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GW1: A new beginning

The following is an article sent in by my first guest writer. A beautifully crafted article that'll connect with some and ends on a note that all stories must end on, one of strength and renewed hope. Enjoy!


At the end of two decades, I stood, mentally, at the top of a skyscraper.
Partly because I've been playing too much batman, and partly because I'm an architecture student.
But mostly, that would be the place I'd make my life changing decisions, because I was nyctophilic, and I preferred solitude.
So, here I stood mentally, at the edge of a skyscraper, staring into the city's beautiful night sky, alone.
Alone.
It scared me.
But it's also a habit.
I didn't like mingling, I was what you'd call antisocial. Heck I was probably emotionally detached from everyone.
Even my parents.
Though I didn't have anything solid to prove that I was indeed emotionally detached, I really didn't want to get to it.
My parents would always usher and encourage my entanglement with more of 'my kind', often with tough luck.
They would try to lure me, to make me see the appeal in speaking to others, relentlessly, however at some point, I felt even they'd started giving up.
I wasn't always this way, though. As a child I was bright and happy, and very talkative.
I have no clue how I've come to become this person, much less enjoy it.
I guess sometimes life just happens to you.
From this high above, I look down, at the million possibilities, of me. The very many choices I avoided to become who I am, and silently wondered how I'd have been had I chosen otherwise.
I thought of myself, chirpily hopping along with my friends at new year, while in reality I spent it at home, upset. I looked at myself, skipping classes, lying, enjoying the very thrill of my teen life.
Would I have been happy?
Probably not, I decided. The grass was always greener on the other side.
An astrologer had told my mother once, that I'd be like a mother to her, much less, her child. Sadly, he meant that in every literal sense. I am exactly like my grandmother when it comes to being with my mother.
I feel for her, I do, dealing with two of the same kind, with the obligation to love both.
But more than my demanding granny, I feel I'm most like my father.
Detached. A little patient. Craving freedom.
Though, some of my traits my family admits are inexplicable.
Like my art, for example.
It's very existence in my entire family , at least in my genre of it, only exists with me so far.
But the talent has limits.
Everybody has one special thing, that they do, a USP of sorts, apart from maybe me.
Some are known for people skills, others for lying, and most for other artistic abilities.
Me? I'm perfectly average.
The student who scores neither too bad, nor too good; The artist who is good, but wouldn't sell; The musician who would appeal, but never make money; The writer who is never appreciated.

I suppose the counter argument would be that this was all in my head, and I had no way of knowing if others were truly better or not.
And I suppose that that was probably right.
But it wouldn't stop me from thinking the way I do. It's human tendency.
The fields I listed above are fields I'd do well at, but would never excel, they'd never be the source of my income  if I ever have to stand on my feet.
I stood at the very edge now, tears slipping by. Two decades had passed and I didn't know. Who was I really?
The question haunted me. I had no answer.
I was made to write a resume once, I remember the mammothian task I had to face.
To list out your potential as a worker to the people who shall hire you. Isn't that what a resume does?
Being a harsh critic of everything, especially myself, I'd almost handed in an empty paper,had my mother not intervened and edited it.
Then there was the love scenario.
I was never good at the romance, despite being a closet romantic. Having been brought up in a very conservative environment, but in a western world, my morals were as confused as I was.
At an age when everyone around me would party, enjoy and get boyfriends, I'd sulk away, scared.
My deepest secrets were mine to keep, not for the world to know, or a partner to share.
Sometimes I wish I had a pet, a cat maybe, someone reminiscent of my own being, someone who would show me, what it is to be me.
But my parents wouldn't allow me of that, further pushing me towards solitude.
I wouldn't blame them, they thought of my better (and the cat's).
Somewhere I heard a clock strike twelve.
So, the time had come...
The old choices I could've made fade away into darkness, leaving me, on a building ledge, ready to tip over into a new year. A new stage of my life.
A new beginning.
With the 12th strike, I let go, of my past, my tears, my emotions.
I plunged face first into my future, hoping that maybe this time , my decisions will be right.

Comments

  1. On a building another, maybe one just adjacent to your perch, or one far beyond the horizon, stands another beautiful soul, with a story that might either mirror yours in every way, or be one that is poles apart. Yet that story led them to the exact same place where you have made yourself at home.
    I love the hint of hope at the end of the article and I would, considering what little experience I've had over the past couple of years, just like to say that this hope is not blind, unfounded or fantastical. You have done, alone, what most people take years and a lot of failed relationships to do. You have learnt to love yourself. And that, right there, is the reason your hope, your expectations, will never go unnoticed.I hope you have an amazing year and I know you'll find what you're looking for. :)
    Also, I've always been a fan of your art. By that I mean your paintings, literature and music. Skill is not what makes an artist. Emotion, is.

    ReplyDelete

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