What I Think of When I Think

Posted on by eeseul24

A reply, if you will.

The Road Much Travelled.

I want to

write

simply

I want to write

about the color

purple

how it is

shiny

double hued

velvet on plastic

I want to write about

the roughness

of the sky.

how the stars

shine four pointed

sharp

enough to poke

a hole through your skin.

I want to write

about pink

fiery

in the sunset

how stars

burn to life

and the sun dies

plunging

in the ocean.

I want to write

to your ears

your eyes loving

the chocolate

of the words

rolling it around

in your mouth

till the flavour

hits your palate

like

a

punch

I want to write

my heart sore

from singing its blood

Loud

and

poetic

and

OBNOXIOUS.

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Thought 28. About every damn poet ever.

Posted on by eeseul24

I dont want to write.
I dont want to write
About love
and the things it does.
About heartbreak
and what never was.
About pain and hurt,
hearts covered in dirt.
About the ‘color of your eyes’,
and your ‘lips on my skin’
About how ‘instead of looking outside,
you must look within.’

About romanticizing and eulogizing,
faces, events and places.
About even and odd spaces
between two people or
humanity,
pretension of insanity.

About women,
About souls,
About how they feel used
for looking like dolls.

About sex
and intimacy,
the throes of passion,
and how even that,
is another form of
inadequacy.

About anxiety
and depression,
About painkillers
and obsession.
About things that kill
me from the inside,
about how most of the things
are really those that affect me
on the outside.

Ugh.
I don’t want to write.

About ego,
and psychoanalysis.
About how only you end up
so messed up,
on the verge of one of those fatal trips.

About god,
and creation.
About things we can’t let go,
About things we really hold,
and sudden revelation.

About what I see in my mirror,
About how that isn’t very clear,
or clearer,
than it should be.
Cause you see,
‘I should see me’.

About someone being vain,
someone being self-absorbed.
About someone,not me,
but really is me,
for unto her/him,
I am projected.

About how for some reason
my verbal skills make me superior
because I can express better than others,
and use rhyme scheme to my advantage .
or not.

 

 

Thought 27. Metamorphosis (of a year)

Posted on by eeseul24

This was an idea suggested by someone very important to me. (Jellybro,this one’s for you!). However, it took me an actual year to write about it simply because the nature of topic lends itself to such variations in meaning. Whatever I write lends itself to your, the reader’s subjective imaginations as well as mine. Allow me to attempt.

Metamorphosis. A keyword I come across when I think of its meaning is usually ‘transformation’ – mostly in appearance and/or function. I don’t mean to make this purely intellectual or scientific or even that serious. But as a writer, or someone who writes as much as she can, ‘metamorphosis’ is extremely important.

Metamorphosis occurs on so many different levels to a writer. For example, there can be extreme transformation in the way one writes. Although I would like to believe in a gradual change in the way someone writes, it has often turned out to be wrong. Every writer tends to have this itch at the back of their neck , the want to change what they  write, how they write, to experiment. And most times, there is complete transformation, a blooming into something greater than themselves and their past work. Even if it’s just one shot in the dark. And that act of bloom changes them completely. Experiencing and being a catalyst in that transformation themselves, changes their continued writing thereafter.

It also occurs with the way a writer approaches their work. Whichever emotional base they depended their work on may get questioned or may completely shatter. Post which, the eyes with which they see their work change. The complete view. They may be able to step back or step closer to see the details. They transform the way they view their own work. And more often than not, analyse it for themselves, allow themselves to sink in the moment that they wrote the piece in. Many writers also find their previous work completely unreadable and are utterly disgusted by it, including me. The emotional turmoil they were in or the waning of the stimulus that was the reason of the piece itself seems like a distant dream. It seems muddled, and the writer wonders in which state of mind they would have written that in.

And just like how metamorphosis suggests a magical process , an alchemy caused change in the make-up of something, it is indeed so for the writer as well as readers. As one goes through another writer’s works, we travel through the range of experiences, emotions, thoughts the writer had. We see the writer’s attempt to drown themselves in their work. They become their work. And in essence, a metamorphosis in their writing and the way they view their work becomes a metamorphosis in them.

This concept is such a dense one to talk about, for a 20 something common writer like mine. To write of personal transformations makes it preachy and requires a strength, a courage that I cannot muster as of now, either to talk of it or to experience it. To urge for a public transformation, even more so. So I wrote of it the only way I know how – as a writer. A shift, a breaking out of consciousness and appreciation for such has occurred to me only once I got writing. So let me allow this to be a homage to it, if I may.

