Monday, August 26, 2013

Something I've realised recently: believe in the beauty in things. Music is beautiful. Always. Friendship is beautiful, as long as you have faith in it. And emotions are beautiful because they make you a more beautiful person.

Caring sucks. Being emotional sucks. Not being able to control your decisions, your actions, your thoughts with a clear head and a rational perspective sucks. Letting your feelings control you is weak isn't it? It's pathetic. It's silly. We're silly. But you know what I've also realised? It's human. It's me. I feel and I care and I hurt because I'm human and weak. That's who I am. That's how I roll. That's what makes me who I am.

And yeah. Emotions are beautiful. Sure, they're lethal, dangerous. Vindictive. But beautiful. Think about it: people who feel, feel life. It's beautiful to care so much about something that it makes you shed a little tear late at night. It's beautiful to sometimes feel your heart squeeze into such anguish or euphoria that you've forgotten what's up or down, what's me and you, what's real and not. And it's always beautiful to be able to truly appreciate the little things in everyday. Like that small streak of sunlight stroking your arm. The way lightening lights up the sky like magic. Standing in the rain and feeling nothing but awe at how majestic the stormy city is from your tiny little balcony.

I remember I used to spend hours sitting on my balcony at dusk, staring at those endless rows of buildings rising and falling beyond my horizon, fascinated by the lives being lived out there; entranced by the beauty, the detail, the possibilities contained within that picturesque view.

I remember I used to sneak out onto the lawn on humid summer nights while my parents were asleep. I used to just stand there on the grass, barefooted under the moonlight, awestruck at how beautiful and lovely and comfortable the world was at this time.

And I remember the most clearly, those few rare moments that I've been able to lay in bed at the end of the day and say to myself with a simple smile, "This must be what happiness feels like."

All these silly, irrational and romantic little things define who I am. I like being me. I'm grateful I was lucky enough to be the silly, emotional and overtly romantic person that I am. I'm lucky I feel enough to care. It's not a weakness. It's not pathetic. Don't let anyone tell you that. Caring enough to hurt is what makes us sympathetic, empathetic. It's is what makes us love more, love better, love stronger. Sometimes it's what makes us good people. Because we care.

I care about my friends. I care about my parents, my grandma. I care about old ties and old times, places that changed me and that tiny little house on Kings Crescent. I also care about believing in things. Like the disheveled busker who gave me a polite "Thank you miss". Like the little old lady setting up the family business at dawn. Like the random stranger who smiled at me on the street.

The people in your life should make you a better person. This matters the most. To the people who have ever listened to what I had to say, who have genuinely cared about my hurt or let me care about your hurt. To the people who have inspired me to be a better person and convinced me to keep on fighting even when I couldn't see reason. Thank you. I read somewhere that one of the simplest steps to being happy is to show appreciation. Show gratitude. I'm grateful for everything I've been privileged enough to have, and I won't let any of it go to waste anymore.

To the person who will one day understand me, wholly, completely and unconditionally, I will find you. I know you've been waiting for me. Sorry it's taking so long. 6 billion people in the world and 197 countries you know, kind of a shitload of obstacles. But it's okay. I believe we're getting warmer.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

I miss somewhere that's not here

I miss China. I miss the smell of smoke intertwined with the chilly winter air, the familiar clanking of bells and unabashed shouts emitted from those early morning street vendors. I miss the way you'd hurriedly walk through some small dingy street paved with dirt and garbage, holding a mask over your face to partially shield yourself from the cold and partially from the smell of dog shit.

I miss the ruthlessness of the city. I miss being a part of the avalanche of people that push and struggle their way through the early morning commute, every man for themselves, every person from the little boy selling toys outside the metro entrance, to the richly dressed expat stepping past the beggars in his polished leather shoes, all hurriedly, hurriedly rushing to do what they had to do that day. Because the city had no mercy. The city had no room for moping, for indecision, for pride even. Everyone did what they had to, and they had no choice to question. You took what you could get.

I miss that feeling of revelation. The one that overwhelms you as you finally open your eyes to the truth of how the world is. In such an environment, silly thoughts seem unable to manifest - as if there was something in the air that killed unpracticality. Complicated layers of fears, desires and thoughts are reduced to the most primitive of needs: food, family, survival. Only if you're lucky enough to have that, you have the luxury of the worrying about the next layer.

I miss the contrast between the rich and the poor. A sheer display of power that the city had. Here, you could climb higher than anywhere else, or fall harder than you've ever fallen before. Fortunes change, lives change - it's a twisted game of roulette, isn't it?

And do you know what I loathe? I loathe this slow, gentle, lenient country. I hate how infuriatingly first world it is. I hate how infuriatingly first world the people and their problems are. I loathe the calmness. The non-existent pace of the city. I loathe how forgiving it is. Everyone does what they want do, and they question every choice. You get given everything served on a platter and you choose what you want to take. It's a buffet. Whereas somewhere else, there's rationing for every meal.

There's too much choice and too much luxury in this place. There's too much thinking that leads to too many delusional thoughts of what you believe would make you happy and what you believe you're entitled to have. Entitlement in itself is delusional. No one is entitled to anything. If every human is entitled to basic human rights, then why are there millions of humans in the world who aren't given a single chance in their lifetime to learn what those rights are?

All I know is that I have to survive the rationing before I can truly bask in the luxury of the buffet.

And who knows, one day in the future I might end up loathing those merciless cities, the sheer power they have, their ruthlessness.

One day I might miss this slow, gentle place and its lenience.

One day I might feel only the sweet here, see only the smaller picture.

One day I might say, "Hey, I'm entitled to have this".

But that's one day. Not today.