Unrest for death

The dream stretched on and on. I never knew where it ended, for it didn't seem to. Eternity came and went and I just sat there and played. Lost with my toys and colours. There was no care. What I'd give to be back there.

The unrest for death is nothing compared to the vacuum, to the sense of loss, the bewilderment of her departure. A clean slate. With her gone, my whole family has disappeared. A gust of wind on the dust of time passing by in the hourglass that pulverizes everything. She was all I returned for. A slight kiss on the cheek, a little nap on her lap, inhaling her clean antique scent. I sometimes emerge from my restless sleep to bold nightmares and night terrors woven of loneliness and disillusions.

I find myself beating at her door, longing for her voice and the warmth of her embrace. The sweet illusion of being back in my childhood home to the faint beat of her ancient heart. She still whispers in my ear a reassurance, like when I was a child, but it is a pitiful lie. Everything passes and everything dissolves. People, things, love and hope.

My Body Is A Prison - Zine

A zine by Varsha Panikar from their ongoing mixed-media series, Origami Folds, that employs dreams, memories, archive and photography to explore the human body, and uses it as a medium and metaphor for hopeless fragility and hardened impenetrability, from which emerges the themes of identity, dysphoria, commodification of the body, and denial and loss of autonomy as conditions of globalized society and cultures, through the lens of south-Asian, queer and marginalized bodies.

Trigger Warning : This piece deals with depression, anxiety, and body dysphoria.

Buy on Amazon Kindle below

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B09BXDWYPL

So what have you been up to since?

I dread this probe more than the dreadful visits to a government office. No response can validate my existence. Nothing comes forth, but the trite reality of the last few years. When I was younger, I had an excuse for procrastination. After all, I was working towards something, towards some bright future behind hopeful eyes. I could answer with ease back then.

Now my mind searches for internal consolation at my supposed lack of success. “I’m still kinda young” is one such rationalization. But this excuse will serve its time as well, and then what? I’m sure I’ll come up with something. The expectations of others weigh too heavily on some of us who still do odd jobs for money. I know it isn’t just me, and I know this sounds a bit whiny. They just expected so much of me.

So much money spent and so many years of education later, I can not even remember most of the information I memorized and regurgitated. So many years of working, and somehow, I still find myself sitting on a heap of bleeding pens, crumpled manuscripts and a scattering of unpaid bills. If my life were a game, I would have to take five spaces back. I justify my whining. I can justify anything these days, like a defense mechanism against my discontent with all I haven’t done. However, there’s always a ‘yet’ to insert. A future where I have things figured out and people think of me without concern because behold, I am successful!

So this is it! I'm driven by fantasies of a future that is as real as my next daydream. What if all the motivational articles were true? ‘Ten Steps to Make Your Dream A Reality!’ as promised. For a moment, my hope is renewed. What if I quit dreaming and started living? What if I defined success on my terms? What if I could just shrug off those silent expectations and rest in confidence that I am doing my best? Am I doing my best?

"Oh, you know, I've been working, evolving and enjoying life and such." That is the best response I can come up with.

Their hope for me dims.

Excerpts from my series, City On Wheels.