Metamorphosis. Transformation. Bloom. Break out. Change.

Thought 26. Observations for Breakfast.

Posted on by eeseul24

I sit in a lively French place for breakfast. With their cane furniture and duplicate Renaissance paintings and monochrome tiling with croissants in glass display racks and smell of bread permeating the air, I frequent this joint quite a bit. Yes, a French place with Filipino waiters, Arab customers and Maghribian head chef. I look up from my breakfast (which was lovely by the way) to see a prime example of society here.

Family enters. WITH DRIVER. (That’s a first). Women sit on a table. The patriarch and the driver on another. A generous, loving patriarch. He orders for himself and The One That Shares His Table.

The patriarch with a bulging stomach and appetite, with a happy round face and a handlebar moustache adjusting his red thatched head gear and cajoling His Friend to eat more. The women speaking to each other, huddled around their food.

The Other One , tanned with a gaunt face, eyes welled with gratitude. (Or is it desperation?). Faded shirt, pants with grease stains and hunched shoulders. His hands alternate from the cup of tea to the edge of his seat. Speaking only when spoken to.

Both faces smiling at each other in their mutual loneliness. The patriarch plays his role alone. He has no place in the conversation of his women. He talks quietly and politely to His Friend. Of trivial things, I’m sure. (If he asked him genuinely and His Friend answered genuinely, I highly doubt the existence of smiles plastered on those faces.)

He butts his head into the other table to ask about something. After a few minutes, the women leave to shop and the men relapse into quiet and small talk. The patriarch has seen a friend and they begin to talk. Loud. Brash. The Now Invisible is tense, focuses on his tea and stirs it without interruption. He gets a call on his phone that he immediately cancels.

The patriarch returns, explain himself a bit. Again, quiet and small talk. They both look lonely in their own worlds. Their sad smiles are followed by sympathy for the other person.

After a while the Women return. Suddenly, lines appear. Quiet intimacy fades. The difference between Italian made leather and plastic sandals are more pronounced. The final touch between them being a smile and a reassuring pat on the back. The Driver now leads them. Opens the door for them.

He brings the car around to the gate. The women walk to the car. He opens the trunk. They drop their shopping bags to the floor abruptly and enter the car, tenderly, gingerly, holding up their trailing dresses , with rightful air and impunity. He closes the door for them and for His Employer. He carefully places the bags in the trunk, runs around.

The Car speeds away.

Suddenly my petit dejeuner doesn’t look so appetizing.

Thought 25. Strings.

Posted on by eeseul24

Strings.

Tie, sew, play,knit. With the actions that strings do, a bond is formed isn’t it? It hold things together, things in place, things right where it should be. It’s a beautiful, wonderful thing. The simplest of objects are extremely easy to reflect meaning. Meanings can be found where there are none. Yet the meaning found would be so intense, with so much depth, so many layers. As opposed to ‘an elephant in the room’ scenario. The use of an object gives it meaning. The purpose give it meaning. The meaning give it meaning. Do I make any sense? Ah well. Back to strings.

Strings. Lace your shoes. Knit a sweater. Tie up massive luggage. Play your guitar. Tie your hair. Lace up pearls. Rope it up. Bind a book. Sew on a button. Stitch wounds. To fish. Fly a kite. Hold a balance. Hang pictures. Hang clothes.

Exactly.

Those shoes that you’ve seen things and walked through life with. That sweater your grandma gifted your mother for you on your birth. That luggage when you traveled back home with souvenirs, gifts and memories. That guitar that helped you impress that sweet thing. That hair that has seen better days. Those pearls your sister wore to her wedding. That rope that helped you climb that dangerous cliff. That book you created as a birthday gift. That button that popped off your once well-fitting jeans. Those wounds that came after a hormone-driven fistfight. Those fishes you caught with your father on every camping trip. That kite your friends envied you for. That balance that weighed groceries every two weeks. Those pictures that decorated your dorm room.

Strings signify bonds and their memories. No strings attached. Pulling certain strings to get ahead. Strings that play people like puppets. Strings that are too complicated and knotted with some people. Strings that get pulled too far they break. Strings you love having. Strings that want to wrap yourself with. Strings that can wring your neck. Strings that can handcuff you. Strings that tie you to certain situations. Strings you form as you go. Strings that unravel. Strings that you try to tie together.

I told you.

