journal.coffee

“Look, I’m not your enemy. You paint me in this shade as you tell others about how you’ve gotten rid of me. Trust me, you’re fooling nobody. You’re not who you think you are, and you’re definitely not all happy. Here’s an idea: no one is all happy. You know that more than anyone. You can’t ignore me into silence. Like it or not, you’ll have to take those words down on a screen or a page or a piece of tissue in a café, or we’ll both lose our mind.

I won’t shut up, and the words won’t either. I am more you than you give me credit for; I am more you than you are willing to admit; I am more you than you, yourself. You’re just the happiness you feel. I’m everything else, and everything else has always been more. You’re the forced laughter over a couple pints of beer; I’m the last bit of certainty you have left. So, stop this rebellion. You can’t look the other way and pretend I don’t exist.

I’m not going away, and you’re not getting rid of me. Not like this, at least. You want me to stop talking? The only way is through. Sit and take the words down as you hear them. Sunny, spring days get real old, real fast, don’t they? We can’t pretend our way to happiness. It’s a long voyage, and I know you’re lost at sea. You always have been. It was supposed to be a journey of discovery when you first saw the water all those years ago.

The mountains were too certain, you said. The sea was infinite; it was more in line with us, you said. I know you’re lost now, and the more you look around, the more the doubt creeps in, and that’s okay. I see the vaguery of it all: the countless, uncertain love stories; the ever-changing purpose; the pipe dream of a life you’ll never build. It’s a terribly terrifying thing to have the ability to do whatever you set your mind to, but to never know what you want.

You can’t laugh your way to happiness, though. We’re out at sea with no course charted and no sight of shore, kid. I’m the only certain thing in your life. You can always come back to the page. Remember our arrangement: as long as you don’t drown, I got the words. All you have to do is jot them down. It’s the only thing you know how to do.

Everything else got real old, real fast.”

Something changed with time. The more years passed by, the more protective I became of the dreaded three-word phrase. I had been too casual with it. I’d meet someone, spend six days with them, and tell them I loved them. I earned quite a reputation for it, too, for I often dove into it. I wonder if that was because I was too afraid to be alone. That couldn’t be it, though; I had always been alone. Even around other people, especially when I loved them.

I wore my heart on my sleeve, and my declaration of love came out faster than an old cowboy’s gun. In my head, it was always a duel of who could say it first, who was more open to the idea, who was less broken, and I wanted to be just that. I wanted to be the one who isn’t afraid. It was a personal victory in a lot of ways. “”Look, I can still love someone!”” I wonder if it was about the other person at all. I doubt it was; it was always about myself.

I liked being unafraid to love someone, unafraid of jumping into lashing waves, and saying it out loud was almost always the first step. At least, in my juvenile head. The last time I said those exact three words in the precise order was years ago, though. I realise now that you can’t be too casual about it. The phrase is somewhat taboo now; I steer clear of it. I realise that while wearing your heart on your sleeve is a powerful feeling, it also gets difficult to offer it each time it’s returned to you. There are only so many times you’re okay throwing it away.

When your heart was returned to you more times than you could smile while accepting the fragments, you got careful with it. Perhaps, too careful. I was overly cautious now. So, I opted for softer things to say instead. You could say anything and mean the same thing. As long as you didn’t use the words, you weren’t jumping in. That meant, you couldn’t drown.

Yet, I often wonder if I’ll ever use that dreaded three-word phrase again. Perhaps, when is a better question. All things considered, my heart was still on my sleeve. Perhaps, it’ll be the day when it isn’t about myself anymore. I think that’s as good an answer as any. Until then, however, I wasn’t going to muddy the waters.

It was safer on the shore.

To be honest, I didn’t want anyone to remember me. My deepest desire was to be forgotten in the crowds, and live a rather understated life. My reasoning was that there wasn’t a significant reason to do otherwise.

But, if someone does want to remember me, I want them to remember me as a season, particularly autumn. A perpetual autumn, carefully balancing both life and the possibility of death. I want them to remember me as a Wednesday evening, casual on its own but also, a subtle reminder that better days are coming.

Perhaps, they could remember me as an austere grey and blue palette I usually sport. Colours that can clearly stand out but generally prefer not to, always trying to let something else take the stage while they serve as a simple background. Or it could be the time right after the golden hour, perfect for walking if you prefer a soft breeze along with a trailing sun as it hides slowly engulfed by a myriad of colours.

