Understanding what is happening inside oneself is hard, it has been for me. Writing about it, is worse. Somehow I feel like I won’t ever be able to convert into words the sudden gasp of air I need when I write. I won’t ever be able to let you feel the way I feel suffocated. But all I can write about are the things that I have gone through or witnessed. Yes, there is a good question, why do I write after cribbing so much about it? Well, I haven’t figured it out yet. Emotional release is one among the many explanations is my guess. But now, I have to write . . .
” I will grow up, be a journalist, earn on my own and then will never ever come home, ever again”, I could hear myself taking hard, deep breaths then. Not only then. My demeanor was the same the countless times I have said. Even my mother’s response was cliched, she would raise her right eyebrow and tell me, ” First study and be all that”. No offense though, Amma has been hearing and I have been saying the same thing for more than a decade now for sure. Ever since I was eight.
Today I am what they call an “almost journalist”. Final year student, placements about to happen . . . career concerns. Why am I having different nightmares now? Earlier it was just Amma discovering my report card that could make any “goose bump” effect on me. But why do I feel that those nightmares were so damn simple?
No, you have got me wrong. I don’t aspire to be any media house CEO. My dream was just the same. A person on the streets. A pen and a notebook. A degree to get by, and I should live.
Getting close to a dream that you have adored all your life is different if not difficult. Like getting close to the sun? Only it isn’t burning down my wings ( Ok, I agree. That is one of my unpractical dreams). And certainly growing up allows anyone to be free. To be yourself (cliche).
Did I tell you about my nightmare? The one which there was neither Amma nor report card or getting caught in an awful lie? And contrary to all my nightmares this place was serene, yes it was.
It was just the beach, rocks and the moon. And I was somewhere on the shore. I was scared, not because I was alone. . .
It was the sea. Why did I heard it whisper ” I can engulf you ” every time it touched my feet? It was the moon. Why did it say with the most ungraceful grin that ” I am watching you” while seeping through my face with light? It was the rocks, why did it say ” We can crush you” even though it was lining up for me the most beautiful horizon I will eve see in my dreams?
Why do I run to the pit and cover myself with sand? Why am I letting the sand get into my mouth, into my nose, into me?
Why do I run away from death only to embrace it? . . . What am I trying to do?
Am I not ready to die? Or am I just putting up a fight?
And why do I never wake up no matter how much ever I convince myself it’s a dream . . . . .