ReFresh

Fear, you walk beside me everyday.

            Stop me from stepping on toes,

            Walking past lines,

            Being seen out of the crowd.

You keep me warm, tucked in tight.

            Essence my every breath.

            Watch my every step.

            Cloud my every thought want.

Oh, beloved Fear – may I so ask,

            Where do you come from?

My Gurus called us warriors,

            Their tongues never articulating Fear.

            Letting their sons, at 14 going out in battle.  

            Giving daughters, the strength to raise villages on their own.

So, Fear, I ask again, where do you come from?

            And how long do you plan to stay?

Because, Fear, you have closed many doors.

            Using the powers of my femininity against me.

            Something so beautiful is now oppressive.

            As a woman, they tell me my first husband is forever you, Fear.

Fear, will I forever do as I should, and never what I want?

  Fear, I fear you will be the only one by my side.

            Obituary reading:

            SPOUSE: FEAR

            REASON: DIED OF FEAR OF DEATH.

            And nothing else.

Fear, there is a fearsome thought in my heart.

            That so long as you exist,

            There lies no place for a woman,

my Imagination runs stale,

            its palette dry,

            muscles tight – lacking flexibility.

left out not in the sun,

            but the heat of corporate steel.

I try drawing flowers,

            out come recursive loops, precise & identical

            the elegance of imperfections lost in a sea of uniformity.

I’m living the Capitol life:

            yet, Imagination not in sight.

District 12, Imagination fed off stale bread

            produces artists, revolutions, intellect.

 art, I can buy. artists, even, I can buy.

            yet, Revolutions and Imagination

            not to be found even in the pricey solace of my yoga mat.

too quick to judge,

too quick to disagree,

too quick to jump,

            boolean logic, clouding all.

I checked.

            detectors rang no alarms of 3D hearts

            or manufactured brains.

my Imagination runs stale,

            doctors, say:

the clock clicks one, the lights blink red.

GO.

eruptous young laughter, a roar of naivity, the grins of childhood harry, hermione, and good friend ron.

STOP.

the dark horizon slips into the silence of asphalt streets wrinkled minds, distraught hearts, stumbled faith the fabric of life woven by thin kite strings, easily cut: the games of God.

GO.

the green pasture, distant but now in sight kind words, determined minds -- goals crystallize thin kite strings bring forth intertwined fingers that bleed and heal, only to bleed and heal again. divergent paths guised as one, the Divine, why must you test us so.

STOP.

crystals found upon weak foundations only shatter to bring life to stronger pillars. life is fleeting, bitter memories prevail to bring better sangat, the song of life is constantly evolving, keep the shabad of my Guru near and dear, one, two, three, four or more paths you'll stumble upon the right one eventually, says my Divine. the games of God.

GO.

Don’t be quick to dismiss it as a religious regulation. I've disobeyed enough tenets through my 21 years, unfortunately so, to want to become a zealous follower now when it comes to this one case. Granted, I have been fortunate enough to not grow up around family-thrown cocktail parties or drunk uncles displaying inappropriate behavior, I have seen the likes of my comparable friends shun sobriety to down one shot too many when it came to college. So if it’s not a religious influence or a societal influence—what’s barring me from throwing a downright stereotypical 21st much to the likes of many of my older friends? Between the exponential rise of drama and filth of drunkards' regurgitations on bathroom floors—I can see how I’m missing out on a lot of fun.

Since pretty much day one of college, I have been surrounded by alcohol. To my shock and misfortune, I have seen friends I once looked up to in high school instantly embrace this culture with such a frenzy—as if consciously trying to highlight their low sense of self. Heck, my choice of career is notoriously known to encourage “brogrammers” and boasts of having mathematically found that the optimal work output is reached after 2 beers. Yet, between being the awkward sole sober at parties and at work—I’ve never once felt the need to consider giving in. I attribute this to ironically my friends who do drink. (Notice, how I mention friends in present tense, as my difference in values doesn't restrict me from still having diverse friends (also been a personal journey))

 I’ve heard my fair share of reasons of why they drink, choose to drink, I should drink.

“The current industry culture requires you to by prerequisite to engage in the happy hour culture actively to move up”. In no offending manner: bullshit. My father has not only worked his way far up in the “brogrammer” industry wearing a turban in a racist-hateful-post 9/11 America, he has done so without ever compromising his values. And many other current industry professionals from CEOs, MDs, JDs have done so (even those of my generation). I know it’s quite surprising.  

“Let go! Take a drink! Don’t be so uptight.” I’m not sure when our narcissistic, self-entitled YOLO Y2 generation got it in themselves that to have fun and be open, they need to act in a self-deprecating manner induced through an intoxicating chemical and psychoactive drug. I can’t say I am as confident as I like, but I also have no interest in gaining faux confidence for one night just so I can be a fool vicarious, free person to attract the attention of shallow followers. I’ve had the fortune of making the greatest memories among the company of completely sober friends with whom I did not have to present, act, for a lack of better term slutty-ly dress, or demean myself in front of, with the added bonus of not waking up with a “fun” hangover the next morning or putting my liver through hell. I have seen those “late bloomers”, who have resisted to the peer-pressure of drinking, only to give in to gain an “in” or popularity. It’s pathetic, but moreover just awfully sad that we as a generation are not encouraging confidence through positive methods but rather petrifying measures.

We’ve been brought up seeing Super Bowl ads of pretty bikini-clad girls holding a Corona and gaining the collective attention of a beach full of hot men. These girls are objects. They are selling themselves out to be objects. And the advertisements are only selling you an express way to be objects. But, I don’t choose to be an object. I don’t want to be. I do not wish to measure my self-worth through the deploring judgment of others.  

Now, I speak specific to my age and generation who has lost sight of thinking beyond themselves. I enjoy the great company of few best friends who I greatly respect for their acceptance of my choice of sobriety and moreover consciously understanding their limits to never go past a couple drinks past buzzed, and moreover never once placing “peer-pressure”.

The bright blue of the waves is distant, non-existent. The murky green is what presumes.

The sun and moon have made their ways around, and around for many clocks. But the boat seems to remain in the same no-mans land.

Waves crash violently. There is a brief calm, and the moon shines brightly - I falsely take it as a sign of optimism.

After even the moon fails me, all I can think of is the ache in my throat, the ache in my body for water. It's a necessity after all. I gulf down the murky green. I don't remember it being so horrible before. But It's revolting. But I'm parched. I need it to survive. So I take another swing. It dries me out further, leaving me more parched.