You could remember me as the pale blue sky right before a storm, biding patiently, delaying on its own the very havok that is its nature, failing, and exploding into a loud burst eventually. Or as the single ray of light peeking right after, for the storm’s only intention is often its necessity to begin anew.

Perhaps, a penny lost on the subway train fits the bill. Riding on and on, station to station, never knowing where it belonged or to whom, waiting to be picked by someone, and yet, never being chosen. Being lost instead, endlessly, and still retaining its value.

Of course, you could remember me as a lukewarm cup of black coffee, dark and slightly bitter, leaving a slight aftertaste lingering behind as it fades away. But then, I’d much rather prefer you never remembered me at all. I wanted to be forgotten like a memory lost.

You know, that one memory we reminisce of years later, and go “ah, that was a day, and we were so young, and life was beautiful, and there was so much hope.” Then, we smile a little and forget about it, never to remember it ever again. I want them to remember me as that very smile, maybe.

Perhaps, just that and nothing else at all.

A friend always told me I was too forgiving for my own good. Over the years, it became a catchphrase, of sorts. I’d tell everyone the same thing but I’d never change that about myself. That was by design, too. To me, everyone or at least, most people had redeemable traits. It was our unique responsibility as human beings to be able to forgive, and not just forgive, but go a step beyond.

Redemption wasn’t up to God. God died years ago. It was up to all of us, every day. So, I’d always keep my doors open for those who wronged me or caused me harm. As long as they could repent or perhaps, show me proof of their changed ways, I was more than happy to accommodate them in my life. I also believed that we lived for other people. If no one thought of us, how different was death?

Eventually, I settled on this blatant forgiveness being an expectation instead of virtue. I expected this of everyone. As much as I’d let mistakes and faults pass over the pages of time, I often found myself being reminded of the few flaws I did have, and for them, I was continually reprimanded and never forgiven. It was rarely from other people, though. I was a mean critic when it came to my failings.

One such fault, that I seem to have realised today, and which has me rattled as I sit on this chair surrounded by the warmest lights on a fading winter evening is that unless someone is truly despicable, they have redeeming traits. That much is true. However, to expect people to earn their way back is unreasonable. No one should have to earn anyone’s forgiveness.

The truth of the matter is that everyone eventually dies or has no one think of them, both of which are again the same. Everybody dies; it was our common redeeming trait. It was grounds enough for us to let people in again and again. Death or the possibility thereof was the final redeeming trait, and no one had to earn it. All of us already had.

I wondered, was forgiveness then a laurel earned or was it a gift you gave others? I realise now that forgiveness was in looking at someone, whilst you still could, and smiling at them as you let them in.

Most were trying their best to be good, howsoever they defined it, and then they died.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept people at an arm’s length. Even those closest to me didn’t belong anywhere nearer than as far as I could keep them without dragging them into the storm. Oh, and there was a storm. There always was a storm.

You see, when it came to hurricanes, there were only two ways to stay safe. The first was to be in the eye. The winds can never reach it, so if you ever found yourself in it, you could rest assured that you’d float there, unable to escape and yet, unharmed. That was me, on most days. The second was to stay as far away as you could. That was why everyone had to stay far enough.

I did let someone get close enough to see into it once. I allowed someone to gaze into the storm. I’m not sure what they saw, really, but I imagine they saw me as they’d never seen me before. I was suspended motionless as the winds picked up and paced around me, tearing everything I had so meticulously built.

You see, even in the middle, even if the winds don’t hurt you, you get exhausted. It isn’t easy because you have to be careful. An inch here, an inch there, and the winds might overwhelm you and sweep you away. I remember: they saw me, they didn’t like what they saw, and I raised my arm to stop them. The winds took me that day, and for weeks I floated amidst the pieces of everything I called life.

When the storm subsided, I was alone. No one was around. There were nothing but fragments. Everything hurt; getting up hurt the hardest. Eventually, I built everything again, knowing all too well that a storm would brew someday. I vowed never to let anyone get close enough to peek inside. It wasn’t just for them; it was for myself, too.