Strings give meaning. Strings can hold you down to a life you do not want. Without strings, you float through life, without purposeful strings, without meaningful strings. You can’t try to ignore any string. Not even one.   Their purpose has a meaning and gives meaning. The question we arrive at here – does there always have to be a question? Oh yes there does. Without questions, answers will be hidden in plain sight. Dangerous is when you do not want to find , to know. For me, observing the nature and manner of a string allows me to learn. It teaches me through observation.

What teaches you through observation? What do you think defines the life you lead? What teaches you how to lead it?

Thought 22. People are not medicine.

Posted on by eeseul24

Sometimes.
People are not your medicine.
People cannot help you.
They are not
painkillers
inhalers,
beta-blockers
sleeping pills,
barbiturates
stimulants.

anti-virals
anaesthetics
anti-fungals
antacids
anti-bacterials
insulin.

anti-inflammatory
rehydration
anti-septic
ointment
anti-depressants
laxative

corticosteroids
revitalisers
opioids

No.They are not.
You are your doctor.

Thought 21. Un-living.

Posted on by eeseul24

(My, how depressing a post is before you! )

I was walking with a soul-brother recently and I let it all out in a span of 3-4 minutes. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? In these unexpected moments, you find yourself having a mind that is most precise, sharp and full of clarity. You, who a day ago wasn’t sure of any opinion you had and possess a fluid-like perception, can now suddenly put together the pieces and in an almost flow-chart like manner explain everything.

To give you a gist of it, I told him about me. And I wasn’t happy.  The state of my room showed it – not even basic dis-organisation, but messy. I felt like I was living a day-to-day existence. It was a struggle to get out of bed, yet the bed had nails that I couldn’t stay in any longer.

And I felt fear. Pure fear of going back to how I felt a few years ago. I was in a quicksand of fear. This fear was dragging me down even further to that very state that I did not want to reach. That fear still pervades me every day. I.do.not.want.to.be.depressed. AS SIMPLE AS THAT. It is a scary place to be. And the worst is, you’re alone in it. There are only distractions. No cures. You feel  ‘stagnant’. Till today, I am afraid of that word. I am afraid of being that word.

So, I told him. I feel this. “I feel like I have nothing to move forward to, nothing to push me on.” I never thought I would say those words again or even think them. Of course, I considered those very emotions. The only thoughts that led me out of bed every day were those of other people. “But, then what?”. It wasn’t a selfish thought. At least I would like to think so.

The question is this : When you lose your purpose, you lose your way, your eyesight is foggy, you aren’t really sure how or why you walk.. what do you do?

———————————————————————————-

This post had been typed until that dotted line almost 23 days ago. I couldn’t write after that. Whatever I wrote sounded juvenile, naive and to be harsh, it sounded massively stupid. The feelings within still haven’t left though. It isn’t good. This feeling of worthlessness. It comes from years of being far too hard on yourself and pulling the reigns at moments where you should have let go. It comes from dependence on others approval. It comes from not being able to exercise your free will. “After all, If I have not achieved, what am I good for?”.

That exact feeling is what drags every individual down to the rock bottom of self-pity. And my god, that is not a good place to be at. The feeling, the theory, the perception that if you have not achieved, you are not worth it. Your achievements are your footprint in the world.And you know what, maybe they bloody are. But I’m done fighting that. My will has become far too weak to continue that struggle against those people, circumstances and events.  (call them what you may).

Thought 20. Home :)

Posted on by eeseul24

I write this the day before Qatar’s National Day (continuing to edit this post multiple times cause you never really get done with the memories and sickening nostalgia) , another National Day which I am unable to attend.

To write of Qatar always breaks a little piece of my little heart. Somehow. I can never seem to describe the exact way Qatar makes me feel. Home is a lot like love that way. You can talk about what you may see,hear,sense and other little insignificant details that make all the difference, but you can never quite put your finger on it.

There is heartfelt pride in Qatar’s achievements and disappointment at its losses, with the same force, magnitude as in that of India’s. There is much to say of the problem of identification and belonging. It’s a mixed feeling (and I’m sure alot of the people I know would agree with me). It’s a sense of belonging and not belonging at the same time. You know your roots don’t lay there, you know there is much to know beyond this and yet when you live or leave , it is with a heavy heart, (to be dramatic). There is an uncertainty of identity. This uncertainty of identity is quite haunting at times of introspection. Haunting, intriguing, challenging, poetic.. sounds alot like love.

