The Unsentimental Sentimentalist

An Alternate Ending

You and I walk the same streets in our mind
I like to think given time, we could catch some coffee on the cornerside magazine stall
But we have never met and we will never know.
I must have past you a hundred times,
We have crossed paths, bumped shoulders and smiled anxiously.
We could have had a lifetime of happiness or moment to remember,
But there’s no chance of that, we never saw each other.
Walking on curbs, sitting in the corner of that party, waiting in the line the metro gates to shut,
We were too busy to take notice of that beautiful stranger.
Trying to avoid looking alone, now we are alone and we will do anything to hide that.
Who knows this could be the point of our beautiful transition.
I have been to too many sunsets
I bet you have touched the clouds
We could share that moment of joy with one another.
So come a little closer darling
Lets warm ourselves tonight.
Its getting colder and its dark outside
Lets talk and look deep into each other’s eyes,
Darling just for a little while, keep that phone aside

An Anecdote From Childhood

Picture from CTV news. The Copenhagen attack is one of the several acts of violence the modern society has had to witness

Studying in India has its clichés. Of course my parents were adamant about sending my sister and me to a good English medium school and getting arguably the best education possible. And so I was bundled off to a liberal Catholic school and my first tongue was English. We had nativity plays in December and a huge church (one of those with the tall towers and beautiful stained glass windows) in the vicinity. I changed schools at the age of five and the next one was even more British than the previous. The colonial baggage looms large on all of us here. In our personal and political lives. I cannot complain though, knowledge of English remains an empowering tool here and when I recall those days, all those years back when all of us sat in front of the television watching English news channels and cartoons, soaking in the accent and fluency, there’s a sense of nostalgia and fond humour.

I recall a specific incident when I was the age of five or six. My mother had a daily ritual of praying to the Hindu gods at dusk, complete with incense sticks, bells and hymns. She made it a point that both my sister and I were present at these sessions and contributed to it diligently. One day, I prayed to the Gods in the afternoon. I cannot remember why, I was probably wishing for something in all earnestness. Children tend to do that. Believe that God is listening and all our prayers will be granted as soon as possible. That day, after praying, I made a cross on my chest. The way my Christian school taught me to. My mother was standing behind me and she saw me do that. She called my father and both of them were behind me when I turned around. They were smiling. They asked me why I made the cross after praying. I said I did not know, I just saw everyone do it in school. Mother looked at me and asked me gently that she did not; didn’t I watch her while praying in the evening? I remember being very confused at that time. I remember looking at both of them and asking the difference- what did the cross do, or not do differently. I even told them I will not do it again if it was a problem. But they laughed. My parents laughed loudly at my childish innocence and hugged me tight. I remember their wide smiles as they held me very close to them and said quietly that it did not matter. I could do it anyway I wanted it as long as I was being honest to the one above.

Today, I cannot say with full confidence that there is any one above. I cannot even remember the last time I prayed with an intention to pray. The last time I bowed my head and joined hands was to observe two minute silences for the departed souls in the Kashmir floods and more recently the massacre in the school in Pakistan. I cannot help but hold on to this incident from my childhood in these times of great unrest. From the Charlie Hebdo case in France to North Carolina and Copenhagen most recently, today there is a threat to the freedom of speech, the freedom to worship- the freedom to be different really.Aren’t all these fundamental rights guaranteed to every human? I wish we could extend the freedom we wish for ourselves, to others. There are so many views today, so many normatives for everything- from religion to race to sexuality. We are so caught up in our presentation of our version of the right, sometimes we forget to listen to the other sounds. Multiplicity is perceived as a threat. Is it because we are not secure with our own belief systems? Or is it simply a case of human tendency to establish authority over another? I refuse to call these acts irrational and let them go. Of course not. There are people following a certain rationale, having a sense of righteous belief that these acts are warranted and justified and willing to lay their lives for these beliefs. But what I wonder the most is how do they sleep at night?

The Line Between Ego and Something Else

Sometimes people leave. Sometimes they are taken away from us for no reason. Sometimes we leave them. All the same, it is never easy. Maybe it is, if it never affected us in the first place. But what of it did? What if the loss hurts us more than we allow ourselves to feel or show? It is a funny world we live in today. We have cell phones and wi fi, bullet trains and plains, roads to remote parts and boats to far places, phones for the poor people and phones for the rich people, cafes to catch up in and bars to sit and talk into the night, we have beer to bring our walls down and dances to break walls-and somehow after all this, I feel we get farther and farther from what we first set out to do- get closer to others and the ones we love.

