All of Nothing

Some days, I wish the ache would erase me, and some days I wish I could set myself free Some days, I wish I could save you, and some days, I wish you could release me And every day I see the dagger carving with its shiny blade, enslaving me in this agony They say acceptance is the final stage. A stage I visit and then return to the gridlock - time and time again. It is not a destination. My visits to the promise of acceptance have varied in their duration and scope. In these visits, I find my surrender and my agreement with defeat. The storms finally put the fire out. In this cold, dark, uninspiring corner – I learn so much about myself.  They also say intellectualization of emotions does not allow an individual to feel the said emotions. And without the courage of standing defenseless in front of the tough emotional realizations, one could never reach acceptance. In line with strange ironies and miserable coincidences of my life, I have found myself to do all of the above – intell...

In circles we go with threads that tear the souls only to expose the void that buried the screams that define these souls. Threads are fragile when pulled in directions they do not belong, yet resilient when anchored. They survive inconspicuously even as they intertwine with new fabric of life. As the fabric grows, they stretch and slither, and hang quietly until the fabric is warped. And then the threads reveal their pull – not as a deliberate choice – but as a helpless plea to save the fabric from ripping to shreds. And so, I panic, and my shaky hands hold on to the threads to straighten out the fabric creases. And then the one, the inconspicuous one, tightens its grip and brings me to my knees. The fabric lays sheared, and the thread glistens as it nearly chokes me. The ambush is brutal yet familiar, but it holds back on its punches at first. Before I can recognize for what it is, it rapidly uncoils and pulls me tighter in this web of agony that sustains itself. The wounds run deep ...

Every time I return, it is so much more in my face all  that I had unsuccessfully tried to escape. It feels like everything comes back in focus, crystal clear. The suffering is more potent. The reality is more stark. What 'could not be' is more gigantic. None of this is surprising knowing the depths of emotional derangement in which I was immersed during my last visit. Since finding that deep new abyss of thick, slow-moving soot that pulls one into an eternal and evolving suffering, I haven't been the same. Even after my departure last time, the insurmountable pull and the multifaceted inadequacy have plagued my days, especially my morning drives. But being here, in flesh, in real time, is powered by the perceived proximity of loss and defeat. It feels like the curtains of mist are cleared, the fog lifts and the grey clouds of sorrow which I could feel on those drives are in focus, right in front of my face.  I know it is the association and memories that I unearthed. It i...

The silence of anxiety has no space to breathe. The weight of worries constricts the throat, freezes the tongue, paralyzes several senses and holds you on pause. It’s in this state, that sadness tries to break free as tears but it fails. If anxiety were only hinging on worry, it likely would be a one-dimension problem to solve. But it has so many facets. Trauma, melancholy, self-harm, self-hate, regret, fear and pain. Several times, it sits in the lap of slow-steeping depression that fuels it to spike to a paralysis. I deal with it as I have dealt with everything that has been thrown forcefully in my face. With broken pieces of my strength that tell me I am stronger than my anxiety, powerful than my depression, courageous than my fears. Accepting emotional pain as a normal part of my life in my younger years was not easy. Or wise. I think I got addicted to it because in that pain lived the memories of whom and what I loved the most. It became a lifestyle that I flaunted with preten...

I sit here brimming with anxiety, a defeated anger, fear and immense sadness. My core feels vast as a barren land with no streaks of happiness, sharp and numb cyclical pain, tears ready but too exhausted to shed themselves. So many questions, never enough answers. The questions and answers merge to become a dull noise. In the forefront is a realization and a desire. A realization of the wrongs, a desire to not continue realizing or feeling or knowing.  Revisits to troubled pasts are always traumatizing. A troubled past brings pain of a different kind than a lost past. And I am tired of choosing, so they all come as they are, when they want. I have no defenses anymore. I let my guard down and allowed myself into my heart. I let the walls dissolve, the compartments crumble, the curtains burn. And there they all were, staring right at each other. All those dark waters of sorrow and pain. All those faces with mascaras running in black tear trails. I let go of the ways that would freeze...

An independent kind of loneliness is liberating. I faintly remember brief phases of my life where I experienced such liberation. I think that’s called being alone without being empty. Growing up, I mostly felt sufficient and happy just by myself. I may have had an unidentified need for validation and appreciation when I was young. But my self-worth was what I thought of myself and not what others thought of me. The attention I received for doing well in school or for being friendly and fun, felt nice but was never required. Or maybe I did require it to be happy; I just didn’t realize that I needed it because I was surrounded by it, surrounded by friends, surrounded by admirers, surrounded by the noise of life and its wonders at the time. Until I faced my first big emotional storm that taught me what destruction felt like, I didn’t experience emptiness and its deafening silence amidst the noisy chaos. I used to find tragic sadness beautiful and inspirational and although I was attract...

Time has been the strangest thing I have known, only second to love. It is a little less crazy than love but a lot more powerful. Time proverbially is the best healer but it is also the ugliest messenger. The atrocity of time is best manifested as the comfort of memories of the past followed by prolonged realizations of the present reality. More often than not, time doesn’t knock you down directly when it’s flowing, it does so via the hands of consequences. In the moment, no matter how good or bad things are, time just exists. Actions are felt while they occur, time is felt retrospectively. Perspective is a glorified, seemingly-harmless term used for such excruciating realizations that only time can provide. Similar to the contradictory nature of time, love is also two-faced. Complex and simple. Simple as a kiss, a hug, a tear, an embrace, a sacrifice. Complex when coupled with time and emotions that cling to love almost seamlessly. Love and time together are likely the most powerful u...