January optimism

Last year, in a fit of enthusiasm, I made my new year optimism a widely known affair. I mailed my list of retrospectively overambitious resolutions to a number of friends. And I could just do one, out of the long list of things. No, I don't fear ridicule, but I do feel stupid.

This year, I am only doing what is fair, posting on my anonymous blog so that it serves as a reminder to self without the public acknowledgement. So, apart from a massive amount of discipline, I also need to:

-Start driving.

-Write about the books I read.
-Save.
-Gather enough courage to quit my job and not regret it immensely.
-Travel to Shillong and Pondicherry apart from the travels which will happen due to various friends getting married.
-Strike a balance between being impulsive and wise.
-And not be afraid to add to the list.

I know this falls into the category of generic new year post (although delayed), but I lost the pretensions of creativity long back. Now this is just a log.

Until later.

P.S. I have read When You Reach Me, and Purple Hibiscus this month already, will you please rebuke me if I don't write about them soon?

P.P.S. Watched Dakota Skye right now. It makes me want to make choices I am not sure I require for real. So, I will do the brave thing and not think about it anymore.

.

I could wish for the easy way out, and ask someone else to make a decision. But that doesn't seem likely. I wouldn't be able to bare it all in front of even the closest confidante.

So should I take a giant leap with no parachute and only self to trust. Or this giant leap would be an escape from the present, clearer, present (and a possibility of an assured future).

I need to place my feet firmly on the ground to hang on. And defer the decision again, perhaps?

.

And we dipped the tip of our fingers in nostalgia. For, you settle in as easily as you let go.

Perhaps? No.

As if washing the skin would wash off the hurt!

...

I tried to smell stale cigarettes on another set of fingers and copy patterns of our lovemaking on a different bed. I would not reveal how futile it has all been.

I wish I could wash away the little specks of your desire, which have stuck to my skin despite the incessant scrubbing. And your kisses have been absorbed by the pores.

And this time I can't even string sentences to yank the misery out of my nauseating gut.

Textbook

The one I love is not you.
If, in a fit of pique, you ask me
'Then who am I?'
I shall say: you are that one
who, in the first flush of youth
Remained obscure; unvalued;
You are that one, who, time and again
Has taught me how to love.*


I was thinking of a time when I wanted things to stop. The thought of turning 'stale and moldy' was acceptable, even welcome. The time when routine mails were akin to poetry. And emails were sent despite the time together.

Yes, I went back to that tiny room on the first floor. Where time was just a beautiful verse.



* translation of an unknown Bangla poem.

Moira - Offred - June

And I thought loneliness was overrated. I wonder if this is how years will pass and nostalgia will grow roots, and like a well-grown peepal tree harbour ghosts from the past and the future.

I want to read C.Ayyappan. I wonder if there's any good translation available.

P.S.
The title is just there to fill the blank. I just finished reading The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, and I am shaken - which is good because even that involves a break from the routine.

'We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?'