The very mediums to ‘connect’ have become mediums to pretend. The photos are not memories, they are a shout out to the world that you are happy and everything is brilliant and you are having a great time. And the status is a place where friends know what movie you are watching at the moment and other friends to judge for what you are doing/saying. Any feedback is great feedback, any like, comment, reply, thread, fight, emoticon, sticker, handle is great because it increases visibility-increases traffic to your site. And that is great. Works for publicity. And that’s the problem. We are living towards greater publicity and definitely bigger traffic, but we are definitely not moving towards greater moments of life. The block/report button has become an increasing tool to delete anyone who is a nuisance/irritating/pestering and cut them out. By all means, it’s a great option- gives you a larger control over who can and cannot enter your life. But I ask here, what does it really signify?

You block that annoying ex, that spamming page, that friend you never want to talk to again, that creepy stranger-and for what? Peace?

As I look at newspaper headlines these days, I am overcome with a sense of dread. And as I see it getting reflected in our daily lives, in our conversations, our interactions, all I see is the growing intolerance in people. A no-nonsense attitude that is not willing to accommodate difference or dialogue. By all means, block that creepy stranger or that spamming page; that is why the button was created in the first place. But when I see people block each other because of an argument, or an unwillingness to talk anymore, I fail to see the rationale there.

Is the ‘block’ option an empowering tool? Does it make one feel like he/she is in control? Does it really give one peace? Is it about ego? Does the Self feel stronger after blocking the Other? How does the other feel when blocked, when one finds he/she has been blocked? How do you unblock? I read a fable a long time ago, when there’s a knot in the rope, even if you manage to open it, the knot never remains the same after that. If that is true, by blocking, one is essentially changing the dynamics of the relationship and doing so quite consciously. I see classmates blocking and unblocking each other over and over and I fail to understand how that works! There’s a shared workplace in question here, physical proximity which enables uninhibited communication, then how the does the ‘block’ button triumph here?

The problem with refusing to engage with dissenters.

This growing intolerance is reflected in our larger daily lives and in a country like India, famed for its secularity and hospitality, the increasing domination of Hindu rights and holidays over other religions, like the recent Good Governance day scheme on Christmas alarms me. This is just one example and I will probably take it up in detail in another post. All over the world, the self has taken over priority over the other. It’s probably a Machiavellian world at its best. I find his arguments valid to a certain extent too. Certain measures must be taken to succeed. What troubles me is the ease with which this has happened and how widespread it is today. We are aware and yet we are not. In the 21^st century, with the rise of capitalism, our sense of self too has increased exponentially. Our needs/wants are based on us, each race for his own, each religion for his own and each country for her own. It’s argued that this is necessary for development, for prosperity.

I ask, development, prosperity of what kind?

An Honest Note On Literature

This month has been an especially introspective one not only due to the holiday season and the time spent at home with family, not to mention the usual hulla ballu about New Year, but also because this winter break is the last break before the last semester of college life. There has been a lot of soul searching regarding future goals, career options and the kind of adult I want to become. This blog is a result of such countless musings too, to channel that line of thought. The experience is similar to the time after school was over, when one was taking stock of the past, present and future, reassessing interests, aptitude and there was a general lack of confidence about the time to come. This time though, there is a difference and this post is about the why of it.

School was not a boring place; quite the contrary. I have been very lucky to be a part of such amazing institutions, both my school and college have moulded me to become who I am today and there are cherished memories attached to both places. But today I want to talk about the journey that took place alongside these institutions, the memories that are not attached to places and faces. The memories that will always remain an intrinsic part of the way I think and talk and influence the way I perceive the world and in turn, be perceived by it.

Studying literature and taking it up as a major in the country, or even in the world, is usually not seen as a ‘fruitful’ activity- in the sense that literature graduates are usually seen as whiling their time away, talking about abstract ideas in some jargon, disconnected from reality and the job market available to these graduates is shrinking by the minute. Apparently. When I took up literature three years back, it was a choice I had made consciously, something that I wanted and many times since then I have found myself second guessing my decision too. There have been days when I have wondered about the need to analyse seemingly unimportant details and even the impossibility of a job that can pay bills with this specialization. There have been moments where my friends and I have discussed about the insignificance of Freud’s parapraxis, the analogy between the landscape of the mind and the landscape imagery of the book and the sheer futility in such critical analysis- this needs to be seen against the backdrop of growing anxieties amongst graduates about getting a job- how is this information going to get us placements after college?