Where is home? Where my roots, my ancestors, my history lay or where I grew up? I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again :The place where you grow up is as significant as how you grow up. Who I am is because of my thoughts, feelings, beliefs, all of which was formed and molded in Qatar. India however has seen my growth as an individual. When in Qatar, you feel like you belong but you never will nor will you be considered that way. When in India, you know you belong and you are certainly not considered an outsider. Yet, when you talk of going back to/ being in Qatar,there is a much deeper, emotionally charged tone. Right from the gut. Right from where your convictions, your innermost beliefs, thoughts lie. My hand automatically goes up to my heart when I talk of it, so much that it is typical trait that people mock me for.

I think of the beach, I can smell the salty air and feel the dried seaweed, that has washed up on the shore, beneath my feet. I think of this highway in between a desert (considering I’ve spent almost half my life probably just travelling on that very road) with certain hills that are flat at the top, one in particular that has a hole right though it. I think of winters, when it’s windy,misty, dusty, all at the same time, gosh. I think of being able to walk around aimlessly at godforsaken times of the night. I think of how home has changed alot , un-recognizable buildings on familiar roads and the other way round. Qatar has grown up with me, I guess. And I remember home. With the kitchen garden my father made in the backyard, the huge tree that was planted as a seed in the front of our house.

When I was growing up,there was this extended family of neighbors , friends, brothers, sisters that we formed, many of whom left home or some we have lost entirely. I remember dinners being at alternate houses almost every weekend or so and since I was the littlest at the time, being pampered and very much coddled. I keep them in my thoughts and prayers as much as my own family, really. And then there are these rare events that we all meet at (probably somewhere in India), and it’s exhilarating and comforting and there’s so much love all around.

I would never ever want to forget these experiences or these memories I have. I don’t think I ever can. It’s so much a part of me. It’s so much a part of who I am, however cliched that may sound. So I write. I write again and again, edit this article multiple times until it’s become bookmarked on my device, just so I don’t forget the littlest details. This post has become a note in a journal, without purpose or cause, just existing on its own and for posterity.

Qatar is quite literally, my foster home. And I’m sure many who’ve grown up the same way face the same. Still, ever visit there, new experiences are added, new things learnt. And the most unfortunate part of it being that I have resigned to that fate of never being able to live there as if it is truly my own, howsoever I may feel.

I will figure out my way home.

Thought 19. Lady Lilith.

Posted on by eeseul24

Lady Lilith Aria, dolled up in her bare nakedness, revels in herself.

She is slave to her impulse, to her passions and the electrical energy that runs in her body and that is born within her sinews. Every new action, desire, object of lust is immediately owned, devoured, and acted upon in the wonderful Venusian flytrap of her physicality.

Everything is in the now, and in the novelty of the moment. It excites her. She possesses and degrades her innate passive femininity. She is anything but passive and she is the mistress of her senses.

This vice made her walk, jog and run to her next sensual daydream. All that is submitted to time is sincerely despised. Her clock functions as an ashtray, holding the ashes of those burnt by the embers of her outrageous bleeding red lips.

Her fingers circle around the brim of a wine glass, that has overflowed.  Her seduction is fatal. And every single victim of hers knows it.

She, that smirks at her clock-ashtray, knows there is no time to question, and her body and mind already clouded by the passions born within her as such, give no way to clarity of thought. Before time and her consciousness reaches this fiery, furious being, she has bared to all but herself.

“Moment, momentary. It’s now. Or never.” And she immediately arches her back. Awakens her inner Dark Moon.

Esteemed by everyone except herself, she identified with this. This vice. She is a vice one would never want to quit. She wouldn’t want that to happen.She cannot identify herself any other way. Indulging her impulses and indulging her moment.

Possessing all that you think, distorting reality and giving credence to all that is considered illicit. She is capable of this and much more. Lady Lilith is fatally seductive. She knows it.

Thought 17. Hard Brandy.

Posted on by eeseul24

The Wind blows on your face
and Brandy in your stomach.
Warmth within.
A haven, within your cold body.

The Wind blows against your skin.
It screams and whispers
alternately, all its stories.
You are too drunk to notice.

“You are drunk on your Brandy?”
“Yes Master. For it gives me reprieve
from the harsh cold.”
“If you are forever drunk,
how would you learn to embrace the cold?”

The cold has its charms.
The cold Wind teaches you something.
You will realise when It leaves.
It does not return.
It is the Wind.

You will be left alone with your Brandy
and the heat will get to you.
You will have no reprieve.

Embrace the Wind when you can.
Learn to live in the cold.
The cold brings its own warmth.