Another word, another ME

Every story has two sides, a truism said but hardly believed. At least I never tried to. Like the sun’s warmth, we tend to take things for granted, and when those granted things falter; however trivial, the less mortal beings make it an insurmountable issue. We tend to discern our ego and blanket reason in a make-belief aeon. Shrouded in feminine vanity and pretence, even my spirits were high. How false pride can be, how demential! Well, somewhere in every feline heart a Scarlett O’ Hara resides if I try to put with an air of pride, yes, yet again.

Mundane school commuting became enjoyable when many little souls jam packed themselves, without an option, like a colourful jumper a pleasure to the eyes of a creator. The reasonable beings in the spree of optimizing time and work never quite preconceived the idea that there might be a trade-off. Even to this day when i sit alone i ponder on two words friend-girlfriend. Does it really make a difference, probably “yes” or “no”. Eventually, those small incomplete games of hide-and-seek have metamorphosed into words. Actions when transformed to words take a different connotation; surpassing the meaning of innumerable referred lexicon.

Even with distance and time the caterpillar words turned into beautiful butterflies. Magic! Time flies, charmed i stood handcuffed by imagination. The clouds of girly pride moved on to bring a rainbow of satiation. Womanhood – was difficult, but worth living. Something that was more genuine, like a heart beating to prove life, the cry of a child when its heart first beat. Pride leads to a state of incongruity, a passé – a kind of maturity that pampers to prepare one’s heart to enjoy the bliss of immaturity. Such characters, like me, want every little thing to grow up, take the pain of knowledge; but themselves denying the corruption brought about by cognition. She wanted her hands to be held, while she will take the pride in her kind of falter.

However, things did not take the shape of what she conceived her screenplays to be. They rather took the turn of the pre ordained. De novo events, new characters were introduced in her drama. Well, to a child brimming with vanity new toys always entertained her more, however; she continued seeking home in her old poems, memories, moments, time. Days were all devoted to her engrossed endeavours, but nights, night’s-dreams were all stringed to the past. As if the light of past has beckoned her thoroughly. However, she neither belonged to her present nor her past. There was always a dichotomy in them, a clash – a debate that never sought out to look for a resolution. A fallacy that she continued to knit in her mind, this fallacy fed her pleasures as well as her ego.

Triumph of the self meant the most, here. However, prudence called it a diverse sphere of failure. More than failure it was gathering the turmoil of loss; a proud self will never recognize the idea of “walking away,” rather, she would herself turn her back with tears, with silent heart than her feelings disposed and criticized over the etherized table of society. Deep down, there was a sense gnawing her vitals, neglect was breeding a cyclone of venom. A vengeance that looked forward for destruction, a devastation that will pull down the little adoration left to her heart’s grave.

The stupid, little, proud girl grew out of her tantrums. With time, life demanded something more something that remained bare. With the dawning of the whole new world, she saw her dreams emerging. There were satisfactions, but scarce, and at times compromised. The pride took interest in taking a leap, not to face the nauseating aroma of despise. She turned her feelings into drops of words, wooing them, spun them to create poetries, essays; labouring a new realization.

The loss she felt was no loss, as the senses, bliss, peace was held at a greater value than the loss. Her pride triumphed again with knowledge, a profound one, all encompassing. The acrimonious words, biting-tearing-tormenting, gave her what she sought for years. She was reborn victorious, no defeat can touch her; no failure will be able to dull her days now. She is soaring high, high above the clouds, rainbow, she feels no gravity of getting back. Her umbilicus was consciously left to the past, to which there was no return. She smiles a thousand daffodils, scintillating life, she is happy being self-taught.