You called me impatient when I was a child, for I ran instead of walking, leapt instead of crossing, I sang instead of speaking. I threw windows open, I spoke loudly, wept louder and laughed the loudest. I have been torrential, rapid and exhausting. I have lived every moment in my life, revelled in it. Enjoyed it, felt gleeful, took a handful of sunshine in summer, got drenched in the rain, and took in the cold in winter.
You ask me to take it slow, to savour the taste of my passing life like it is wine; but my time is running out; despite the vast barren years that lie before me, in which I have to bring to life the garden of my paradise; it is getting late, and I have to live. And I never did like wine, anyway.
In all this passing haze, I have a snap shot of time, where I live, survive, stable and safe. In all this contradiction, stability and instability at one go, I feel almost bemused to think that this is where I am, where I have chosen to be.
So, I have chosen to be away from my stability. To be in this whirlwind of uncertainity. I have dreamt to the extent that they have become my reality. I have lived in my dreams, done the unpardonable in your eyes. Chosen to be away from you. I am deviant. I break norms and create my own. I have sinned and revelled in my sins.
I have loved whole heartedly time and again, given all that was to give, ceded territory, taken as much as was willing to be and given and more. I have loved more than one, loved in different ways inconceivable to you. I have died and lived in love; I am not a survivor; I am the victorious in defeat.
You speak of pain numbing you; you speak of my words of poison; you speak of my love that strangulates your existence; that confuses you in its complication; that instabilizes your home, hearth and honesty. I live a thousand lives…most importantly I live. I do not know what pain is. Pain is what you make it to be. Pain is when you stop enjoying the sight of blood; of your broken image in the mirror; of the wasteland in your eyes…like you are far far away; like you have already left.
I walk around, trying not to stumble, often succeeding. I look into the eyes of the passersby who find it curious that I smile despite our times of dispassion and a looming great discursive fragmentation of our spirits.
