Sometimes I yearn for something so ephemeral that I can't even articulate it. It is during these times that I find solace in music and reading and art. If I had a camera, a good one and the freedom to go places, I would go to all those wide open spaces where nature is at her peak. I would capture every single angle in frames and keep them with me forever. 

I wish I could paint the beauty that I sometimes see around. I am slightly obsessed with preserving beautiful thing, whether they are moments, or music or scenes. I actually close my eyes and imagine that I am on a cliff somewhere listening to the combined sound  of water and wind whistling through the leaves of the trees of a forest near me. I think it has become a kind of madness that overtakes me. I feel like I need to escape my skin and this scene is often my go to. 

I need sound and silence combined in a way. I wish I could listen to music for eons and I wish I didn't have to talk. I like the fact that in the 21st century we can do this without disturbing others, oh the joys of good headphones. 

I wish I could write in cursive and leave behind interesting titbits for posterity, alas this might not be of interest for two reason A. I am not really a good writer, and B. I don't think anyone would want to read my ramblings on page. Does anybody even read this blog? I think not, thus I feel completely at ease. It is like an online journal for me. 

I think that I yearn for love and acknowledgement. Lately, I feel that my existence doesn't really matter and that no one would probably remember me if I vanished.  In the end that's all anyone wants the beautiful feeling of being loved. 

 Feeling sad all the time has become a way of life for me. There are so many things I want to say. But I am afraid of being laughed at. Some may say I am too loud and some may say I talk too much. When did these become such a big sin? 

I used to think that there was some good in this world. Somewhere out there there must be some examples of kindness and morality winning the day. However as I grow older, I feel wronged, somehow. This past year had taught me that nothing is predictable and things may not go according to plans. However the fact that people haven't still learned to be kind; that oftentimes overlooked virtue, is making me sadder.

I know that this is in a way a very immature way of dealing with what I am going through, writing a blog post on a page people never visit, but this is the void I think that will absorb my embarrassing thoughts. The fact that I have been suffering from inexplicable melancholia from 2003 and having to wear a civilized mask ever since.  

I hope that in an alternate reality, if there is one, my other self is leading a fruitful life. That is all I can write about.  

 Sometimes, I feel like I have lived for millennia, I don't know what it is, but I have these strange thoughts whilst reading something or when I listen to a particular piece of music, or even when the wind rustles through my hair on my runs or walks a certain way.

This feeling of aching knowledge; of a particular state of being, is so powerful that it knocks my breath away. This aspect of existence is not new, and yet the ongoing isolation has increased it's appearances in my life. I know that all of us our pondering the meaning of life right now and the great philosophical question of 'what it is all for?' has taken a permanent residence in our minds. Yet, why has it become increasingly difficult to share these thoughts?

I find myself having out of body experiences in the middle of inane conversations. I can feel myself looking at who I am and finding myself lacking. I don't feel depressed precisely; rather, it is a curious state of judgement and recriminations about ones character laced with frequent bouts of loathing towards oneself and the world in general. 

One would be a simpleton indeed, if one didn't recognize it for what it was, ' a particularly nasty bout of ennui'; and yet how does one get out of the dark pit? I send this question out into the void with hopes that there are others in the same metaphoric boat as oneself.   

In the age of Pandemic, I can't help but feel the need to write in order to pass away the time. In an interview that I read recently, a famous writer talks about getting frequent bouts of 'writer's block' and the very inability to write, leads to further anxiety about writing, thus creating a vicious circle.

I am, to put it honestly suffering from a severe one. I haven't been able to write well for the past two years and this has led to a loss of confidence in my dealings with other topics. This is not to say that I am a writer, in fact I am a person who blogs occasionally, However, I have manged to keep this blog running for ten years and am actually quite surprised.

I have never been confident about my writing skills, thus one of the reasons that I feel that I continued with this blog was that I realized that no body was actually reading this, thus in a way the act of sending my thoughts in a written form into the void has helped.

There have been some humorous episodes and some annoying ones in my journey but what made me keep coming back to this blog has been the uncontrollable urge to write. I am aware that there will be times when I will sound stupid and ignorant, but this blog is a learning experience that I have decided I need, in order to be better at things in the real world.

It is my own private therapeutic outlet; only on an incredibly public forum, so I realize the irony, However it could be an interesting study of human nature. I actually read some of my posts from years ago and am amazed at my own naivete.