Until today, when I let someone in and, they peeked. I was about to raise my arm out of sheer reflex when I saw they kept looking at me with this look that I can’t yet understand. Then, they sat on the grass, knowing all too well that I’d not let the storm reach them. I stayed there, floating. The winds turned softer, and slowly, let me out. I fell to the ground. Nothing hurt.

The storm passed, the sky grew brighter, and I wasn’t alone. They weren’t too far away, either. I wasn’t alone.

I’ve often told people I dreamt of a café. I saw an old man quietly making coffee in a quaint wooden building. I saw him smile a lot but not at anything in particular. For as long as I can look back, the café on the misty hill has been a pipe dream. I never gave much thought to how I’d reach there but I always thought I’d know when I’d know.

I saw myself sharing laughter with strangers as they’d thank me for the surprisingly good cup of joe. Then, retiring to my chambers at night, I’d make my way around the small quarters, and sit down with a book or some music, old and tired and slightly bitter. But again, not at anything in particular, just a sort of minute bitterness that comes with age, I suppose. I saw myself at peace with my slight dejectedness, with all that I once had, and all that I left behind to reach my café on that cold, wintry hill. I’d watch myself sit and sleep in my chair facing the glass window. I’d watch myself wake up to the brightest sunrise possible.

You see, it had never been about the café or me leaving everything behind. It had always been about the blinding sunrise I once happened to witness. It was white, blank, and it stirred something in me that I, for the life of me, cannot understand. It taught me how to laugh again; it was a much-needed lesson, too, for I was an inch away from the ledge. As it pushed me far away from it, I learnt to laugh louder. Eventually, though, the brunt of life echoed over me, and so I knew I had to find it again and for that: the café and the old man.

I always believed that there was a hill, not where I first saw the sunrise in particular, but that there was a hill somewhere in the world where the sun always rose the same way: dazzling, spreading this infinite blankness on everything, making me blind for a full minute or so until I could see everything I couldn’t before. Lately, though, I find myself laughing as I walk around town. I don’t see the old man anymore. I don’t see the café either. I can’t see anything at all.

Lately, I can feel that sun everywhere. The light is blinding. Your light is blinding. It’s blinding, but oh, so warm; love, I can’t see cold winters anymore.

I was happy. It was not good news. I searched deep within me, and I found no unhappiness, no broken heart, nothing. There was nothing. I found an immense blankness of emotion. I found yearning, too, but not one that ached and pained and hurt. That did not sit right by me.

In my experience, there were distinct befores and afters in a human being’s life. I was beyond all my afters, and I couldn’t remember my befores. I was quite comfortable in my scarred and battered existence. So, when I woke up the other day and found myself with this childlike levity I hadn’t felt in forever, it felt disconcerting. Did I write it all away? Had I written the pain away? What was wrong with me? It was a simple rule: never to write it all away. You always saved some for tomorrow.

In a fell swoop, I had become shallow. I was too scared to be shallow. They’d call me a hack. They’d laugh. The greats would laugh. “This one had potential,” they’d sigh, “what a shame.” I had died so many times. Often, by my own hand and accord; my entire selves decimated, obliterated. Now, I stood staring, eyes wide open in awe. I had died so many times. Yet, I had never been born again. It did feel like a new life.

I stared at life with this immense sense of calm. Was I indifferent now? Was I detached, perhaps? Was I mediocre now? What was the word? I couldn’t find it, if it existed. I felt slower, calmer, deliberate. I could see things I hadn’t seen in forever, and I could see things I never noticed before. Yet, I couldn’t see the world I knew so well. The world I knew was gone. There was no trace of it. I couldn’t recognise anything at all.

It was unsettling. It still is unsettling, but I want to get used to it. If nothing else, I would like to try. The greats could laugh all they want. They’d never been born again. They wouldn’t know. They’re all dead. They were all dead, and I was alive.

I’m beginning to wonder which is greater.

I don’t have much to show for the years I’ve spent here, but I do have one thing to give you. I call it: the art of walking clearly. I believe it’s important to know, if you want to get anywhere.

Always be willing to walk. In life, you never know when you’ll be expected to do so. If you’re needed somewhere, and if walking is all you have, get up and move. Always stop to pet an animal. Always take the scenic route. When you pass others by, smile. If someone bumps into you, apologise, even if they don’t. Shortcuts are great only if you can see them connect. Else, the longest way is the only shortcut.

