Friday, 3 July 2020
I am quite nervous as I type because I’m scared I may have forgotten how to write – you know that feeling when words flow out of your mouth like water falls off a cliff, when you cannot distinguish the different droplets, it looks like silk draped across a beautiful curve – I am worried that I may have lost that mouth, the cliff, and the curve. Even when I look too closely, the droplets aren’t switching to slow-motion. It’s creakingly overwhelming.
I don’t know, am I trying too hard to write, right now? What was my process of writing like? I think I used to start with what I could hear in the background, and right now, I can hear Krishna Das singing in his most glorious voice, but all I can keep my focus on the click-ity clack of my keyboard keys. My AC and fan – awful bass players, I must mention. But it is too hot for me to choose silence over humidity. Perhaps because most times I sense heat – it reminds me of you. It’s funny how you keep telling me to stay at room temperature, literally, and figuratively – I don’t really know how you find that comforting – I don’t.
Oh look, I have come this far, typing, feeling without feeling, slightly stoned but more-so-comfortable and I don’t know how my sentences took me to you. Love has been so comforting on most days past half-decade than not, so to imagine myself as someone with a broken heart feels like I never had my heart broken before. Isn’t that strange though?
Somethings you think you’d never get over and in no time, you have no recollection of those memories. Burnt lungs have healed, and they would continue to heal and you can’t help but grow older, can you stop a river from longing for its ocean but that deluded river, so unaware that she is the source of love she seeks, thinks it would find at the deep beds of sea – river doesn’t know she is the sea, too. So, how do you differentiate a mad love from a heartbroken existence? Aren’t they both so aching? Painstaking, too.
Anyway, we were talking about writing.
So the next thing I do, after I have established everything I am hearing, I observe the touch. Okay, let’s see – my cold feet, and my colder toes remind me of my Himachal afternoons. No matter how many layers of socks I wore and regardless of innumerable hours spent in front of a heater – they were stubbornly cold. My abdomen hurts, doctor thinks it’s my appendix; psychoanalysis believes it’s my unresolved emotions. My calf muscles pressed against the pillow and my palms on the metal surface as I type. I am practising, warming up to when I feel at home with words. They are behaving like a distant acquaintance – how rude.
Even though most writers say that it is great to talk about all 5 senses when you write, I often wrap my head around feelings quite a lot. I don’t completely fathom, how or why though. I mean, my skin feels touch, my ears sense sound, I taste with my tongue and smell with my nose, with my eyes I see –
but what is it that makes me feel? Why is it so easy for the words to come and hug me suddenly as I begin to mention how I feel? So weird, I swear.
I am too afraid to say it loud but lately, it has been hard to feel my feelings in its entirety. I have been quite dismissive, like an ostrich hiding away from reality. But the reality won’t cease to exist, am I right? Okay, start again – what is it that I used to do to feel my feelings?
I think I know.
Let me try and recall.
Oh no, wait, I think this life in corona desensitised me to feel too much. It’s supposed to be a good thing, is it? I am not sure.