I hope that this may prove to be a record of my thoughts, my own Tilted view of looking at the world around me . Until the next one then........    

The transformative power of Books.

I have recently been undergoing a quiet emotional rebirth. For a long time, in fact for the past few years, I had begun to notice a slow decline in my capacity to feel; Anything really. In a lot of ways, I am still not at the optimum level when it comes to feelings, perhaps I was always emotionally stunted, or the onset of numbness is something all of us go through after turmoil.

I think this renewed onset of feelings has to do with rediscovering my reading prowess. I am quite impressed by how much I can read without distraction. My mother recently asked me about my progress and I happily informed her about the many books that I had read in the last couple of weeks.

The transformative power of a good book is hard to explain. An immersive narrative can take the reader through a journey that has the capacity to provide immense satisfaction. How I wish, life could be like that. If everyday was a new adventure, one might never be prone to bouts of melancholy.

Then again, constant adventures can become monotonous and lead to ennui; something I dread. I have yet to start reading poetry again. Perhaps my renewed interest in fiction will progress to rediscovering my love for poetry, one can only hope.

I know that books and reading is terribly personal. But I can't help but feel that the world would be a much better place if there were more readers amongst us. This thought stems from my own emotional growth. Because, as I've discovered, there is no experience as thrilling as reading a story well told. 

Sometimes I wonder about my life, I live a small life; mostly a self communing life, I wonder if I died tomorrow will someone mourn me....I know some would. But what kind of a life have I lead?

I wanted my life to have meaning. A few weeks ago, I read the news about someone's death, someone I really admired. It got me thinking, he meant so much to me even if he was a celebrity, I felt liberated watching his celebrated travel show, through him I was able to do things I wish I could and see lands I have yearned to see since the time I was little. I don't understand why reading about his death affected me so. He was after all a complete stranger, the persona he had created for himself tragically consumed him. But I have also found myself sympathizing, I do know what it is like to be consumed by dark thoughts, I understand the wave of melancholy that can suddenly hit out of the blue, and the control it takes to present a decent face to society.

I recently disgraced myself by giving in to my weakness, I showed emotion in public, something that I have been taught never to do, I wish I could take back my loss of dignity but alas, it is too late. I now feel like the walls are closing in on me. I just had to write it all down and expect that I shall recover, you see I have found that the true test of character is to be able to pick oneself up after a fall. 

I know, that this particular blog is not the upbeat post readers expect of me but for the time being I need the salvation that writing brings me in expressing my thoughts. In some ways it gives me the feeling of standing alone in a vast forest screaming at the top of my lungs. It makes me feel like I can express on the page what I can never do in life.   

When reading books becomes a solace for sadness...

Reading for me has become a solace, for me reading was always an escape. Books made me feel less worthless, I felt needed when I read books, now though, it is as if reading is the only pursuit that makes me feel a sense of self worth, I feel beautiful and powerful simultaneously, I feel like I matter and the best thing about reading is that I can live an relive feelings some I shall never feel in my life.....

I had a particularly visceral reaction whilst reading a book where the protagonists kill themselves. I felt relieved in their act of courage, I don't think taking one's life is cowardice, perhaps it is a cultural thing that Indians carry in their DNA, for we have had long a glorious traditions of death by self wish, in fact most religious and cultural traditions view the act of taking one's life as honourable and the greatest act of independence an individual can carry out.

Does that mean that I am suicidal? I think not; but my preoccupation with life and death has intensified for the past couple of years, I find myself pondering questions about things like life after death, the soul, the meaning of existence. I am no philosopher, but I feel that life should have meaning. What I mean to say is that one's life should be led in the pursuit of making someone else's life less painful.

I find the modern age in which we live increasingly selfish, I mean look at the consequences of the selfishness people are increasingly displaying all over the world. This had led to a rise in hatred towards others and caused rifts in society that I fear can't be undone.

In fact I have felt this in my own life and now feel an increasing need to isolate myself. In the absence of good company, I find myself turning towards my only love in life books. I feel that this form of escapism is helping me cope with a lot of bouts of severe melancholia, I end this post with a wish, that I hope others in the same circumstances can discover the balm books are capable of providing.  

New year and new resolves

It is a new year and a new start for my Good reads reading challenge. Last year a breezed through reading 50 books, this year I am increasing my target to 60.