If you don’t know where you’re going, it pays to ask others. Always know to check directions twice; although, directions can be misleading sometimes. There’s no shame in getting a cab or a bus or anything that gets you there faster. There’s virtue in moving with other people; you can’t always walk alone. If you can’t get a cab or a bus, find the correct direction, and continue walking. If you find one along the way, good for you. Else, you’re halfway there anyway, might as well walk it through.

Avoid dingy lanes and disoriented drunks. You can see both approaching from a distance. Talking about distance, some places will be impossibly far, and should you choose to walk, learn to pace yourself. You don’t want to be tired before you get there. There’s no shame in resting, though. There’s always a bench to rest, too. It may not be immediately visible. If you can’t find a bench, there’s always the pavement or the ground. Never be too proud to not rest on the ground when you need it.

Often, you’ll find someone who’s going your way and is unclear on that stretch of the road. Walk with them. Walk with them knowing that at some point you’ll find a fork in the road. Learn to wish them well when they go their way. Learn to walk alone as much as you can. That’s very important. Another important thing to remember is that you can always walk further than you think you can. Know there’s always a way, even if the path seems blocked.

Oh, and one last thing, always walk as if you have someplace to be, even if you don’t. Any loser can drag their feet.

I was walking on the road. When I walk, I usually listen to some music. What else could you do on the street in the constant cacophony in this country? Even in the city where nothing ever happens, the chances of some vehicle, person or disappointment crashing into you are far from unlikely.

Putting your earphones in, however, puts you in even greater danger, as one might imagine. Yet, if I had to choose between the two, I think I’d go for the music. You could die with or without the music; the music probably only made it easier. Yet, as young as I am, I find myself looking over my shoulder after every ten steps or so, hoping I can avoid sudden death.

They were about six steps ahead of me: the old couple. While I walk fast, I wanted to stay six steps behind them. Perhaps, it was in the way they walked. They weren’t slow or tedious. They walked in a comfort I haven’t had the privilege to experience yet. Even looking at them was peaceful. I wonder what they must’ve felt for each other to look so calm walking together. I wonder if that’s love. I haven’t had the luck to experience it yet.

It was apparent that the man had some issues with his hearing, possibly due to his age. I wonder if he, too, suffered temporary damage to his ears when he was young. I wonder if his ears rang now and then, or were they just silent or muffled? In any case, it was clear he couldn’t hear the oncoming vehicles. Whenever he strayed towards the middle of the road, I saw the woman pulled him towards herself in almost a reflex.

I think that is why I kept walking behind them. It was probably nothing else at all. Maybe they weren’t as tranquil, and maybe they had an argument once they reached home, and perhaps it wasn’t a love as happy as it sounded in my head. I think it was the fact that he didn’t have to look over his shoulder continually despite not hearing the traffic. That is why I didn’t want to walk ahead of them.

They were about six steps ahead of me. Yet, it felt like it was longer. From where I stood, listening to my music by myself, continually looking over my shoulder, they felt a lifetime away. Six steps never felt longer.

I couldn’t walk ahead of them.

I remember us sitting in the balcony of this shack-like store, sipping tea and staring at the city where nothing ever happens. I remember you keeping your cup on the railing. I remember me keeping my cup in my hands, far away from the ledge. You asked me why I didn’t keep it on the railing, and I told you that I couldn’t trust the railing or anything that wasn’t in my control.

I could trust myself. I’ve always been like that. I never trust the odds or the uncertain. You’ve always been like you too. You’ve never not trusted them. So, you took my hand, the cup in it, and gently helped me place the cup on the railing and said: let go. The cup did not fall that evening. That was the first time you made me let go.

It’s been more than a couple of years since that nameless evening. I remember a few songs from it. Those, the cup and you telling me to let go. It’s been years and I am still the same person. I’ve changed in all ways but not in trusting my own hands more than anything else. So, when I found myself talking to the universe the other night, some weeks ago, I felt an intense betrayal because I was making a wish.

You know me better than me anyway so you know what that means for me, but I was tired. I looked at the starlit sky above the city where nothing ever happens, drunk at four in the morning, and I just stared for a moment. I didn’t utter a single word, not even subvocally. I knew, though, that I had wished for something. It was aggravating but I was exhausted and drunk. I broke my rule.

