Shooting The Moon

Every now and then I realize that I am a very difficult person. A person who no longer talks to me (there are many such) had said that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. It came as a surprise to me the moment she said so. I had assumed that I am one of the most amicable people I know, someone who tries to give space, is sensitive to difference of behavior, understanding, attitude and choices. How the hell am I difficult then? What she said affected me and that instant, resentment spawned. Without telling her that I didn’t give two shits about what she thinks I started rationalizing for the good of me and rendering her daft; for my own good too. And there I recognized my very own defense mechanism. Superb I must say.

A defense mechanism works in a dilemmatic direction for me. One, whatever you find untoward about me reflects your own personality flaw in an equal measure as it does mine. So maybe instead of telling me that I am so and so you can try your hand at the charity-begins-at-home routine and root out the flaws which you think are mine, but are actually yours. I have also observed that voicing these thoughts is not helpful in taking the conversation or the relationship forward in a positive manner.

I know what’s wrong with you, I can tell you that. God help you if you think the same.

Two, my doing something like this is exactly the reason why I am not anyone’s cup of tea. Not that I have not tried not doing this, but I can’t stand anyone farting in my face and expecting me to open my nostrils wide.

Morning Walk

You know what the right thing to do is. You know how to do that. You also have a faint idea how important it is to do it correctly, what you might lose, how you might get changed, forever. Yet you push. You don’t shove; you push gently, inch by inch, feeling by feeling. A strange madness overcomes reason. The reasons to push keep refreshing, intermingling, becoming one dark mass of masochistically sadistic feeling of pain. Now it is imperative that you ignore cries for help, especially from within yourself.

And then you have reached the edge. You have the least idea what made you push it this far. But the edge is near, and to finish successfully you need to do the last bit. Your hands quiver and your legs ache. You are no longer sure if it’s your brain which drives you, or your heart. Which is the evil one? Why evil, you might ask yourself. Of course its evil, otherwise it wouldn’t feel this fucking good.

Pause. It’s the last inch. This part will take more than will power. It wants the last shred of goodness, of kindness and compassion to consume and gain strength. It is almost like a form of meditation, concentrating on one point.

A slight tap and it has happened. Down you fall, confused and panicked. Weren’t you the one pushing? You look up, the last effort, and there stands something black with its arms outstretched, laughing like a madman. You feel cheated, you look again, and realize. It’s your own ego.

Time has told me

You are a rare rare find

A troubled cure

For a troubled mind

Nick Drake

I have been struggling with the idea of writing, with the notion of being a work mule, with the prospect of being nothing more than hot air.

I have been wondering if being incorrigible, running away, disregarding my near ones is what I will always do.

I have been squirming under the night time moon, deadened by the blows of tenderness, scorched by words of love.

Introduction

An unnamed character from my imagined work of fiction conversed with me

“I don’t want to be a part of your impending novel”

“Why is that so?”

“I feel as if I already know what my lifes going to be like”

“Isnt that a good feeling?”

“Elsewhere, maybe. Coming from you, I would rather be dead”

That’s when I decided to kill the fucker.

But somehow, it felt as if the fucker had the last laugh.

T.h.e E.n.d