Blink

The game we played as kids? An eye ball to eye ball fight, a contest to see who blinks first? I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those games right now. I have lost one too many rounds already, I can’t sit still, I have to blink when I have to. So what if I lose one round, I’ll exercise better restraint the next time, I keep telling myself.

How bad can it be anyways? I’m thinking.

Does blinking first mean, I’m not strong enough, no self control. Blasphemous.

Does it mean, I don’t care about winning, because blinking seems like a more important thing to do.

Does blinking so often make me an unworthy opponent.

I wonder, what happens if no one blinks at all?

That would be a rather uncomfortable situation to be in.

Who’ll blink first?

The Story Of My Life

If all the stories you wrote, if all the words you said, came to life, what is the story you would write? Would you be frozen, like the deer in the headlights, incapable of any action, or would you act on the power, and write for you a life story you truly deserve?

If someone asked the question to the me that was eight, of the story I would like to live by, the answer would have been quite a prompt & effortless one. I would have liked to run that ice cream cart, so I could have ice cream for free all day, or would have liked to paint the gaudy walls with trees & birds, a backdrop to my faux kathakali. Add in some Indiana Jones adventures to the mix, kick some ass and look for the ancient hidden treasures of the world. They’d make us very rich, I had heard. Being rich like that was the best thing that could happen to anyone, we would discuss, as we dug into the dirt with our little plastic spades, wide eyed excitement over every shiny crystal we found. With all that money, we could eat all the candy we wanted, and own a dog called dollar. How exciting would that be. So rich, and so much fun.

I like to believe, in some parallel universe, I am that child living the enchanted life I wrote for myself. A child, happy sprinting through neck high grass, like a little wild horse, with not a care in the world. The peals of laughter reverberating through the beautiful summer days, of chasing butterflies, building kitchen gardens & bird houses.

It would be great if an answer came as promptly & effortlessly now. For all those days of dreaming about powers that would be great to have, I find myself dumbstruck, just at the thought of a power so significant; the ability to live the story of my choosing and be the person I want to be, every person I want to be. It’s overwhelming, the responsibility that comes with a power like that, when the only person responsible for every twist & turn in the tale, would be me. What does one do when there is no one to blame? Scary thought that.

Looking back at the time that went by, the careless words, the unspoken ones, words that were meant to hurt, those that hurt, words that created, and those that destroyed what seemed like a complete lifetime; I have a new found respect for the power of words. The energy each one carries, the words that are written, those that are voiced, they are like pieces of a magical spell that one should never get wrong. We all know how bad a spell gone wrong can be.

The continual effort to find words that do justice to the way I feel. The uncomfortable screech of the wheels in the head, when the words don’t seem enough; the overbearing feeling, that if they were said aloud or put on paper, they would instantly turn to dust. Those times when silence says more, than any word could.

How easily they could become of a limiting nature, those words actualized, and yet each word carries within it the power to actualize all , no limits. It brings to my mind Midas’ dilemma, the realization that gold is not all that I may want.

What is that story I’d write. I wonder.

My way and the highway. Same difference.

You are right and I am right and let us all live in peace. Why can't people live with that? Why is it that one feels a sense of achievement only when he has submission from the other party, some credit for being the right one in the discussion? Or is that the point of a discussion?...to go hoist a teeny weeny flag of victory in the cranium of the other, a fort conquered, a point made.. 1-Luv ...Point 1 to Y, next serve X.

I always wonder about people who are so adamant about their way being the only right way. The inflexible, “my way or the highway” attitude sometimes seems to me like one’s desperate attempt at convincing the critic within self, more than the other party in discussion; like repeating something a hundred times will somehow make it all real. A frantic attempt at holding on to beliefs, eyes & ears shut to what the other person is saying, lest the other person says something that shakes the foundation of our belief system of many years. How far do we go before we snap under pressure of our own rigidity?

On the other hand, if someone is stuck up on flexibility, does that make the person stuck up or flexible!? As someone very intelligent said, “Too much of anything is a bad thing”. Maybe even the case with flexibility. Flexibility is great, one of the most important traits required to take us through life, but where do we draw the line?

Does flexibility mean being a “YES” man at all times? Saying yes to anything and everything just so we can keep those around us happy... at the expense of being unhappy ourselves ? Does it mean living a life sans an opinion of our own, going by another’s opinion...just so that peace prevails!? Give up ones freewill, so as to be the martyr in the battle for peace. How far do we go before someone snaps a collar around our necks for being a tad bit too flexible?

And then, maybe true flexibility is just about acknowledging the other point of view, it is about being aware of an alternate reality which is as real as our own and being comfortable with the differences. No pressure to make it a one view world. Live and let live.

A good debater never lives under the false impression of a one sided story. He knows both sides of the story and decides to argue from a side he is more comfortable with, knowing very well that there exists another view, one that is as real as his own. Only if we could tackle life and the varied views of the bioscope with similar scrutiny, evolve so our views are inclusive instead of exclusive of realities other than our own.

Someday, flexible or not, we will question our own beliefs, Ask why!? And I pray real hard, when that happens, the voice that replies back is our own and there is no stranger we see in the mirror.

What's the Point?

It’s a difficult task putting yourself in someone else’s shoes.

When you have a point of view, about something, or everything, the world around you with a different view is usually a bunch of morons who cannot think right. So even if you learn to not throw your disgust into the other person’s face, the sniggering oaf in your head gloats about its super intelligence and ability to see what no one else can see. The others, who haven’t learnt the art of keeping the oaf in hiding, just get down and dirty, sling some mud, have a fist fight.

The more I see these debates and hear the endless arguments – good and bad, right and wrong, I can’t help but grimace over the fact, how pointless they are. And no! Not an argument for my point of view here; it’s just a point of view, as right or wrong as any other.

As hard it is prancing around in another’s shoe, it's worse when the shoe feels as good as your own. What a dilemma once you start seeing a point in the pointless, and the point being, how pointless it all is. The realization that while you see a tree, someone else can only see the sea. All reality, just a different window. In the thick of a battle, when one has a point of view to defend, how does one react to the army of arguments disappearing in thin air? What does one do when there are no more battles to fight?

I do not know when battles became a purpose of life and I do not know how and why people became so toxic, so destructive, but I do know that while I ramble away, trying to make a point it’s already all pointless. I do not have a fight left in me. The oaf in my head has long gone, and a void remains. Echoing an argument that was, the demons slain.

What more does one say to add to the pointless, to make it less point-less!? Just be, and let them be.