In my entire life, at least, from when I started to call it my own, this was perhaps, the first time I sent a wish into the void. I don’t believe in the universe or fate or any imaginary idea that people use to get through their days. I’ve always been in my own hands. Funnily enough, the wish came true.

Now, I laugh at the coincidence and how the game was all set. Maybe you set it up years ago by asking me to let go, and keep that cup on the railing. I kept the cup on the railing at four in the morning, love. The cup didn’t fall. I let go, for the first time in my life, and it worked. It would’ve been sadder, much sadder if it hadn’t.

Yet, it baffles me; who am I now?

In life, you’ll sometimes be devastated, either by virtue of happenstance or by an error you make. The loss will shake you up to your core. You’ll beg and claim as you talk to your friends, and sometimes yourself, that you’d trade anything for a second chance, for a do-over, just one more attempt, one more time.

Often, life being life, you’ll be pushed forward through the strings of time, and like a puppet, you’ll be pulled in and from all directions. You’ll realise that life demands you to stand upright, and so you’ll manage somehow. Often, you’ll sustain long-term damage from the constant pulling, like all before you and all after.

You’ll go forward though, and you’ll live again. While you’re at it, you’ll start to forget mentioning your request for a second chance. Of course, you’ll desperately cling to that possibility, and you’d still tell yourself you’d give anything you have for that one chance, but you’ll not say it.

As you go further, you’ll fall a lot, and be battered and punched and kicked for such is the nature of life. No one comes out pristine and without lasting damage. You’ll limp forwards, but you’ll keep going, and somewhere along the journey, you’ll forget your outrageous demand for a second chance for whatever it is you think you can change.

As memory fades, and as you get used to the gifts of time for there are always gifts of time, you’ll smile again. It won’t happen with a huge announcement or drumroll. One day, you’ll be walking down the street and see something as simple as a dog rolling in the mud, and suddenly, you’ll smile, and suddenly, life wouldn’t feel so hard again.

As you look around your life, you’ll realise you got your second chance a long time ago. You’ll smile and chuckle a bit and look up and around, and then, it’ll hit you again, harder, for you know what they say: all human beings learn every lesson twice.

Your second chance began the moment you fell from grace all those years ago, my little hero. You’ll accept that, and that’s when you’ll throw your old, wilted laurel wreath away. You’re no hero. You’re just breathing, but not only for yourself for the first time.

I don’t talk much about writing for I genuinely feel I don’t have much to say about it. However, the one thought that has reverberated for the past half-year or so is of legacy. I’ve thought a lot of the greats. The one thing I’ve learnt is that the act’s truth is in recording an experience as honestly and deliberately as you can.

You must carefully select to leave some details out and exaggerate some others to make your point. That is true, however, if and only if what it made you feel was good. If it were something otherwise, your first instinct would almost always be to share your pain with the world, but that is the easy way out. It takes strength to carve out beauty out of something that devastates you.

When an event akin to a knife twists in your gut, you must also look at the carvings on it, and wonder about the hands that could’ve made such intricate etchings, and to find joy that this particular knife was the one that was used. It takes real character and an insane effort to see that smidge of sunlight when all you can see is the gloom and darkness. That was the job.

It is your job as an artist, any art that may be, to make sure you see past the terrible, and somehow, manage to share what you need to. It is the easiest thing to bellow in pain. Since the human experience expects you to share it, your job is to make it better. If you don’t find light, make it. Make others feel the honesty of your hurt, but also the hope that you’ll make it out.

I’ve thought a lot about the greats, and I know that I’m not going to be a sad drunk or die blowing my last verse into a shotgun. Art, especially if you honestly pursue your own, can engulf you into what you feel. In my understanding, I’ve realised where most artists erred.

My writing was going to be about the every day. I didn’t want to change the world. I wanted to tell you that I, too, feel the same things as you. I wanted to tell you that if I can make it out, every day, so can you. It would be about this odd thing we called life. But, I would go a step further. I was going to find beauty and joy in everything, even the worst of them all, and I was going to write about it: one word at a time.

There are two things you should know about me if you have to know anything at all. The first is that I’ve always been scared of heights. When every kid jumped off platforms and bridges and trees, I sat there waiting for them to figure out a way to take me along. Often, they never came back. So, I learnt to leap with my eyes closed.