If there was a time machine at this point, I would want to go back to those times and whack myself on the head for such naive presumptions and such stupidity. Studying literature was never about reading ‘Jane Eyre’ and closing the book. It is not about reminiscing the heroic times of “Iliad” or ideal glory of “Ramayana”. It is not about the protagonist, the author, the poet, the government, the King, the mad woman in the attic- no, it is about all this and more- it is about you and me and everything around us. Even today, when people ask, “so you just read books?”, I want to jump “Yes! And isn’t that everything?” Very few courses are as interdisciplinary as literature- we get to study about countries, their economies, how it affected the people, what the people wanted and what their reality was like, how developments in science made reason paramount in the Enlightenment Era, how the next era considered it over-rated, the social context, the political context, the historical context and its relation to the present context. Reading literature has widened so many horizons, allowed me to inhabit so many places and realities and live so many lives in one lifetime. It has given me a new pair of lens to look at the world and equipped me to understand its many inadequacies as well appreciate the gift of life.

There are so many mistakes I have made in life and so many instances that given a chance I would do them differently. Taking up literature though, is not one of them. Reading Beckett, Camus, Kalidas, Amitav Ghosh has left a resounding impact on me and once you read them, you cannot see the world as you once saw it. Today at yet another junction of life, I cannot but help look back fondly at our discussions on feminism, language, the government and everything else. Each time I am left a little unsettled, whether by a tragedy or the current affairs and at the same time, I am glad because I know the task of theory or analysis is not the right answers, but asking the right questions. “After such knowledge, what forgiveness?” (T. S. Eliot). At this point, it is futile to wonder if there will be anything for me to do in the future. There is so much to do in this world, so much left, so much unspoken- the question here is, will I be able to do it? I remember last year, when a senior of mine had graduated, she had said, it should not be B.A. (H) Literature; it should be B.A. (H) Life. I laughed that time. I knew what she said was true. Today, I really know it is true.

What Can You and I do?

Familiarity is the hardest thing sometimes. When something lies right in front of our eyes all the time, so common to our day to day existence, it becomes hard to discern its significance- hard to recognise its uncommonness. Such a case is the sight of beggars on the streets of every city in India. In front of temples, under flyovers, on the pavements of narrow roads, knocking on the car’s window in the middle of congested traffic or sitting near hospitals, beggars are such a daily sight here that is hard to unsee them. Yet somehow, we have managed to see right past them.

This article does not end with a triumphant conclusion nor do I propose any earth-shattering solutions. It does not even end with a heroic act where I manage to uplift a group of beggars or mobilise them or any such feat which may soothe my conscience. No. Today I want to ask questions and hopefully the right questions, because sometimes that is all it takes. All of us are humans, compassionate beings with ideas of morality ingrained in us and we live as though we are ‘holier than thou’, then what is it that stops us from turning around and looking at that impoverished man a little longer and asking him his story?

At this point, I am not talking about the people who can afford to give Rs 100 to every beggar that comes their way. Chances are they usually do not even frequent the streets that are really home to several beggars. No doubt a noble and charitable impulse when they give money to the beggars that come knocking their way, but I see little use of it. That Rs 100 will probably serve him for a week and even less, if he has a family to feed. So in the long run, all that was done was give him a little more time. The question here is, how long? How long will these stand alone acts of generosity for individual beggars work? What purpose does this achieve in the big picture? Some cynics claim it makes them lazier. Some others say that’s not the issue, the important thing is for the time being both parties leave a little happier.

Such quick fixes are troubling. And films like “Slumdog Millionare” have not made it easier for people like me. The beggars on the streets were shown as working in a network controlled by thugs and the mafia. These people kidnapped children, tortured them, maimed them to the point of unrecognizable features and forced them to sit out on the streets and beg. The money collected thereafter is not even shared, rather they are given just enough to make them beg some more the next day. This practice is not even pure fiction, because there are findings that suggest that beggary works like an industry and has the spread across the length and breadth of the nation, consuming more children, women and men in the guise of missing persons and fraud. So every single time that I do decide to give some money, it occurs to me- am I sponsoring such groups? If I am, I should stop. But if I do stop then don’t these impoverished people suffer even more?

