health problems. I am low on finances, and all these medical bills are eating into them. I don’t listen to music anymore. I just don’t have the time to create my own poetry or verse, and I feel despondent about how no one writes poetry on a regular basis. I was not able to visit the Golden Temple or Paranthewali Gali with my family. All in all, I seemed to have sold my soul to someone I don’t even know.
But if I had to wear my optimistic glasses, I should be able to see that nothing is as bad as it seems. On the upside, I have so many words written, my health problems can be solved by a little talking to the brain (and the Serenity prayer, like Boy said). As for finances, the end of the month is around the corner. There is nothing that can compensate for missing a trip to Delhi, so I shall leave it there.
At Bookhad, we’re playing Secret Santa again this year, and my wish list sucks. No books for me anymore, until I haven’t found the place to keep them. So, what is it that I want, I ask myself. Especially something that fits in the budget that we’ve decided. I feel very sad that I have such a tunnel vision, and all that someone can gift me are books. So, as I sit here, procrastinating work and snatching some time for myself, I think of what I want. There should be no surprises that I have some more tall fabrications. (Oh when will I ever learn. Boohoo.)
I want a book of good poetry compiled especially for me. I want a DVD of songs, again compiled for me, and only me. (I believe in exclusivity.) I want flowers when I least expect them. I want us Bookhads to watch the LOTR trilogy (with F, the absconder!). I want time to read a book. I want to finish writing my own book. I want to spend 2 days gallivanting with Boy. I want to be healthy enough to eat French fries. I want Zen.
Until then, duty calls.
P.S.: These days, for some reason, I keep thinking of the book Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. I feel like the world around me is exactly how he described in that book. I don’t know if it makes any sense, but I miss being inside Norwegian Wood.