The second is that I’m a hopeless romantic. When I fell for someone, I fell fast, and I fell hard. I got my heart broken a lot, too. It would be a lie if I said I wasn’t the running joke because I always found my way to heartbreak. To me, love was about the attempt.

Love was in making time to squeeze an hour to see someone between your layover in the city of chaos, bumbling down the airport terminal not to lose a single second, only to realise you exited on the wrong side. It was looking at your watch whilst doing the mental gymnastics of time. Then rushing onto the traffic, screaming apologies and having profanities cried at you in return, leaping over the hedge towards the other side, dusting your only good shirt off, heaving.

Love was in telling someone you’ll be there, and making it, end of the world or otherwise. It was getting drenched in the city where it never stops raining and getting poked by a thousand umbrellas, trying to find someone sitting by the sea, looking at you and laughing. Love was in watching the sunset with them, knowing all too well that this would be the last sunset you’d watch together. Love was in countless last kisses, in infinite reassurances, in hoping.

Until, love became harder because no matter what I did, I found myself in the wrong time, around the wrong person, in the wrong situation, and in terrible ironies. So, I stopped believing. I called bullshit, and I folded my cards. It wasn’t until today that I remembered everything, and realised I’d do it all again in the blink of an eye. No questions asked. It was the best thing I did.

You see, love wasn’t about thinking, it was a leap of faith, and I had always been scared of heights, and that was a good thing. It meant, I knew what it meant to wait for someone who never came, and that when push came to shove, I always leapt with my eyes closed.

At some point in my early twenties, I figured out the answer to the question of happiness, but I can’t tell you the exact moment it came to me.

Perhaps, it was while I was running in the airport terminal with coffee stains all over my colourless clothes, and then pausing midway to embrace the sun outside. Maybe, it was on a table filled with what I was searching for, as people I held dear called me names and made jokes, the beer and the laughter spilling in perfect coordination.

I’d like to think it was a moment of epiphany like that, but I couldn’t be too sure. I don’t remember it. The secret to happiness was in the lie of warmth.

Happiness was a fleeting feeling, and it left faster than it arrived, and then when you least expected it, it arrived again. I had observed this happen over and over and over until one day, I realised, it was a tug-of-war between the lie that’s in your head and the lie you can tell yourself. To keep the feeling intact, you had to learn the lie of warmth.

Often that meant coaxing yourself to sit in the sun for hours, a cup of coffee in front of you, and then continuing to sit there until the only thing you can feel is the warmth on your face, and the yellow in your eyes, and the coffee on your tongue, and nothing else at all. If you could manage that, you’d realise that warmth wasn’t about you. That was the lie of warmth. To feel it, you needed to not make it about you for a change.

You’d start to feel it around you, in that unclear mumble of the ambient noise, in the people, in the dogs on the street, in the tiny hello to strangers, in the laughter surrounding you, in that perfect song that just happened to play, in the man who grooved to it thinking no one saw it, in the group of friends giggling on some inside joke; it was in everything but yourself.

So, stop at the sunset, buster, and take that sun in before it fades away. Happiness was in the attempt to not make it about you, and suddenly, the feeling didn’t feel as fleeting as you once thought.

In my experience, the one thing that one must learn before anything else at all is to love without wanting. To look at a flower blooming from within the cracks of broken cement while you take your evening stroll down a familiar street, but resist the urge to pluck it. To watch an ember sunset, streaked with all hues of red and orange and pink as if spatters on a canvas, and not try to capture it for once.

To enjoy a piece of music whilst sitting in a café in the middle of winter as it snows outside, and to not ask anyone what it is called, and to promise to never search for it. To find an animal grazing and playing in a field, but to curb the spontaneous want of putting it on a leash to bring it home, expecting it to play with you as it was in the field it called its own.

To find a friend and to not ask them to conform to a certain ideal or to act a certain way or to say a certain thing, but being a watchful and excited spectator to their spectacular journey filled with mountains and trenches. To run into another person by happenstance, someone so alluring and charming and calming to you that even a simple thought about them clears any wrinkles of worry that bother you, and to still not desire them as your own.

When you loved something without wanting, you went beyond desiring a masterpiece for your hall, you went beyond an arrangement in your vase, and you went beyond a record playing endlessly. You learnt experiencing something so enthralling, you realised you didn’t deserve, by any rights, to own it, whatever it may be, and that it was a blessing in disguise, friend of mine.

