Hurt

-
     ©The National, PWB's 'Fleabag'.

I feel what it is to be an adult means to be mortally wounded and hurt inside but getting on with day-to-day mundane tasks with an air of normalcy - lest they smell or detect your hurt.

If that is what it is like to be an adult, then I believe, I am now a fully-fledged adult.

All my personal fairy tales have fallen apart and left me disenchanted, and my self-proclaimed prophecies of grandeur have proven humiliatingly false.

What is left now, but to live? And to live as if nothing has broken inside of me, as if nothing has abandoned me, deceived me, insulted me, censured me, abused me, let me down, given me false hope, and left me utterly, terribly, alone.

It is a tall order, but all adults are demanded that this impossible task be done impeccably. Some fail and seek out help to stabilize their deteriorating emotional state, and some go on pretending that nothing is wrong, until it is all too much, and decide to end the pain.

Either way, I am not judging, to each their own. To hurt is to hurt is to hurt. 

Whatever the source, whatever the way it feels - a lump in your throat, uncontrollable tears in your eyes, inability to get out of bed for days, or an exceptionally dark mood where no light can penetrate, or a mix of all- it is all legitimate hurt.

So, I've realized that I have no control over most aspects of my life, or the people in it. I can neither break my heart at every turn and bend, and reel from the pain for months every time it happens, nor can I cherry-pick what I come across in life. Because now, it happens ever so frequently. I have let go of control, of trying to perfect the story of my life.

It is as far from perfect as it could be. Most things I thought were valuable and worthy of protection at all costs, no more hold a special place in my heart. The list is dwindling. 

I hope I get by, I hope you do too. I hope we hang on and serve our lives.

~Samya. 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Favourite Hindi Poem ~ "Pratiksha" by Harivansh Rai Bachchan

-
Image
"Pratiksha" (Waiting/Expecting) by Harivansh Rai Bachchan Whenever I think of this beautiful poem, my mind wanders off to that one evening when I had to give the oral test for my Hindi Diploma. Being my favourite poem which I knew by heart, I wanted to recite this poem as part of the test, when they would ask us to recite or sing something of our choice. I was eagerly waiting till the white-haired Indian examiner asked me to do the same, so that I can impress him with my passion for such beaitiful verses penned by Harivansh Rai Bachchan Ji. However, in the anticlimax of reality, he was at best nonchalant, staring at me coolly, while I rambled on with a horribly out of pitch recitation of these expressive words. On a lighter note, I did pass the exam, and this poem remained my favourite.  And how I got to know of the existence of this wonderful poem is not through a textbook, or a poetry compilation of the poet, but weirdly from a Kathak dance recital of Sharvar...
Read more

Third Time's a Charm

-
Image
'Because I could not stop for Death –  He kindly stopped for me – ' Emily Dickinson On the second or the third day of being in dengue hemorrhagic state, I woke up abruptly from a very uncomfortable snooze (the urine catheter and all the tubes and IV lines preventing any sort of movement). I found him sitting on the side of my bed. You must know that Death really doesn't look scary. He stroked my hair and said, "you must be tired." I indeed was, even to nod. He took my right hand with the bloody canula and asked, "how much more blood will they draw", then took my left, connected to a blood bag, slowly administering deep scarlet drops into my veins and asked, "how much more blood will they give." Everything was silent. The ECG beeped in reply, "more, more, more." He came closer to me and gently touched the blood pressure cuff that was cutting into my skin. I winced. 'Hurts, doesn't it?" he asked sympathetica...
Read more

What is it like to be in Heaven..

-
Image
I hold on to his shoulder. He puts his fingers through the fingers of my right hand. We straighten our bodies to the correct postures and he softly places his free hand on my waist. And we are all ready to start the dance. He dances so swiftly, never missing a beat. If I ever keep the wrong foot forward, he adjusts his footwork to match mine. It was almost involuntary, dancing with each other. He knows the beat inside my heart and I know his and we dance to that. We go on swirling, swaying, spinning, laughing, dancing till the crac k of dawn, till our shoes are quite worn and it leaves us out of breath. Once our tired feet are relieved from the shoes and soothed by the light breeze, I gently rest my head against his warm, beating chest and listen to its song of pure love. He puts his arms around me. I put mine around him. He kisses the top of my head. We hold on to each other for long. Then we pick up our shoes and walk on our naked soles down the star-lit country road in its glo...
Read more