On Panic

It’s the eve of my finals. I’m freaking out about my economics paper, but subconsciously even more so, about the english literature paper that shall follow it all too soon.

It’s Taylor Swift time; 2:00 a.m. , I mean. I’m on the phone with my girlfriend type thing, failing to stifle yawns as I read out anti-autocratic poetry to her. My brain keeps telling me to study, but, it also coaxes and lulls me into a state of such blissful rest, as i feel my eyes drooping shut.

And, then: BAM!  No more sleep. Why? Well, the two C’s: Coffee and Conscience

I really shouldn’t be making excuses to myself for my own idiocy. It’s always the same. I get into the year with all these dreams of finally reaching my potential, and it takes all of two days for the lethargy to  take me by the hand and lead me into that void of the sheer numbness of conscience  that allows me to do nothing, until it’s too fucking late. Then I vow to do better , and again, the cycle repeats, and goes on and on and and on AND FRIKKIN ON.

Exercise? Lol. Might as well swallow cholesterol whole, for all the physiological good I could’ve done but have conveniently ignored

It’s so typical of me, this whole thing. Wallowing in self pity about how nothing ever happens, and then doing nothing about it.My ego is my biggest failing, with the, “I’m better than this”attitude completely consuming me

I have dreams! I have goals! and they’re perfectly achievable, within the classrooms that cause a psychosomatic claustrophobia with me, if I could only kick myself into seeing clearly

They gave me the reigns, and I let them go, and now it might be too late to grab them again

I’m so fucked

The Cycle

I have this theory. Well, it’s not my theory, so I guess it’s more of a belief: Karma. What goes around comes around. The universe, as we know it in a spiritual sense, as a reality of a never ending cyclic dynamism, somehow, just appeals to me conceptually.

Now, I’m not one of those who believes in something not proven by science and common sense (But I can’t say there’s anything wrong with that), but, for most of us, spiritual rituals and beliefs are more coping mechanisms than anything else, and in a world that floods your consciousness and your conscience with its constantly changing ambiguity of right and wrong, it is a welcome necessity.

Allow me to explain my interpretation of Karma, with the full knowledge that I may have bypassed the concept and/or its intention entirely:

Think about your ambitions, and keep them as the primary focus of your mind. Imagine yourself after the achievement of those ambitions and goals. Content, happy, relieved etc are the words that one may associate with that feeling. So, logically, what you chase is not a salary, a job, a person, a lifestyle or whatever else your magical imagination can dream of; You chase happiness and all that weight off your chest

Karma, to me, plays a big part in this. What is Karma, though? It is a circle, a loop, a reflective surface; What you give it shall be given back to you in its due course. It may kick into gear faster than a newly acquired motorcycle, or take a decade or a lifetime to show itself, but it stays.

A physical analogy would be the Law of Conservation of Energy: Energy can be neither created nor destroyed, and in the same way, what you do, enters this cycle, and comes back to you in due time.

So, to connect what I’ve just written, if it is happiness and success of whatever order that you wish for yourself(Which you do, ultimately), send happiness and good vibes into this cycle and put your back into it. Do what you do with a smile, and if you can’t, then you’re not doing the right thing. This also helps to find the distinction between what you want to do and what you think you want to do.

Smile at everyone, even if they don’t smile back(not in a psychotic manner, though, as I am given to understand that it can be unsettling), it can make a huge difference, because you’ll get those back when you need them.

There’s always a story to tell, tell it right, you owe it that much.

 

 

Memory

Sentiment is something I choose to devote a lot of time and energy to. I can’t throw away those Dr. Suess books, my Tintin and Asterix comics and never the Harry Potter series. I write letters, in enebelopes, and I actually post them, I will never not save chats on Snapchat, and I don’t think I could ever not screenshot even the most random snaps people send me, because everything is so fickle, you always need something to look back to. 

That’s all very nice to think about, but what about all those times you just can’t document? That cute guy who smiled at me as I brushed past him today in school, my first kiss, the way my friend’s eyes light up when she hears that one song? 

There’s an interesting duality to it, however. The Snapchat/Instagram sensation makes a memory a fleeting glance and a warm fuzzy feeling for a second, and then double tap, as life returns to normal, but then there’s a juxtaposition to the simple fact that capturing memories is not a matter of privilege, means, or least of all talent, anymore. It’s one tap away.

Tap tap

Tap

Tap tap 

Tap

Tap

Tap

Pianos in Lobbies

2010

I’m in a hotel lobby. No, not really. I’m in the reception area of a lodge up in the hills of the lake district of England, with about ten rooms, at best. This place is out of a book. It’s made of stone, not cement, it’s got real fireplaces in a real library with real books with real old British people reading them, with their walking sticks and cocoa by their sides. This isn’t a tourist place, and that’s why we’re here. Ten year old me is overjoyed to be in a place where characters from the secret seven or famous five might go. (Yes, Enid Blyton ruled my fantasies, back then, and ventures into them from time to time even today)

2016

I walk into a 50-foot high lobby of marble and bright lights and suits in a building made of gray cement and steel and glass that could be anywhere in the world. The air conditioning calls for the jacket that I should have carried, knowing that places like this don’t change the temperature of the air conditioning, even in a chilly November, like this one. I draw a cold breath and regain my composure. I hate places with no character

2010

I walk into a toasty room (with a fireplace, which I am promptly told to keep away from, for the sake of safety) I bounce around on the much too comfortable bed, with all its pillows and duvets, then run to the window, and watch the rain fill the Ullswater lake, against a backdrop of a sky greyer than a ghost and the greenest hills that just refuse to end. I don’t know it at the time, but that view is one of the few that stays as a snapshot in my mind, and mesmerizes me, even as I write this, proving that you don’t need cameras or phone, just your eyes.