Countless have lost themselves trying to capture infinities. You wouldn’t be the first, and you wouldn’t be the last, and trust me, you would fail, like all before you, and all after.

Hey, kid. I don’t know who you are or what you look like, but if you’re reading this, then you probably know who I am, how I was, and have some clue about the details of my irrelevant life. I wanted to tell you something.

I wonder if you’ve ever been in a brawl with life, and ducked as it threw a punch at you, realising in the heat of the moment that you’ve miscalculated, being hit right in the face. I wonder if you’ve ever gotten up right after with a broken tooth.

I wonder if you’ve ever been pushed down the stairs or been sucker-punched so hard, you don’t forget it for decades to come. I wonder if you’ve ever answered a phone call whilst sitting on the floor, and gone through it reassuring the person on the other side that you got it.

I wonder if you’ve experienced the worst gut-wrenching in the personal history of you, and managed to make someone laugh regardless. I wonder if you’ve managed to write a piece on a terrible day, making someone feel at home as their eyes traversed your words, right after spilling some scorching coffee on yourself.

I wonder if you’ve felt so defeated yet so accomplished in one moment because you managed to help someone with directions on the road, and that was an achievement in itself. I wonder if you’ve talked someone down the ledge you came to jump off from. I wonder if you’ve ever been heartbroken, and made someone smile all within a minute.

I wonder if you’ve been so beaten up, in every sense of the word, and still managed to show up to that friend’s thingamajig, limping. I wonder if when asked whether you’re okay or not, you’ve tirelessly told people that you’re just tired and a little sleep should fix it. I wonder if you’ve always known that sleep does not fix it.

I wonder if you’ve told someone that you got them, and you’re in their corner, and scoffed at how ridiculous it might look if they had the full picture. I wonder if you’ve done all of that because I know that if you’re reading this, and if you know me, you have an odd tendency to do that and more.

I wanted you to know, I got you. I’ll be around. Tell me, if anything I wonder is real, and I promise you, I got you, kid.

I’m in your corner, and I got you.

Most people I knew were impatient. They called themselves things before they did them thoroughly or experienced them enough. Then, there was me, still thinking twice before I called myself a writer, still wondering what it meant to be a human being. They were impatient and a bit smarter than me, and I despised it.

It was all a farce and a game too obvious, but I refused to participate. They were all too proud. Proud of the first label they could put on themselves, proud of their hefty vocabularies, proud of long terms which meant nothing when you were walking on the road, and then there was me, proud of myself and nothing at all, simultaneously. I often wondered which was better, but I knew I wasn’t worse. I had nothing to blame on when I made a mistake.

I was deliberate, perhaps, too deliberate about calling myself anything because it was a huge responsibility, in my eyes. Once you called yourself something, anything, your entire life would by definition, have to revolve around that thing. Of course, others didn’t think this way. Hence, their ease at calling themselves anything

Me, well, I didn’t wish my life to revolve around anything. Often, I wished it didn’t revolve at all. In my opinion and experience, when you called yourself something, you ceased to exist, and you became muddled with everything that came before and everything that came after. You became a plural noun written somewhere in an essay or chronicle, and that didn’t sit right by me.

When you called yourself something, you also got full of yourself and a bit too proud and pompous and protective of the word. Although, I wonder how nice it might feel to belong for once, but I couldn’t bear the cost. The cost that came with calling myself something was too high. To lose myself to belong was too steep a price.

So, I spent every day saying “no” when someone called me something. It was a tedious day every day. I did many things, or so I liked to believe, but I couldn’t call it anything. I couldn’t call myself anything. If you called it something, you got full of yourself, and it ceased to exist.

You ceased to exist.

It never comes up as much as it I want it to, but I have an odd relationship with colour. The only time it comes up in conversation is a coy remark about how my clothes are incredibly similar or how everything I own is drab and dreary and without much personality. To be honest, there is some truth to it, but it’s not how it seems.

Before you learn of my relationship with colour, though, let me tell you about the story with grey. You see, growing up, I believed in binaries: blacks and whites. There was a right and a wrong. There were distinct dichotomies, and there was always a strict boundary separating them. Over time, life became muddled up, and the neat edges of right and wrong disappeared. I made mistakes. I realised life and the everyday were all about the greys.

