my life

change

The humour of the Meme-Generation is characteristically ‘self aware’. It allows for this odd escapism where making light of the gravity of one’s poverty alleviates their guilt and melancholy. A highly self-destructive taste for jokes rooted in the joker’s low esteem and misery makes the realm of mainstream humour ‘Anti-Mental Health’. A highly secure and motivated individual would not only be unable to crack such jokes, but would also be excluded from the confessional conversations of the insecure majority. This makes ‘happiness’ an undesirable character defect or an abnormality. The moment you are happy and satisfied and ‘following through’, you become exceptional in a way where no-one can relate to you except for the very few. Which begs the question— does an individual’s potential to establish friendships become disabled by their positive outlook and non-masochistic relationship with their own self? Can you really be popular if you are the pre-awareness Buzz Lightyear in the Toy Story that your generation? Does disengaging from current humour’s negative feedback loop make you an ‘outsider’?

Various individuals, like myself, construct narratives to justify their failures. When something bad happens we recreate the event as we narrate it to a million people in a million funny ways. Conforming to the self-destructive mandate that comes with such narratives, we oftentimes construct false patterns. Linking up multiple bad events, heightening our negative experiences and eventually birthing a ‘Frankenstein’— we effectively replace the original story. Many of us do it unconsciously, socialised to follow a meme-format as we make sense of our life. The only way to break such patterns is by first recognising them, and then actively avoiding exaggerations and the employment of inappropriate terminologies that cause such misinterpretations.

Our friends feed into this false narrative-construction with little fault of their own, and together you reminisce fiction for years in the name of nostalgia and relatable-humour. You enter into a habit of saying “same” to sweeping generalisations declaring your life to being ‘unfit’ or ‘unsuccessful’ or just ‘plain bad’. When your friends say something negative or degrading about their own selves, or even inappropriately comment on your life, you just blindly agree with a snort— feeding that Frankenstein that eventually causes all of your breakdowns and moments of anxiety.

I could be wrong.  But in my experience while disengaging from such humour and narrative construction may make you less relatable or even funny, it does ultimately help you starve out Shelley’s monster. You could, instead, motivate your energies into converting rants into plans of action and then actually following-through, so that in the next ten years you don’t have to say “same” to something that shouldn’t be that relatable. Enforce actual constructive change in your life and learn to forgive yourself for all negative experiences.

It should be worth the effort.

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my life

Pre-mature New Year’s

It’s such a mood to be finally doing this. Listening to ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’, the Simple Minds setting up the stage for impulsive get-your-life-together moments. Constantly trying to recreate a good scene from a movie. The one where the hot mess picks up the broom, puts on a high ponytail and makes an enormous planner — her detailed and intimidating Yellow Brick Road to Success. Is this my Yellow Brick Road? Will anyone ever read this? Is this Julie and Julia and will people recognize this? Will this catapult me into literary fame? A book deal? Or is this just another whim that would die out just as softly as it was loud when it crackled into life?

Based on many legit-looking but probably unquotable articles, I have decided that any successful New Year’s Resolution is made ahead of time. And started ahead of time too? After a long walk along a cold desolate street, I finally came home to a piece of paper and a black pen. I made three lists— a list of what I needed, what I wanted and one of what I thought I wanted but didn’t actually need. And honestly, even though I have probably talked about it a million times, there was something peaceful about putting it all out on paper. It took two minutes to make them because I had known what to write for the past five years.

Every year is the same and every week has a breakdown-Monday and a we-can-do-it Sunday which doesn’t work. Never did and never had. I keep telling myself that I work really well under pressure but honestly, I’m pretty sure it’s like denial for ace procrastinators. So I decided on a Pre-mature New Year’s which is just as arbitrary as the actual New Year’s— a hyped event only useful for statistical purposes but celebrated because it bears the conferred value of hope. We are defined by created symbols and in the end, metaphors dominate our lives, phone backgrounds, and cars. But the point is that some impulsive low-pressure goals have a higher mortality rate than New Year’s Resolutions. Because the moment you say “resolution” you are encouraged to fail. Also, has anyone noticed that we live in a culture which really coaxes us and tells us that its okay to fail? My depressing experiences are validated and molly-coddled by meme templates and pop culture. So now there is this ironic narcissistic-self hate chain where I know I suck but I can tell myself that its all good because everyone can “relate” and my failures are a “big mood”. I don’t know if I hate this yet.

