Acceptance, why is this so hard?.
Accept, you are stretching way too beyond your limit
Accept, relationships do not run without time
Accept, you are not a super man
Accept, kids don’t develop bonds without you being part of their childhood
Accept, spouse can only be as accommodative as they can
Accept, friendships loose zing, when you have nothing in common.
Accept, even your favourite hobbies don’t stay fun, if you don’t spend time on it
Accept, food does not taste good, if your mind is debugging a work related problem
Accept, slowing down IS an option.
It is out there to see, everyone else is able to see it, and yet, you refuse to accept. Is it the ego?, is it your way of fighting it, or is it just a way of looking away, with a hope that it would magically vanish when you turn back.
How much ever you day dream, going back in time is not an option. Acceptance is the only solution.
Damn you stupid logic!
Today must be a significant day, after close to 15 years on job a core file has not excited me.
Today must be a significant day, after a long time, I have felt an urge to write something on my blog
Today might be just another day, as I am at work staring at my laptop
You never know when a day can change from significance to oblivion.
How many times, has an event sprung a realization of an odd kind? I would say not so often. Just the other day, I was watching a cousin of mine on stage, and it struck me that it has been such a long time since I have held a mike. I think the last time must be in my high school. Even back then, speaking on mike never came easily to me, I had to force myself to get my inhibitions off, and just say what I got to tell. I remember participating in debates and dreading to speak up, I would have had so many points to make, but speaking up was never my forte. When I was introduced to essay and creative writing, I grabbed it with both hands, and found a medium to make my points, without having to get on the stage.
The philosophy seems to have gotten struck with me. The idea of not voicing my thoughts, not speaking up and owning my ideas. Professionally I might be the one who is one of those who doesn’t hesitate a bit, before voicing opinions in meetings and discussions, as though it’s a whole new facet of me. When it comes to real life [Very interesting that I don’t consider my profession as my real life], I hardly voice my displeasures, pleasures, and most importantly my stand on various subjects. Being a very opinionated guy, I find it really surprising that I don’t voice my opinions.
My blog is the biggest example of my escapism. The thoughts expressed here, which I consider the truest picture of my mind, even here I have chosen to not own my thoughts and come up with a pseudo name. I can count with half the number of fingers in my left hand, how many people know about my real life identity and identify my thoughts with me. When an article of mine got published in a book, I chose to write it under the pseudo name, and didn’t even share it with parents. So basically my thoughts never get the identity of my voice, they remain mostly anonymous.
This leaves me with questions. Is it fear? Is it escapism? Is it immaturity? Is it natural? Is it pseudoism?
I have always set standards for myself. I don’t know if settings standards is good or bad. There has always been a limit below which I cannot stoop, even if I do, I am under constant guilt to move back up. Even though I don’t know if this is good or bad, I have always felt good when I have lived up to my standards. [An interesting thought dwell on later, even though we don’t know a thing is good or bad, we feel good doing it].
Simplest of the situations ends up resulting in a huge expectation from oneself, be it being on time every single appointment, not taking off even on a single day in school, being able to solve every single problem which confronts you at work, not letting health issues prevent you from getting to work, not letting go any confrontation without discussing them to a logical end, I can keep listing them all days of the week, and still will not be done with things where I think I have a set standard to live up to.
Over the years I have begun to live with the fact that this is how I am, and the depressions and anger that come out of me, when I don’t meet my standards, are bound to be present, and there can be nothing that can be done about it.
Expectations and standards were fine until I was having them and setting them for myself alone. Marriage changes this, now there is another person who is so close to me that I end up extending my standards and expectations to my wife. At first I felt good, to be able to relate to another person so much that I find her a part of me, but now I am realizing that If I continue this, this will be the biggest blunder of our marriage. The idea of expectations and standards from my wife has scared the hell out of me, I have already got a glimpse of what it feels for a person who expects, and for the person whom it is expected from, when these begin to annoy, when the definition of trivial gets made and broken like a million times within no time, when these arguments both spoken and spoken multiply, and the bad mood just engulfs the usual cheerful dwellings.