A slum in Kolkata, one of the largest metropolitan cities in India

It is such a horrible catch 22 situation that most of us today have become immune to this scenario. We no longer deal with such conscience confusing problems and prefer to ignore their existence. Except of course, for the acts of benevolence once in a while, depending on our mood. Beggars are a reality in India but it seems like a reality that everyone wants to deny. In big cities, you have sprawling shopping complexes, industrial hubs and shanties sitting side by side and living two very different realities. Outside the air-conditioned car that keeps its engine on to keep luxuries like the loud music and cool air, the beggar mother that comes with two children on her waist and shoulders and another pulling on her threadbare sari is ignored completely. Every single of us is guilty today. I wish I could put the blame solely on the government but that would be deceiving ourselves and a forced attempt to purge ourselves of our irresponsible behaviour. As a society, you and I have failed and we refuse to acknowledge that. Enough is not being done about the poor people in our country and we refuse to believe that. We do not let these trivial matters disturb our morning coffee, evening games and dreams at night. We are content with our small, insignificant lives, our illusions of our surroundings and we never let anything shatter this illusion- not a flood, not an ‘ethnic cleansing’, not a rape- nothing. And that I believe, is the most unsettling thing of all.

Let’s Talk Like Grown Ups

Pre- Menstruation Syndrome. For the longest time, this phrase has been used to describe a woman’s erratic tantrum, her irrational behaviour-her hysteria. And this is all justified as hormonal behaviour-something that women cannot control, something that is a natural, inherent quality in all women. The irrationality that is prescribed to women becomes located in the woman’s biological make-up. Patriarchy therefore has managed to justify all this- the excessively emotional woman, the complicated woman- as objective knowledge, as scientific data. And women themselves today buy into this. I have heard so many women lash out, be snappy, cranky, violent, downright ridiculous and pin it all down to pms. “I am pmsing” becomes a licence for everything and women exploit it to the hilt. But here is the problem, every time a woman promotes such behaviour, every time she accepts and acknowledges this, she legitimises what patriarchy has been trying to say for a very long time- Women are neurotic. Women are complicated. Women are from Venus. And the thousand other variations of these sentences.

Now, I don’t want my point to be mistaken for some mad denial of the aweful cramps, the headaches, the nausea and everything else that accompanies periods. Not at all. On the other hand, I fully understand how nerve-wracking they can be and the need to be depressed and miserable about this state. But I do feel that this must not be used as an excuse. That excuse can have larger ramifications in the subtle political battle that every single one of us is fighting. It gives everyone else a joke to snigger about- “It must be that time of the month”. A joke is never just a joke. This joke is evidence of the everyday construction of women as ferocious women that must be feared (note here, not for reasons of mettle or brilliance, but rather for her unpredictable outbursts) and every single joke, snigger and the act of women on their part too, is a perpetuation of that stereotype. When I searched for the definition of pms, here’s what the urban dictionary had to say about it- “PMS-A powerful spell that women are put under about once every month, which gives them the strength of an ox, the stability of a Window’s OS, and the scream of a banshee. Basically, man’s worst nightmare.

OMFG! SHE HAS PMS!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!! *explosions and screams*”. The whole page actually is a long elaboration of these stereotypical misconceptions. For more examples- http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=PMS

Periods have been there since time immemorial. And half the population of the world has it. We need to stop giving it so much emphasis and stop creating this aura of taboo and mystery around it. All of us here are educated and informed about our rights, talk about feminism and make solid points. But I think radicalism needs to start with small, personal steps first- live that talk with every word and every action we take. If you are a woman, when “it’s that time of the month” try to be a little more cautious so that you are not giving off the vibe that it is really is that time of the month. It is so easy to get carried away with everything and then say “I am pmsing”. It lets you get away with so much and of course complacency sets in. If you genuinely get angry and your manic uterus added to that wrath, go ahead and apologise later for losing temper. Acknowledge that you are aware that the reaction was over the top. Let us stop using our uteruses in a fashion that only condones them.

About Pink

For the longest time, I have been thinking about the colour pink. Why do I have to think about the colour pink? Why must I rationalize my choice to choose or not choose pink? Pink is so burdened with ideas of femininity, that by extension it becomes simultaneously connected to the ideas of blonde bimbos and little girls playing with dolls- both of which are again, only perpetuating stereotypes. Back in high school I despised the colour pink and would never be caught dead with anything even in shades of peach or neon pink, baby pink and its thousand other varieties. Now that I look back at those times, it’s hard to miss the power and control that one gave to the colour pink. Ironically, it is this same power that allows stereotypes to persist even today.

