Seeking Solace In Your Past Self

Often, in moments of fear or anxiety, I go back and read my old blog posts; the ones about bravery and growth and optimism.  I smile a little, nod a little, but a lot of times, I just wonder. Many times, I start reading and get lost in the words and suddenly, I realize that I’ve been reading the words as if they are by some stranger, when in reality, they are mine. Was it really me, who wrote these uplifting words? How did I know then?

I used to think that knowledge and experience are things that only grow with time. What I learnt once would be remembered always. Maybe that is not always true. Maybe “knowing” is an ever-changing entity and you may gain something several times and lose it as many times too.

trust yourself......

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Maybe growth does not always mean adding to your reserve of strengths. Maybe it just means that it evolves continuously, and the what was once a strength may as well be a weakness now.

I have a love-hate relationship with crossroads and decisions. I like to believe that perhaps everyone does. I like the anticipation of beginning something new. I love that the thought that what may be coming may be wonderful and colorful. But at the same time, there is of course, this fear of choosing the wrong road, and ending up lost. What if that path was better? What if that school was better than this? What if that branch was better than this? Am I in the right place? Am I going in the right direction? Am I making the decisions which will lead me to that life? The one that I have planned?

In retrospect, my past self has always chosen the paths that ultimately turned out to be for the best. Sure, I may have certain small regrets, but by and large, I suppose I am right where I should be. And yet, whenever the time comes for something new, I’m terrified. How did my past self make all these big decisions? How in the world did I know? How did I stand so bravely in the face of all those changes, all those challenges? I feel awed by that self.

Maybe some day, I will read this again. And maybe I’ll have a clearer idea of what it all meant. Maybe someday, my present self will be a solace to the one in the future.

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The Writer In Me

Photo by Jason Long

I’m a writer of variety, she says.

I write everything I see.

But in all her stories,

I see a little bit of me.

 

With each story that she writes,

She pulls out a thorn.

A small something buried deep,

A long-forgotten pain.

 

She writes feverishly at times,

Almost like a maniac,

Stopping hardly to breath

As her fingers heal by pen.

 

Now I am all sore

With open wounds all over,

The writer sits by, satisfied;

A wet smile sits on her face.

The Empty Page

fountain-pen-blank-paper.jpg (450×300)

I wake up suddenly;

The remains of the nightmare

Form tiny beads of perspiration

On my forehead.

 

I shiver with cold

As I think of that page,

Sitting brightly on my desk

Smug in its blankness.

 

I tiptoe to the desk,

Not daring to turn on the light.

It glows in the dark though;

Its whiteness teases me.

 

I’ve had several such nights

Breathing heavily in front of it.

Willing myself to mar the white

And waiting in vain.

 

I burn with feverish passion

Now attacking it violently.

The pen slants across the page

For hours, I lash out at it.

 

The words pour out like blood

And then I slash them out,

Beginning anew,

Then turning old.

 

It is morning now,

My fervor has cooled down.

The paper bears the marks

Of my crimson ink.