While washing my hands today, I was thinking who can I go to, who will listen to me talk about the hurt in my heart? As if I had never thought of this before my mind told me to come to this blog. I had completely forgotten about the presence of my blog in my life as an old friend. How could I have a category called ‘The Plague’ but no ramblings from the plague? Instead, I turned this blog into a place where polished literature came home to roost, but the truth is that much before I had anything published I used to come here with everything unresolved in my heart and I would leave it here like an offering. So, how then, had I forgotten about the most consistent, most patient, and most kind place that has always taken me in just as I was. Is that how it always happens? That humans forget about the most consistent, most patient, and most kind people who take them in?
I find it very suffocating to write about anything these days or express myself in any overt way. I don’t fit into the four personality types that we’re supposed to be these days. Thanks to social media, of course. I don’t even know if anyone wants to listen to what I have to say. There’s been so much evidence to support this that I find myself receding into the walls. What could I possibly have to say that could mean something? What part of my life could possibly matter to anyone? What part of me could possibly matter to anyone? Isolation does this to people; I am assuming that’s what it is. In the collective grief of humankind, individual grievances float away like uneventful evenings. What part of the universe can I poke and ask for my space in it? I cannot. Who am I to ask for space, really? I think about all this and more.
The hurt in my heart? Oh yes, it’s there. I find knocking from within and there’s not much to do, really, but sit down and breathe deeply for a few minutes. Or I sit next to the plants in my balcony and gaze outside. I find myself doing this in the mornings with my glass of warm water mixed with lemon and honey. I bought 7 lemons the other day from two different vendors at the market. I just wanted to see if I could do this — buy lemons, I mean. A task so small and yet, I had almost never done it before, never had the need to. I also bought three coconuts for their water and malai because my-very-Konkani mother once remarked during the week that no one ever gets her coconuts. I had bought the wrong coconut, of course. The lemons I bought have turned out to be quite juicy and I use them in the mornings. Someone once told me that putting honey inside warm water spoils the function of the honey, but I am so tired of this constantly prescriptive world where one thing is never just one thing. It never stays the same. Everything has an opinion stacked upon another opinion upon another. I honestly couldn’t be bothered, so I put the honey in the warm water and mix it with lemon, and sit with this next to the plants thinking about everything that I can and then, nothing at all. How could I possibly make sense of it all in one glassful?
To make sense, I started writing a memoir, but I am so embarrassed by the chapter I’ve written on popping pills that I am considering abandoning it. So far, I have 5 chapters and I have written down all those things that I’ve wanted to say about my time the last year, but I didn’t know who to say it to. The aloneness is too much. I feel bereft and I am not using the word loosely. How much of knocking on doors? How much of asking?
I wrote this and I can’t recall where, but what if instead of going forward, I just decide to stop, turn, and go back where I came from? I don’t want to “move forward” whatever that means. Where is the proof that “keeping up with the times” has any good in it? I can’t say it has anything worth the while, really. Can you? I used to think that some of our writing in present day needs to make sense on behalf of all of us, but while writing the draft of the memoir, I was confronted with the thought that this is a fallacy. We can only tell our personal stories, there’s quite nothing such as a collective experience and maybe that’s what has caused in me this isolation and given me this island that I live on. I may be wrong. Some time in the future this will make more sense than it does now. The low beating of my hurt heart will have answers to work with. For now, I live with the questions. I live with the knowledge that the vocabulary of the world isn’t enough for me. It is not helping me. It is not healing me.
I planted some seeds two days ago and furious seedlings are peeping out of the cocopeat seeding medium. Come back later, I will tell you what stories they have for you.