Fuck, I haven’t reached the point yet. Okay, so basically I made the three lists and blogging was a big part of it because I need to start writing every day and create a practice and a discipline if I want to be ambitious and take myself seriously. Because someone who wants to be a writer must write and doesn’t just get there. Also, I need to not think as much about what people think about me. My ex once said that many of my blog posts were lame and the others were extra and beyond him. Fuck that guy. Also, fuck anyone who doesn’t get you— they were toxic for you in the first place. And no one’s opinion should dominate your own. The point is — I deleted half of my blog after that. And even though I didn’t create it for him but for myself, and knew that he would never get it even if he tried (which he clearly couldn’t), it’s just not really worth it because you think deleting something would actually delete something even though it will always exist in your mind. You don’t really escape anything if you actively try to escape it. It’s like that really sick thing they say—the only way is through? But yeah that’s true. So the Pre-mature New Year’s is about seeing things through. All my goals are so fucking doable and I have just enough time to get it together. I don’t know if I should make a mood board yet. I have affirmations and they work because if you actually trust something and try to consciously believe in something faith is easy. I just need to learn how to not be pessimistic and cynical, and how to get out of my head, because it hasn’t done much good. I might as well be positive and do the entire emanate-the-energy-you-hope-to-attract thing?

So many of these are questions. Do you also have that inbuilt faceless fuck sitting in your head judging everything you do and saying things like “who are you addressing this to? Fuck you’re sad” or “he will read this and mock you” or “someone will find this and pass it around to prove your worth which really amounts to nothing”. I hope you do too. It would somehow be more peaceful if you have him too. I love how it’s a “him” right now. It is also a “her” sometimes, if that balances things out. And the best part is that their criticisms are highly stereotypical and gender-conforming. Like the chick would comment on how I look and how useless I am and the guy would tell me that I’m undesirable. But really both of them agree about how I’m undesirable so why does it even matter?

Are we just a weak imprint of our culture? Are our anxieties and standards beyond our control and just an imprint of societal standards and anxieties? Are the Post Modernists right in their assumption of everyone being a ‘pastiche’? Do you feel that rush of determination when you watch an empowering film? Does that prove that we are slaves to our culture and easily led? Or does that mean we are empathetic? Is anything about this good or bad? Will the Pre-mature New Years thing go as planned? Does anything ever fucking go as planned? Has anyone ever had the perfect year and a completely ticked-off checklist?

 

I think this is it for this post. I hope this actually amounts to something because I have written many similar posts before.

Why are there so many question marks all over this garbage?

my life, poems etc.

Outstation

We went like we came

With loud speed and uncertainty

But long walks and daybreak took us in

And with the sun we rose

Finding each other in the mountain air

And calm lakes from another time

Suspended in moments etched within rocks darker than night

We floated home on a cloud

And closed our eyes

my life, poems etc.

Smoke

The pink child met

Some purple infidels

And in them did she confide

But come sundown

Purple became brown

And rainbows ebbed into darker skies

With the pale sickle

Bearing witness

The pink lit angry flames

Between porcelian teeth

And with each pull

The smoke swirled

Within her smiling memory

Then come scarlet daybreak

She mixed with the Gray

And walked amongst damned purple

Pink now gone

The little fawn

Was devoured by the screaming lion

my life, poems etc.

A fat heart

my mind plays tricks on me
in mirrors it reflects hypotheticals

different paths to ifs and onlys
impossible parallels to my existence

it taps into my secrets
and plays a shady advertisement

promising the good life
in exchange of my soul

representing beauty
in a rigged election

because sometimes
my mind is overpowered by my body

the shell I live in defining me
rolls and ridges of generous flesh

bigger than my heart
greater than my intentions

and larger than my love for you
for me

i lost myself to the material
mean mathematics had finally conquered me

and while my shell got better for them
it left no space for breathing

my heart was fat
and you weren’t okay with that

so you butchered me into shape
leaving a hole between my lungs

making me the canvas
of your insecurities