Unbounded

Don't bind me with your chains
Of clingy emotions and expectations,
I'm born free, not knowing you
I belong to me and only me
I listen to no orders, no advice
I give no one rights on me
I like to learn on my own and be free
I'm not dependent, I'm free
I expect nothing
I like to walk carefree
I am free to be just me.
There are no definitions, no boundaries
A simple unbounded me.
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Box of Childhood

There is this big Bilt copier cardboard box in front of me. It is filled with my old school texts and stuff, so I thought. Parents were asking me time and again to see what texts I need from it and what I should donate away. I didn't want to. I have this thing with keeping my old stuff too. The idea of donating in Sulliya made me really want to do it.

So there, I open my box. First thing I see is a translucent plastic file filled with papers. One of them was a simple hand written birthday scroll, other a very beautiful handmade birthday card. No one knew how much personally made stuff meant to me. I always thought they have put some of their energy in it to create something for me. And that I found beautiful.It didn't make me nostalgic, but it did manage to make me smile. It still holds now.

When I was putting my books back I saw a huge brown diary which I instantly recognized as my first ever diary. There were so many warnings on the first page. Surprisingly the warnings were written politely, requesting actually, but to show the fierceness "grr" was added at the end. I couldn't help laughing at the me then. I was such a kid. A cute one. I read my first entry. It was simple day in my life when I was 12. Small sentences, small grammatical errors, minor complains which were actually nothing at all. The way I put things in simplest way, "I don't like..." Period. No ifs and buts. Still it was funny to read it, "Mother scolded me today, and I didn't understand why. I was just playing on the computer!"  D

I might have not known what passion is then, maybe I couldn't actually name it when I was 12, I just thought it was "a craze" when I sort of grew out of it. Now when I look back, it was complete crazy passion. One diary separate for "Fight Against Crime", one separate for "My story" an attempt to write, another for, "Harry Potter" my hero back then aka Daniel Radcliffe (now me: really!!?!!). The craze was so insane that there were minute details I had copied and written, or pasted the articles I had found. I remembered how I would look for the articles, wait for parents to finish reading the paper, ask if they are done and snip snip snip. :) It was fun. I used to enjoy doing it too. Never EVER got bored of it, or postponed it. Would so totally get lost in it. I don't know how I grew out of it. It's still there, just it's way more complicated now I guess :P

I didn't even have the heart to throw away my painfully carefully and artfully made Genetics notes. I was so crazy about it. I still can't throw or give it away. I may not understand or remember the terms now, still, it has my passion and energy embedded in it. I cannot let it go. :) My English notebook and the silly assignments. The chemistry book which Mr. Sallauddin Uncle had given for my craze for Genetics (he hoped I'll get into biochem :D), Dr. Mundhada's parting book present on Genetics (Genome), it was widely known about my craze/passion. Even about me wanting to be a cop. My two small FBI badges reading: Agent Shenoy. I just couldn't let go of the dream of cop till now :D It was my fun world. World where I wanted this, and I was passionate about it. Whatever small thing. Its still there, just that its little difficult to figure out what I exactly want now. Now I want the bestest of the best and I want everything. I want to be everything. That is crazy. But hey, its still me :P

My slam books. I was surprised with the types of friends I had then. I mean, now I wouldn't even talk to half of their kinds. Or all of their kinds. I've grown so much. It was interesting. Comfort with one person meant that person was my best friend. That was so silly. Now it seems silly. I was a kid obviously. But I did know what I wanted. Exactly. :)

My favorite poem on smile, my MC script for teacher's day (cos I had loved the poem), it was interesting to go through it. So light and so wonderful. Maybe when I grow up more, and I look back at this day i.e today, I might be smiling even more, sharing all this with my guy. Introducing him to an interesting child in a much more interesting world of hers, locked to others. True her, shared only with a few.

And the most interesting thing is, she is still me.
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I want answers

I don't want religion. I don't want to understand what that religion is about to get peace. I can't let go of my cravings. I want both my cravings and my peace. I want everything.

I don't want religion. I want my answers. And I thought Buddhism has some. But he is asking me to let go of everything. Not done. There has to be other way. I don't know about rebirth. But yes, there is soul. It is not just a biological mechanism in me, us. There is something much more, something that is making me write this too.
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Perfection

It is a beautiful word. I find it at least. It’s like a misunderstood genius. Like Calvin.

Calvin has wonderful vocabulary for his age. He has smart wit and he has amazing imagination. I appreciate that in him. I appreciate the “misunderstood genius” in him. I don’t understand why people have to mock him. Why some people, I correct myself. He is a simple “man” with complicated tastes. That complicated tastes are just the best in everything. And best are perfect.

