LIFE WORTH WATCHING.

  I want to write. No, scrap that.  I love to write. I really want to come up with something inspiring.  I want to create something that jumps off these pages and touch a heart or two.  But I have nothing.  I have nothing moving or let alone anything interesting to write.  I feel boring.  I feel dry of ideas. I feel ordinary.

As a kid, I always thought I’d come up with something fantastic.  I grew up thinking I’d do something great – I was deliriously talented back then, well,  maybe as to the extent of my own imagination.  I kept writing about almost everything. I wrote about the weather, my guitar.  I even wrote about my fights with my mom when she won’t buy me the toy I asked for.  I’d even make up songs about feeling depressed of not being part of the top 3 students in class.  I even drew. I drew well. My projects were always picked to be displayed in the school exhibit. I even joined painting contests and won.  In college, I submitted ace worthy research papers and scripts.  The paper and pen were always my best weapons alongside my weird thoughts and words.  But now, I feel at a lost with my abilities.  I feel that the part of my life where I felt creative and “twirly” was just a myth.  I’m cooped up in this desk just ranting about how I can’t do anything anymore.  I’m in a part of my life where there is no color, nor a segregation of black or white.  Rather I’m in an engulfing grey area which I feel I’m sinking deeper and deeper by the minute.  I don’t find worth in anything I do anymore.  I’ve lost sense of self and all I want to do at times is tire myself out.  That little girl in my head keeps screaming, “What the f*ckin’ f*ck is happening?”. 

I’ve accomplished nothing in these 23 years of existence that I may attribute as a triumph; which is so very sad, in a depressing way (over superlative sentence construction to the point of committing grammatical errors justifies my loss of words to describe how disappointed I am discussing this).  My 7 year old self might as well appear right now from travelling through a space-deflecting-time-continuum portal and smack me right on my face.  What ever happened to writing the best song ever? What ever happened to that thriller novel? How about that breathtaking script that would eventually turnout to be the most epic film that has ever grazed cinemas? To quote Heath Ledger as the Joker from the film “The Dark Knight”, and I say this with utmost angst, “Did balls drop off? Hmm?”. 

I know. I’ve been lazy.  I made a habit out of mediocrity and I have sold myself short to everything and every one since I grew up.  Take my recent stupid experience, I allowed my self to be used, violated and depreciated.  Take note of that, I was fooled and taken advantage of, WITH MY CONSENT. I just wanted to emphasize that to intensify the gravity of this stupidity.  It was a choice of mine that I hope would never do again.  And now, I am hoping to turn that ungodly misfortune to the silver lining everybody talks about.  I’m hoping that my pain and discontent right now would ignite a stroke of genius in me and have the force to write something superb.  But nada. I have nothing.  Bringing me back to my first premise, I have NOTHING GOOD to write about.  Damn.

Instead of making my way into writing about an inspiring and heartfelt story, how about I tell you about a decision gone wrong.  I’d like to share a downward spiral I’ve ridden and now broke free from.  I met this guy.  Typical boy meets girl story.  He made a move, I didn’t reciprocate at first but ended up throwing that what-the-heck-lets-give-it-a-shot attitude.  Thus, we became friends.  He was tall, olive skinned and was a bit awkward. He was okay physically.  Just okay.  But chugging into his thought train we’re like two peas in different pods. He’s a pod from a string bean and I’m an iPod (excuse the bad pun, but glad I amused you). The thing we certainly had in common is that we enjoyed the occasional drink.  That’s how we bonded.  I’d ask him or he’d ask me if we could hang out and drink, then we would. We became good friends, well, atleast I thought so. I became his sponge, I was the person he’d run to when he needed something or was troubled.  I felt like a doormat because despite me being nice enough for being there for him, he disregarded me whenever situations became okay again.  Suddenly I was the person looking after him when times got rough. But when it got better, all of a sudden I was a ghost to him.  It felt like he just became friends with me for free drinks, free food and company when he had no one else to be with. But at that time, this didn’t seem to startle me.  Because bruises weren’t enough, I wanted to cut open a wound by fighting for what I felt. Yes, stupid, I know. Got fooled and now I wanted to look the storm in the eye and bring even more danger into my life. Why? I don’t know.  Maybe its because I just wanted to try out the size of being a dumbass; see if it fits.  And it fit perfectly. I stuck with this setup.  Until when I was the one who encountered a problem and I needed a friend, he refused to help me. Yes! Refused. It came to a point that in our conversation, I had to beg him to help me. But of course, the cruel human that he is, he reared his ugly head and showed me his face.  All I could say is, you may believe in the goodness of every thing and in every one; you read it in books, or you get to watch it in movies.  But in the real world, goodness is just as rare as finding a fish named Nemo in the forest.

Anyway, we’re going off topic now.  Maybe not quite. I think I can connect my rant of despair for my unfinished set of goals to my story of the tragic encounter with a parasitic fiend.  I believe (may be on the verge of epiphany just now) everything that has happened to me or will happen to me all depends on my consent.  I think it was Eleanor Roosevelt that said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent”.  It was my choice to be placed in this position. Maybe deep inside me I’m just a little masochistic.  We all have our forms of insanity.  But despite that, there is still a small yet significant percentage that I am accountable for everything I am complaining now. The question is, now what? Pleading insanity for all my wrong decisions would render nothing to me. I have to suck all this up and deal with it.  And dealing with this must mean there will be no other versions of this where I would just settle for less than what I expect of myself.  I’m picking myself up from the ruins of my past and building towards a better tomorrow. I may have let myself blur the sight of the things I love to do – things that are already a part of me. I may also have allowed someone to diminish my value but guess what? My sight is recovering and I am worth even more now.