Every time someone comments “pink?”, it is easy to surmise what the person has concluded. Pink is girly- why would any rational person ever choose pink? And that is exactly where my problem lies. Firstly, why does pink necessarily have to connote ‘girly’ and secondly, what exactly is wrong with being “girly”? Every time someone walks in with a pink phone, or bottle or umbrella, or shirt, or anything for that matter, why that incredulous stare? Note how I used the word someone- not a girl specifically-because men fall victim to such pressures too. Such ridiculous gendering of colours only pushes the performative act of genders, as if only men can be masculine (virile, aggressive, strong) and only women can be feminine (gentle, compassionate, nurturing, requiring protection). Not only have these ideas taken root externally in society, but internally too, these are justified by objective scientific data that insists that testosterone and estrogen contribute to the essence of the identity, of the person. So testosterone becomes this powerful hormone contributing to men’s libido and women who are lacking it, become beings who are “lacking” in desire-be it sexual, social, political, intellectual. The bone of contention here then, is that women become constructed as the anti thesis of men. This is not to say that men and women are similar or think similarly or act similarly, I am extremely aware of the differences. But for women to be treated as inferiors, or anything remotely associated to women gets scoffed at, because it is not “manly”, which has become synonymous with the normative, it becomes problematic.

The more I think about it; maybe it’s not really our fault that we think this way. We are bombarded with these ideas every day. Take “Legally Blonde” for example- a sweet movie about this rich girl who comes to her own independence and discovers herself- but could you see intimate connection between rich-blonde-pink-spoilt-girl? The same thread follows in all high school movies regarding the cool cheerleaders, the mean girls (literally the movie “Mean Girls” too). After such exposure, after being born into a world where the boy child is identified by a blue towel and the girl child by a pink towel, it is hard to break through such ideas. Which is why I find what PINK has done with her name so fascinating. The singer goes by the name P!NK but there is nothing pink about her! Not in her music, her lyrics, her clothes, her attitude. Whether this was a conscious decision, a political stand is something I cannot say- but I love the way she has redefined pink and broken all implied meanings with it.

Such a radical stand is required these days. I am not going to conclude saying pink is just a colour and stop giving so much power to it. Nothing is ever just a colour or a pen or a stair or a flower. Pink is just a colour and so much more. With time, pink has come to be associated with femininity and girlishness and whatever else these words insidiously imply. Maybe you like pink, maybe you do not. But if someone does, there is no reason to smirk and scoff at their decision. It doesn’t mean excessive emotions and brain damage and it would be wrong to conclude so from a colour. At the same time, instead of the baggage of inferior femininity, I wish pink came to break its gendered shackles and represented more solidarity-not just amongst women, but men, women and transgenders-the equality between all living beings and the historicity of this equality.

On Being A Girl And Leaving Home

Hello!

It’s been such a long time since I have written anything. Either I am lacking inspiration or I am simply disappointed with whatever my creative cells conjure. Staring at the empty document on the laptop screen or even the neat white paper on my table, I am drawing a blank everywhere. So to fill the void, I am uploading something I had written a long time ago, May of this year. This too was written after a long dry spell of two years. I am refusing to call it a ‘writer’s block’, because this is not what it is. It’s more than just not having anything to write about, its also about the disappointment that accompanies everything that I do manage to write down. So here’s something out in the open air- maybe just to remind myself that once upon a time it wasn’t so hard to articulate all the squibbly things in my head-

YOU ARE FIRST A GIRL

Talk nicely

Smile sweetly

Sing gently

Walk like a lady

Sit like a princess

Don’t do your lips like some drunken Joe’s mistress.

Now listen to me!

Don’t do your hair like that

It does not look decent

What are you wearing?

Where did you get this?

What have you done to your eyes?

Is this recent?

You should have been a man,

Your sister should have been a boy.

We prayed and prayed

But this must be Fate.

You are not boys but that’s alright

You are our girls and this is our delight.

We will show the world, we will bring you up just like them,

No, do not put up a fight!

There will be no further discussion,

Leave the room, you are a sore sight.

Listen to me! I know what is right

You will thank me in hindsight.

It is true, men are smarter

Your behaviour proves this time and again.

Is this what we get, for investing so much faith in you?

Such mediocre marks!

Such callousness!

Such frivolity!

You should have been a man

You would have known better.