There is no harm or there is nothing wrong in looking up to someone and learning to be better. It is appreciable, the efforts they take to maintain perfection, however hard they seem. It has nothing to do with any state, or any channel. It is only you. If you believe in perfection, you’ll get it. You’ll want to have it. It will frustrate you, but you’ll still want it bad. There won’t be any defensive answers like “why do I need that?” or “It varies everywhere”. It can be simplest of thing, like for example pronunciation. How beautiful is this when BBC people, English people try and pronounce your name right and how sad when your own state channel, national channel cannot? If they can, why can’t us? If you see from my view, this is not a comparison exactly. What I’m trying to say is something else.

Not being ignorant. This is simplest way I can put it.

If you don’t care about the small things to be perfect, how can the other big things be? Small has a power too. Everything is built from scratch. Scratch is always small. And that small builds that big powerful thing; whatever it is. This is my point.

It all depends on your thinking. Instead of mocking, finding it scandalous, or even defending people who don’t even know you exist just listen to what that person in front of you is trying to say before you totally jump on him with millions of attack. There is at times much more than the mere simple words used. There is depth in simple words, you just need to listen, broaden your mind and accept that there are flaws which have to be erased to get perfection. Perfect means no flaws.

You won’t quieten him with crude remarks if you want flawlessness. You won’t obviously if you know and realize he is wise. He is wise, he has seen the world, and he has dealt with many people. He has abundant knowledge. He is sharing with you, take it. His hair didn’t go white just like that. He is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. There is a guy similar to him. And he still has a long way to go. But the brilliant thing is he understood it already.

I have put things in plain words. I have long forgotten how to write beautifully; maybe because I found relief in being crude. Or maybe I’ve lost how to pen down my entire exact emotions, because it is perfectly understood by me and I’m in loss of words. It all sounds like some old grandmother’s story. When you listen to it carefully, there is beauty in it. There is depth. I say this, because I myself might find it weird if I read it many months later. Or maybe I might learn and understand more from my own words. Sometimes, some things need to be reminded. And these words will do that for me.

This is dedicated for my wise man. My father, who’s this beauty I couldn’t see well, till today.

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No haste only phase :P

Logically thinking, I chose well, because I chose both. I always had the choice. And when I can have both, why stop? I love both. How can I let any of them go?

It was some phase. I can always go anywhere anytime. If I threw away one of them, I couldn't have got it back.

Peace!

Happier!

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Choices

Might there not be a possibility that I was wrong? That I made a wrong choice, in haste?

There are periods of blank thoughts. Just blank. Numbly staring at the book, trying to love the codes, the signs. That’s the reason why I took it in the first place right? Then why so blank?

I want to compete, with one person. I want to build, like that person, like he’s almost my idol. But then why procrastinate? Why  so blank? The pen is ready in my hand, paper waiting to be used, book ready to be read, mind all interested, but why is the passion missing? Now when I see, I was trying to be him. Never me. I should have pleased me.

There is beauty in numbers, in secrets, in codes, in science. I love secrets and trying to decipher it. I love science. I love them all. I really do, then why am I not so alive?

Why is that I find beauty in rain? The sound of it makes me want to create, to paint my thoughts in words. However plain it might be, to me it is beautiful. I’m lost in it. I feel alive. I am writing, I am creating. I’m putting out me. I’m sharing me, in some small way. And I thought I was an introvert.

There is some kind of peace, a sense of belonging when I create. The sounds are not irritating. The thumping, the creaking, the shrieking all are silent, as if they don’t exist. All that exist is the music of colours and me. However simple, but it is the best to me. Because it is me. Different shades of colours, brushes, glitters, glue, papers and me.

I forgot how happy I used to be when I used to capture with the now ancient digital camera. Every sunset was unique; every cloud was beautiful and different, every lightning had different colour and sound, every wave calming, every shell pretty. My dream then and even now is to get a good camera. There were millions of pictures each attached with some memories. There were faces, flowers, insects, butterflies, clouds, sun, sea and its waves, rain and its smell. There was time for them. There was everything: happiness, contentment.

The blanks are filled with colourful pictures, words, shades when around them. There is steady hand, happy creating and putting out a part of me. Every experience had to be painted, thought over, learnt, understood. Every experience was beautiful. There was a want to be shared, to be heard. Just that.

A woman does want everything. But when you put a lock out of her face, and look into her eyes, “everything” was just to be heard and understood. All she wants is you.  She, me, her, all are happy doing what they love the most. Happy in our peace, in our passion. There is this childish heart, who would want you to see her art. Be it anything.

There is desire to read more, learn more, create more, observe more, understand more. Answer the questions. Quench the thirst of curiosity. Philosophy, psychiatry, poem, nature, science, everything.

All it matters is enjoying what you do. Doing what you love. Living in it, passionate about it. Content about it and want to put more to it. Confident about it and believing in it.



Now there is everything. I can do anything, whenever. There is everything, still something is missing.

Might there be a possibility that I chose in haste?

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