2016

I check my phone to see if I’ve received anything more as a reflexive action than an actual check, knowing full well that if something had come, I’d have felt it buzz in my pocket. I fiddle with my collared T-shirt, simultaneously marveling and laughing at the vanity that had possessed me to both buy and wear it. I feel my phone buzz, my heart jumps, as I take the millisecond to whip it out of my pocket and look at it, registering that 50 people have appreciated my pretentiousness on Instagram. I put my phone back and start looking around, hoping, praying, even.

2010

We walk down the wooden stairs with actual wood banisters to the lobby that couldn’t be more than ten feet high. I like it. It’s warm, cozy and homely. The manager/owner/waiter/receptionist, not older than sixty, with salt and pepper hair, and looking all the world like a father who’s just dropped his daughter to college, smiles at me, warmly and ruffles my hair.  I give him my best boyish grin, as walks away, still smiling. My eyes come to rest on something between a statue of a dog and a fern. It looks vaguely familiar, as I start walking towards it. I break into a run as I realize that it’s a piano.

2016

I walk around all three floors of the lobby, getting looks ranging from puzzled to suspicious from guards, cleaning ladies, waiters, receptionists, and guests. I look with a hope, on which clings my faith in the modern world, in humanity and in the universe at large. I don’t find it. After my third trip across the lobby, I stop and just sit on the gleaming marble floor, under the bright, white lights, with bellhops, residents of the hotel, and businesspeople walking past me, looking at me like I’m stupid. I bury my face in hand covered by the ends of sleeves of the jacket I recovered from our car in the parking lot. I take a deep breath. Would it kill the world’s most posh hotel chain to have a piano in the lobby? The temptation to walk to the reception to tell them that the Marriott has a piano in the lobby, comes, stays for a dangerously long second and goes. I take a deep breath, put on the mask of a scowl for my parents, and rejoin them at dinner in a restaurant that tries to be Michelin star in a neighborhood that can’t afford Michelin tires

2010

I play the piano endlessly. I can’t stop. I haven’t felt one for two weeks and didn’t realize how much I missed it. I go to tea, smiling. The nice lady with freckles and beautiful blonde hair, who couldn’t be more than twenty years old, puts extra marshmallows in my hot chocolate and asks if I’d like some biscuits to go with that in a beautiful North English accent that I never thought I’d hear outside a movie. We eat dinner, and my father asks for the bill. He doesn’t see the bill for my meal and asks the manager/owner/waiter/receptionist if there’s been a mistake. “No”, he says, with a smile,”This young man was kind enough to entertain us with his tunes, we thought we owed him a  meal for that”

Daily Prompt: Graceful

via Daily Prompt: Graceful

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Do I really need to spell it out to you? I try to act like I’m not the typical mid-teen ball of hormones that all our friends seem to be, but I am. Oh, you want to know why, do you? Here’s why:

I see you every weekday and I try to fight the urge to tell you that I’m just like that guy we bitch about, or that other one we laugh at. I can’t take my eyes off you, but you never look closely enough to understand that. It breaks my heart that you talk about so-and-so who’s ‘Oh, so cute!’ or ‘such a sweetheart’. I may not be any of those things, but it hurts that you’ll never see me that way, and I know it has to be that way for the greater good.

I fight being a cliche, I do, but, you make me want to be the person stereotypically listening to ‘You Belong With Me’ and wondering just how Taylor knows how I feel. You make me want to talk about my heart skipping a beat or butterflies in my stomach and loving more than love itself, when the truth is, you just make me happy, and I live for those one-a-day smiles and the conversations that are just me talking about nothing in particular to keep you around.

I feel like someone out of a joke. Sometimes, I wonder whether I really am just another male, destined to fight urges

On People

People don’t smile enough these days. I don’t think we ever have, for that matter. I think it has something to do with the fact that we grow up. Doing the stuff a seven year old would is generally looked down upon unless one is actually seven years old. One of these things is finding pleasure in the tiniest of things, because we’re too caught up in the details of the boring part of life to actually give two hoots about a ladybug sitting on a leaf, or raindrops going sideways when cars are moving or any of the billion things that happen every second that our eyes and minds are too busy to see and comprehend.

Try this little something: Smile at every person you walk by today, and if even one person out of, say, ten, smiles back, you can live with the knowledge that you have actually made the difference that someone needed to their day

As naïve and childish as this sounds, I think a smile can do a lot. The person you smile at could be going through the worst day of his/her life so far, and this random person he/she happened to pass by in a hallway smiling at him/her, could have just given him/her that warm fuzzy feeling that anyone has when on the receiving end of a random act of kindness. You’ll feel something warm inside yourself, too. It is but human to feel good when you make someone else feel good. That’s why we do it

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Daily Prompt: Fragile

via Daily Prompt: Fragile

He was right there in her arms, ready to slip through her fingers at any moment, begging to be let in, begging to be looked at, every passing second pushing him further towards the belief that this was the end for what they had they had thought to be love, or he had, at any rate.

The truth was that she loved him. More than anything, but she didn’t realise that she had to prove it to him every second of every day. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be and certainly not what she had signed up for. Love, to her, wasn’t two becoming one, it was two remaining two, but connected, bonded in a way no others could be.