But don’t worry, we are here

We love you, there’s no fear.

We are urban folk, we do not believe in all this gender chit-chat,

It’s your relatives who talk like that.

They think I have time; I should try for a son.

But we will prove them wrong

Let’s show them a girl child is nothing to shun.

Go out my girl! Explore the world!

Go ahead and live your life!

You were not raised to be someone else’s wife

Wait! What are you doing?

Where are you going?

Who is that in this photo?

Are you listening?

Don’t be arrogant, stop replying.

Have you forgotten?

You are a girl.

Yes, I read that article about equality.

But you are not that editor’s daughter, silly.

He doesn’t care for your safety.

I do.

We still live in this society.

And I am telling you, this is for your own good.

Now take care and behave.

You may think you are an adult.

Living freely with your newfound young cult.

But mark my words:

We live in this society,

There are racists and misogynists and sadists.

And all the wise discussions and debates in the world won’t save you.

So stay smart and come back by nine

Keep yourself covered and you will be fine

Don’t be seen, don’t be heard

That’s the best way to live I have discovered.

Listen to me, you must do the following

I am sorry, I know this is unfair

But we were born women and we must think of surviving.

You must be skilled like a cook

You must be adaptable like a river brook

You must run

You must hide

You must know when to cry

You must know when to defy

You can be free like the bird

Or caged inside the hearth

You are a girl; it’s your sin and pride.

Come here my child, don’t cry, don’t hide your face

It’s the biggest tragedy of the human race.

This is the 21st century but nothing has changed.

Always remember, you are first a girl.

Turning It Off

I am an avid follower of The Vampire Diaries. Yes I know it is just another teenage high-school drama feeding on a very popular but overhyped vampire theme and dealing with the overdone melodrama of two brothers falling in love with the same girl. But I find Ian Somarhalder very hot and sometimes it’s good to feed your fantasies.

Time and again, the question of ‘turning it off’ comes up. For those of who are not familiar with the serial, the ‘it’ here, implies humanity. When a new vampire is born, usually the vampire turns her humanity off, to get rid of feelings of regret, guilt and overwhelming emotions. This is because the new vampire still cannot control her bloodlust and the hunger makes them do irrational things which they would later regret. So they turn it off. They turn their humanity off and do as they please and think as they please and life’s good again.

But enough about the show let me get to the point. Is it really good to turn your humanity off? Hell, is it even possible? Is it possible to let go of all your regret, your guilt, your compassion and be free of your past? What turning your humanity off essentially means, from my understanding of it, is to be absolutely free. Free of expectations, free of wants, needs, moral compasses. And no doubt that’s fun way to live. You answer to no one, you live like you want to and you do exactly what you want.

And here’s my question, apart from the very impossible feat of denying yourself emotions of any kind, how beneficial is this whole process? From personal experience, I can say it’s very hard to let go. To a friend who had recently asked, so when does it all end? – This attachment to the past, attachment to the present, fear of the future-this is my answer-it does not. It does not ever end. i think I will always carry a piece of myself everywhere, that will always be my emotional baggage. But what I choose to do with that emotional baggage is ultimately my choice. I could let it affect me, define me or I could use it to change myself for the better and use my past as a reminder as to how sometimes things can go horribly wrong.

Nostalgia is hard, but somehow there is an addictive attraction to it. Like you know you should move on, but you cannot. You know exactly what you are doing to yourself and yet there is some helpless satisfaction in wallowing in that sadness. Of course, time helps. Time goes on and before you realize it, the memories are fading. But it never completely erases memories. And time and again, if you are in a similar situation, those memories prick you and remind you of the past. But in spite of all this, I would not trade for a human without humanity. I do not want my memories, happy or sad, to be erased. Those memories define me and they make me stronger. For all the irrationality in the world, I think it is important to keep your past very close to you, to remind you that you do not ever want to repeat that past. Whether it was doing terribly in the exam that defined your future, or being mean to someone that deserve that treatment or the most common reason like a failed love, it is important to give yourself the time to feel that pain and develop a healthy attitude towards it.

It’s very tempting to switch it all off. To avoid conversations dealing with it, to cut off friends who are annoyingly inquisitive, to work like a maniac to ignore the urge to mope. And I would say, for a while, it is important to turn it off. To give yourself space and time. And then, when sufficient time has passed, it is necessary to introspect and turn it on all over again.

Phew, so much from one supernatural drama.^_^