The beginning.

*Dignified repose*

Now, how does that sound? Definitely not 18-year-old material to me. I think I was having in mind ‘a sneak-peek into my own self’ as the idea when I decided to name this blog. Or rather, I created this blog only so I could use that name. Makes me want to smile and stretch out and relax, every time I visit this page, see the template and read the blog name.

How many of you are sure you know yourselves? Apart from the judges that we are to our own selves, how many of us can claim to be prejudice-less spectators to our own selves? I can, as a matter of fact, step right out of what I am and witness me growing, perishing, returning, withering and even appreciate the after-glow quite picturesquely. I come across usually as this very simple girl who can laugh her heart at every simple thing that holds her in captivation. I am that. Simple things amaze me. No matter how many kids I see in a day, each and every one of them make me go ‘Aww’ genuinely. I find pleasure in surprising people. I step away a bit to see who would turn back to wonder where I have been. I write and read and I play and sing. And I wonder. How much more is there to me that I can shamelessly admit?

I love the spotlights, the attention. I love surprises. I like it when people treat me special. I love being pampered. I love when somebody manages to click a whole set of natural pictures of me, without my noticing it and I love it even more when they show it to me very casually. I love it when somebody holds my hand. I love it when my friend comes along and takes me by the shoulder, walking with me silently, clenching my arms and I love it when that silence so beautifully envelopes all the unsaid things that had been taunting me. I wish I could walk along the beach, the water just softly lapping my feet and I love it even more when a friend can walk by me, silently. I‘d love to have that same silent company while waking up in the morning at 3, lying down on the grass and waiting for the sun to rise. I wish I could wait, lying on my back, counting stars and making wishes, slowly tracing the thousand blushes the sky would send before it retreats to its personal haven to relish in the biggest secret it has been hiding from mankind since time began. I love birthday surprises. I love new clothes. Colours. Rainbows.

I wish I could keep trotting and singing by some river side when somebody would remember that I love daisies and bring them coupled with a few touch-me-nots. And once in a while, I would hear a song that someone had written for me, and smile to myself. Mid-night coffee breaks. Paint wars. Redecorating the house. Sitting on top of the terrace and watching people walk by. Just traveling. To anywhere. And, talking. 

I can talk for hours. And then, remain silent for days. At times, I wonder if I can ever explain it right to someone about how I write. Will they believe me? It took me quite some time for my own self to accept that fact, anyway. Let me try. When I write, I don’t feel like I am me. I am someone else. Some possessed soul, getting instructions from someone or something. It feels as though, in a split second, I am ripped from being who I am, and something else takes over me. I lose consciousness. Self-realization. Control over my thinking. Something keeps dictating things to me. And I just write, without giving a second thought about how silly or stupid or embarrassing anything that I write might turn out to be. And, I drop the pen. I relax. I feel like me. I don’t feel like going through what I have already written. I feel bored. I leave the piece of writing at that and go on. And later, when someone stumbles upon it and praises it, I smile vaguely. I search for what I had written and it stuns the hell out of me. How could I have written something like that? No kidding me, please. Those words sound real nice when strung together. It makes perfect sense, unlike the thoughts in my head that always wind themselves and reorder every damn minute and defy the definition of the very word confusing. I try to grasp what it was, that made me write it. It seems to simply slip away from my grasp and smile and run away at an exponentially increasing speed as I try to chase it down the corner. And then, the craze to the limelight takes over. It likes basking in the attention, in the glory. It convinces the confused part that it is purely the reason for the mastery just exhibited. And by the time a full formed doubt takes shape, the light-hearted side takes over and happily dances away with the remaining of me and makes sure that no complex thoughts force themselves into me. It makes me lazy, not wanting to explore into eluding secrets and keeps day-dreaming about the fame that will catapult me to great heights. And all along, who was it that made me write it? Or rather, what?

You don’t believe it, do you? Neither do I. And the worst part is, I don’t have a choice.
You seriously enjoyed reading through all this? Bribe me with a milkshake with ice-cream, or even better, a chocolate-filled sundae. I can go on endlessly about this.

You think I am shameless? Late realization, mate. I had figured that out some good 7 years ago. And I am still successful enough in fooling myself into believing the fact that I am absolutely the most special person alive, ever. Who knows? Maybe, I really am.

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- Just Someone.

[ Picture Courtesy:  Deviantart ]