I am a reader, I love books, however, there had been a period in my life when I had stopped reading as many books as I liked, I was much more interested in Netflix, Facebook etc. like so many of my generation I was turning into a sponge for the dredge of nonsense that is social media.

A few years ago, 2016 to be precise, I picked up a well loved novel, and realization struck me that I had only read around 5 books in the whole of 2015. This was in my opinion disgraceful. I had through out my childhood and adolescence, prided myself in my ability to read quickly. My sister and I had a rivalry about how many books we could finish in a week. I won more often than not (she was better at sports and arithmetic!). So this year we have decided to revive the tradition, since last year only I did the Good reads challenge.

I confess that stumbling onto the Good reads thing was fortuitous, because I find that I need goals now to stave off my ennui, I have noticed this tendency in myself recently, which is new! Surprisingly though reading has reintroduced me to a part of myself that was fading away. The part that was capable of great concentration and curiosity.

I have found that part of me again thankfully, and am now determined never to let it slip again. So I begin this new year with the resolve to regain all my capabilities and ambitions that I have let slip away.   

Of memories and past experiences, recollecting the forgotten.....

Dear Reader, memories of sultry summer afternoons playing in the dark cool rooms of my grandparents' house are what I always revert to when I am troubled by torrid summers. It is that time of the year again, the time for remembrance and celebration, the festivals are beginning and I am missing my father so much that it is almost a physical pain.

This year summer was unbearable, so hot and sultry that only the very brave ventured out of doors and then came the monsoons which were ferocious and brought floods and woes, but curiously, the weather seems to be clinging to summer with a stubborn grip. What should have been a season of cool autumnal relief is now hot, muggy torture.

I spent the past couple of weeks in the town that I grew up in, a town so changed that I scarcely recognised it. Yet there were glimpses of the past, a past full of memories of my grandparents and my father.

My childhood now probably belongs in a pastoral novel. It does not even sound believable to me, and I actually lived that life growing up! What a nice, quiet, peaceful childhood it was. Summers were spent playing in the cool rooms and beautiful gardens of my grandparents house with my sister and cousin brother. We spent countless hours laying siege to our male ayah who was our nemesis. Oh the fun we had outfoxing him dear reader! Then evening always brought bowls of chilled mangoes and an array of sherbets, rose one day lemon another and green mango the next. It was a charmed life indeed full of laughter and fun and books.

I find it amazing that I, who have always hated summer, managed to have so much fun during summer as a child. Perhaps it has something to do with the shelter and protective warmth of my family, who are amazing. My mom and her brothers and sisters are a close knit lot and have always worked well as a unit. My father was absorbed into this vastness and was always there especially when we got too rambunctious to handle.

The combination of the summer-like, autumn heat and extended sojourn in my childhood hometown was a sucker punch of nostalgia and I found myself reliving and recollecting some remembered and some forgotten memories. Especially poignant since I got to celebrate my father's Birthday there. It was unexpectedly one of the most touching events of 2017 for me. Oh to be a child again and run barefoot through cool rooms onto flowering gardens!

My dear reader, this year has been full of ups and downs....some moments were  triumphant and some were the absolute dregs, but through it all I have found that one elusive trait within myself....the ability to bear solitude and vexations, with equanimity.....the question is....is that a good quality?

Perhaps not...on Monday evening all my pent up feelings manifested in an attack of 'Bells Palsy' which has led to a temporary paralysis of the entire left side of my face. I literarily 'froze' up due to stress!

Fortunately, I got immediate medical attention so, I'm now pumped full of medicines, some of which have caused my face to change completely....it really is an indescribable shock,dear reader,to actually look in the mirror and have a stranger stare back.

But, to be honest the reason behind my contemplative mood is not to fret about the change in my appearance, it is this ABSOLUTE sense that I am a different person now than I was, even a year ago. I find these drastic changes in my personality, I have lost so much......especially my ability to feel warm....I feel cold all the time.....I don't feel passion anymore....I have mellowed to an such an extant that nothing seems to move me anymore....What a disturbing thought is it not?

This attack of 'freezing up' has made me resolve to do something buoyant with my life. Something positive....something that will make people smile and give them peace......The ancient Greeks did not write obituaries....all they asked after a man's death was "Did he have passion".....I don't know where I heard that, but for some curious reason,it has always resonated with me. SO new resolve.....live with passion....