I had a near-death experience recently.
It made me question my life, my achievements (or lack thereof) and the moments preceding the said experience...
...when I found my first grey/white strand of hair amidst an otherwise young, carefree and multi-coloured bunch.
Life as I know it is over.
This was not supposed to happen yet (ever). I am twenty-something.
There is so much for me to do still, experience, mull over, stress about; come on- I still have bills to worry about, body issues, the future, and being an angst-ridden writer is one thing, but looking like one doesn’t get your picture on the jacket cover. And when I was just about beginning to love my hair for what it really was, for this to happen, is nothing short of a tragedy.
Was this follicle-karma for the follies of my youth, for all the straightening, and colourings and smoothenings and ironings? Isn’t karma supposed to bite me in the ass in my next birth?
My first thought was to yank it out. Nobody was around; no one would know...it would be the perfect crime.
But I couldn’t do it. In those terribly traumatic seconds, post-discovery, I had grown fond of Simone (I had to give her a name) and not just because white strands had demon parentage, the 'one give rise to two' theory, but because some cosmic force stayed my murdering hand, pushing it away from fair Simone.
A great calm washed over me, the world appeared clearer, my destiny awaited. Is this what wisdom feels like? With grey strand comes great wisdom?
Or is it just my old companion talking, comforting me in my hour of need? The fortifying brew, my fountain of happiness.
Ah Simone. I am a changed woman already.
She will be the testament to my struggle against...higher powers, the establishment, bureaucracy, government, the shackles that bind me, society, sobriety.
She and I will stand alone (please let it be only the two of us, more than one strand of wisdom will result in genocide) as we face life head on with courage and honesty and integrity.
But not yet.
Fair Simone, you that shine so brightly (tauntingly so, you *#@%!), you came too soon, much ahead of your time. It’s been pre-ordained that you will succumb, you will not survive the fight against Burgundy-Black, 32 Dark Mahogany-Brown and Red 6. The Gods of L’Oreal are too powerful for you, this time.
Return in another lifetime, 20 years perhaps. You can then be queen (maybe).
Go now, in peace, let me play in the fountain of youth, once more.
What now? That was just a stray blonde strand?
My eyes are failing me (I am too young for Glaucoma). I see only wrinkles and grey.
Has old age come knocking again? She has addled my young, vain mind.
Oh Simone what have I done?
PS: Beautiful lager, you remain my one true friend.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Down the rabbit hole
The day grows insidious.
One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.
Apparently not.
The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.
As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.
What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.
Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.
The day grows insidious.
My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.
But not today-apparently.
Fame would just have to wait another day.
The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.
I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.
As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.
“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.
And with a flourish I-we do.
The day grows insidious.
A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.
Whimsical much?
Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.
If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.
Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.
Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.
As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.
PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.
One would believe, that a morning that broke rather gloriously— warm but cloudy, with a hint of rain and the indelicate caw of the friendly crow, would ideally hold promise of a favourable day.
Apparently not.
The bank balance hangs dangerously low, self-esteem is tottering drunkenly on a tight-rope with no safety net of therapy, shopping or liquor.
As Floyd washes over me, I sit pondering the wicked humour of destiny.
What I have borne with fortitude and false bravado is beginning to come undone at the hands of a greater power I refuse to succumb to.
Final vestiges of pride? Perhaps.
The day grows insidious.
My fingers fly randomly over the keyboard, searching fervently for words there, that assembled in the right order would reveal the masterpiece I have so long been seeking.
But not today-apparently.
Fame would just have to wait another day.
The diamonds in my fingers glint, taunting me of worlds I belonged to.
I still dream of the trees outside and dry landscapes and setting suns. To journey across a thousand sights, and a million dashed dreams, just like here, now.
As a phantasmagoria of psychedelic emotions and turbulent thoughts whirl up in a collective frenzy, we seek places, not to hide, but put us in the spotlight.
“Dance monkey, dance,” someone cries.
And with a flourish I-we do.
The day grows insidious.
A little bit of Dutch courage would have helped. I will settle for a strong cup of coffee and the comfort of worn-out bed-springs, and a Hammerstein musical, searching still for the day that was promised.
Whimsical much?
Maybe a quick jump down the rabbit hole.
If someone could just point me, with a gentle hand, in the right direction, to provide respite from a journey that has already proved long and arduous. And maybe even a kind word or helping hand. As I find myself sinking deeper into difficult situations that bear strong resemblances to Dante’s Inferno, I whip around for a good look, not just for friendly faces, but some memento to remember best-forgotten situations by, scars besides.
Transformations- almost Kafkaesque; more mundane, less Spiderman, but without the rapier charm of an arachnid or insect.
Godot be damned, I am waiting for Jeeves and my cup of tea and some sound advice. Till then I will hide in the company of languid wanting.
As Floyd gives way to the dulcet tones of Slim Shady, hope springs eternal, or maybe it just quietly died.
PS: Was having a bad, boring day, with my iPod on shuffle and (hopefully, rather presumptuously) a Wodehousean hangover.
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