I have been thinking on this for some time now, how do I forget about standards, and minimize expectation?..
I remember the light that shone, in what appeared to be a small chamber of walls. The walls that seem to shrink the space with time, as did the waxy candle, being eaten away little by little, lightening up more and more, as though trying to mask things being lost, with shiny things which lit up with little effort.
I remember little things which lit up my days, adding aroma to my morning cup of coffee, which seem to be leaving an increased essence with every sip, that is taken in. Every sip opening up a bit of the scratchy insides of the cup, showing the cracks well hidden, with an almost devilish precision. An aroma rich enough for a lifetime, a lifetime long enough, or may be, just enough.
I remember the lifetime, which seemed long, not long ago; lifetime that seems to have left a rich aftertaste, occasionally hinting flavors, sweet, that refuse to turn sour with time.
Sour, they should have been, foul, it should have smelt, dark, it should have ended.
Alas, I still remember the light.
One keeps reading how the old age creeps into people’s life, you are just chugging along a mid life, and suddenly one day, you look at the mirror and feel, “What happened to me, when did I turn into this, was I in some sort of a trance through this metamorphosis”.
Nope!. No, I didnt turn into an 80 year old overnight. Just had a similar feeling about having slept through a metamorphosis.
Let me come back to the metamorphasis in a bit.
A silent tilt of head, followed by a ‘been there, done that’ closed eye nod. It’s as though I have learnt a new language of the guys waiting in front of trial room, patiently waiting, as their partners try on a pile of clothes, one after the other, come out briefly to gather the opinion, gaze upon themselves in the mirror for a royal sway, before getting back into the trial room.
Being in a not so famililar area adds its own set of anxiousness into the frey. “What the hell is he doing in our area?”, “doesn’t he have better things to do?”, “cheap skate”, no wonder my mind iterates through possible thoughts on women going in and out of the trial room on seeing me in front of it.
I should be getting l a nobel prize for observation, for the next statement I am going to make. If not a nobel prize may be a simple “I pity you” pitcher of Kingfisher beer would be just fine too. Anyways, have you ever wondered who on earth designs the floor space in these cloths shops, and what on earth makes them put the lingerie and the inner-wear section right next to the woman’s trial room?, Every time one’s waiting in front of it, he is invariably staring into walls and walls of things one would sneak inside a brown bag before taking home. Embarrassment is such a funny thing when it happens to others isn’t it.
I wish we had more couple friendly trial room, may be a some place which has like a secret passage into a room where, your partner tries the clothes on, and you get to check your email, blog a post, order a pizza, or may be sneak in a drink.
Just when you are trying to multiply 278 by 342 and hoping that you are extremely bad at maths, so that you wouldn’t have to think of another passtime, a cruel thought kind of creeps into your mind. You suddenly realize you have never been caught in a woman’s section, especially waiting for your partner. Suddenly your picture flashes in front of you, the single guy wearing printed Tee’s which says all possible nonsense, is still wearing nonsense, but there’s a hand bag holding onto your hand, and a bottle of water which fails to fit into your jeans, so has to be carried around, probably a second mobile fitted into your jeans, and a hair clip hugging your jean pocket. You just hope the clothes shop gets magically transported into a land of strangers making it impossible for someone who can recognize to be in the same world.
You know the feeling one gets as the board examinations progress, and closer we are to the last one, more enthusiastic one gets in anticipation of the end, finally on the day of the final day of the examinations you sport a huge grin?, well it is sort of the same grin which one can find on each of us waiting outside, when the final garment is being tried on. The last step before the freedom.
As I was writing these posts, my mind kept warning me of the possible consequences, as bubbles does loitre around the hallways of virtual rambling once in a way. I guess its age to take chances isn’t it
I did leave out the most important part of metamorphosis. After a stinct as a holder, dreamer, mathematician, standing sleeper, when one gets to sip that one sip of beverage, holding hands of their partner, looking into her eyes, with an occasional wink and a hearty giggle thrown in. Ah who cares about the trial room, Trial room, where’s that.