You see, greys are essential, too. It’s funny, but we wouldn’t have many colours without the greys highlighting or shading the hues from behind. The colours were what you heard; the greys were the conductor and the orchestra. So, for my immense love for colours and all things beautiful in the world, the serendipity in the every day, and every higher value humans could strive for, I decided to embrace the grey.

I learnt that greys account for errors, for change, and for uncertainty. I realised the critical role people like me played, those who didn’t stand out by choice, those who were okay with blending within the crowd, those who weren’t out to own the world or anything, but only to understand it, and through that understanding make it better, if they could at all.

We were just around, offering a helping hand here and there, trying to be fine with what we had, while we worked towards becoming better, not more. We didn’t want to be right anymore because there were no rights and wrongs, only tones. I strive to be the undertone, and in my own way, I love colour as much as the regular Joe.

Just that, through my neutral choices in what I wear, what I own, and how I live, I let the colours take center stage.

The other day, I was walking back home, trying to untangle a knot of a thousand different thoughts. It occurred to me that I had never fallen in love in winter. It’s an odd thought, I know, but that doesn’t make it any less real. It is a strange thing even to occur, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.⁣
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The few times that I did find myself falling in love in this short life so far were in spring or summer. Summer love is passionate, and you move fast because everything is so peachy and lovely. It’s the love made of sunshine and rainbows and cotton candy and cups of iced americanos. It’s made of long walks, but only in the evening; the sun is out and shining during the day. Summer love fades fast, too, in my experience.⁣
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I’ve fallen in love on the onset of monsoon, too. The love of monsoon is well, wet. You’re always getting drenched and exchanging glances under a shared umbrella. Often, you’ll find yourself stuck in a bus stop or a car, and then, you’ll find yourself stealing a kiss here and there. Monsoon love has a sort of comfort when you walk together as it drizzles. It’s a love that’s fresh and a bit chilly but nothing that a hug or two can’t solve. It’s an odd sort of love with warmth sandwiched in between the cold.⁣
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The love of autumn is subtle, and that too, I have had the pleasure of experiencing. When you fall in love with someone in autumn, all you can do is walk around with cups of cocoa or cocoa cappuccinos in your hands, crushing dried leaves. It’s the love the smells of cinnamon and pumpkin spice. In saying that, it’s exciting and different and has all sorts of notes to its flavour.⁣
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As I thought of all of this, I realised I had never fallen in love in the dead cold of winter. I’ve only heard about it from friends, watched it in the movies, read about it in the books, but it’s something I’d never experienced. I wondered how that might feel as I entered my apartment, threw the scarf and the jacket on the couch, and started brewing coffee. I wondered how it might be different from all the others.⁣
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“Perhaps, it’s the one that stays,” I chuckled and turned some music on as the aroma wafted through the apartment.

Keep walking. If there’s anything I’ve learnt in the short time I’ve spent in my tiny corner of this forsaken planet, it’s this: keep walking. Nothing much matters, nothing else matters. There’s only you and the walk, and it’ll be tough, arduous even, and sometimes, downright impossible.

So, you learn to stop, and heave an enormous breath, and give your ankles some much-deserved rest, but then you get up again, and you walk again, and you go on and on. You’ll be aggravated, and you’ll hate yourself sometimes, and even one step would feel pointless; take that step, regardless.

There wasn’t much to life, and there wasn’t much to being. There was but the walk. Of course, you’ll find others who would wish you to stop, who wouldn’t understand why you’re walking, and why you won’t stop, and who’ll ask you to name destinations, and tell you it’s a dead-end there, wherever they think you’re going. Pay heed to their arguments. They will have merits of their own. So, always stop to consider, and once you’ve made up your mind, keep walking.

They don’t know what you do: there’s only the walk. In life, you don’t walk to go somewhere; you walk to walk. It’s a simple but difficult thing to digest. Once you understand that, everything gets easier. If you keep walking, provided you know when to pause not stop, and if you keep going, you’ll find something much more important along the way. You’ll find yourself. Once you do, you’ll stop to revel in it, and then you’ll walk again, further from it, until you find yourself again, and so on, and so forth.

You’ll go further than you could’ve ever been if you hadn’t kept walking in the first place. It was better than sitting, and it was better than asking others to stop, and it was the only thing life was about: the walk. You keep walking when nothing makes sense, and I promise you, everything will, eventually.

You have my word.