The Death of Thine Self

Who I was, is no longer who I am.

Some of it is welcome; as I grow up, there's less things to make me cringe in retrospect.

But then there is also the enhanced awareness of consequences and consequently, fear. Oh, so much fear! Scared of germs, scared of small spaces, scared of my car breaking down in the middle of winter, scared of the economy.

Am I the same person that stomped a cockroach with my bare foot? No! (ew)

Am I the same person that biked up to Sydney Point every evening? Can I ever walk into a streetside cafe and enjoy a scoop of fresh strawberry icecream by myself again? I don't think so...

..but I miss parts of it that I struggle to retain. I miss being known for not saying sorry. I even miss my peeves, the naive worries of past. I miss enjoying the ferris wheel sans the sound of my heart beating in my ears.

The inevitable change, the obvious resistance to change, combined with the constant strive for deference, leads to disaster and progress.

What happened to you? You used to be so bindaas!

What happened to you? You were always the class clown!

What happened to you?

All grown up.

One day you will tire of it and decide you need some space. Either you will pack a bag and fly off to Europe to walk the streets of Portofino. Or you might take up a meditation class. You may stop answering your needy (ex-)girlfriend's emails. How about adopting a puppy?

Because you can't tell the difference between filling a void or finding your self.

What was life like? What was I like? I breathe slow and deep and riddle myself with the meaning of life and of the Universe. The phone rings but I request the caller to leave me alone for a few days: Stop distracting me, I am trying to get in touch with my soul.

The hours pass to a climax. And, finally, now, I realize the beautiful but harsh truth: it's too late.

I am trying to get in touch with myself, but it's too late: that self no longer exists.

Who I was, is no longer who I am.

Happily Ever After

There's a crazy kinda love that I may never know. The rather-die-than-live-without-you kinda love.

I rolled my eyes as my friend gazed lovingly at a woman in a photograph--her boyfriend's mother. She made promises to herself and to the universe, of how she would take care of that stranger-woman because she loved her, because she loved her boyfriend.
Don't we all know that couple, the girl from that super wealthy family that eloped with a slumdog?

Oh of course, I allow for Bollywoodic influences. Still, there is an authenticity to this kind of passion that I can't understand.

I wonder what it's like to forget yourself in a love that's so senseless. And I wonder if it's just love, or something else? Because I love too! And its unfair to call mine a 'lesser love' if I don't move to Limpopo with you.

I wonder if it takes a special kind of person. Or are we all capable of this madness if only we had The Reason?

Nah, I don't crave it. And I would never, should never, call it romance. But I acknowledge that it is its own religion. They don't understand me, and I don't understand them: we both think the other is weaker.

I think its beautiful, this crazy kinda love that I'll never know. It's black, it's white, it's constant and it's refreshing.

And, if you told me you wanted to quit your job in LA to move in with the guy that broke your heart, got engaged to another woman, then broke up with her and, asked you back...I won't roll my eyes.