Of Jealousy

I have spent the past one hour having a conversation with my own jealousy. The prospect of feeling threatened about my Love and one particular person always has, hitherto, managed to dredge up the most jealous parts of me, and so it did a while ago as well. I stared at the picture, I cried, I laughed a little, I cried some more, I decided I cannot take this anymore, that I shall move away because that is the only course open to me, to block this pain before it starts. I got angry too, because I had just told him that this makes me insecure, and with a seeming disregard and carelessness, he had created such a situation mere minutes later. And then, perhaps as a testament to the fact that I have learnt to observe my feelings a little more instead of drifting away, I stopped and breathed.

When you stop two things- one, feeding your anger as something righteous and two, berating your anger for even existing, you will find that you reach a far more comfortable middle ground. I simply sat down, cried and said- okay, you got angry and hurt and afraid. Then I asked myself- why? It turns out what my subconscious has been doing is bringing in a set of factors that have honestly never mattered whenever Love and I have been together. The factors of the public image of our relationship, and the possibility of him being dissatisfied with me and going to the other person for a far more fulfilling experience, being the primary ones. These are factors that don’t even apply to him- they are the baggage of my previous relationships and interactions. This man has never left me feeling vulnerable in public, because what we have is by virtue of its natural self very private, unique to the two of us- we barely ever have/require words to explain it. This man does not move from person to person being dissatisfied, he is aware enough to know that satisfaction or contentment is purely internal. So basically, my jealousy feels that it has been late in coming, because it was taken unawares the previous times, and is now asserting itself with a vengeance in a place where it is no longer required.

So I had this hour long conversation, that I can ill-afford in practical terms because I have to get up early, but that was nonetheless very necessary. Because I have been so worried at the prospect of pain, given the pain I have drawn into myself in the past, I haven’t stopped to notice that it is getting better. That I can now move out of such situations easier and not because I am faux-cheering myself up, but because I know that these are momentary ripples. And what stays eventually and always is the water, not the ripples. What stays is the love, if you can manage to trust it.

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In crippling self-doubt

Manto writes of how, in moments of crippling self-doubt, his wife would tell him to stop thinking so much and simply put ink to paper. Curiously, the first part of that statement is what my Ideal Reader often says to me as well. It is true that if you let the pen run faster than the tangled web of your own thoughts unraveling, then you might sometimes, come across a written insight that you know nothing of, a window into a part of yourself you have hitherto artfully covered up with old rags and newspapers, and a bucket turned upside down for weight.

Writing is a dangerous game because it dismantles every notion of control, one line at a time. If you think you are taking a poem this way or that, deciding the fate of a character. completing and sequencing thoughts and logic, then you probably haven’t been writing long enough. Every seeming choice is but a ‘seeming choice’, even the last minute replacement of one name by another, the drop of a word, the inclusion of another. Becoming a writer is perhaps the easier part. What is more complex is trying to reverse- engineer your formula, to figure out whether it was the weather, or the astronomical alignment of celestial bodies, the shade of ink,perhaps- what gave you a masterpiece on July 24th, 2015 that you could not replicate on October 10th, the following year? As such, can you ever truly know if you shall continue to be a writer?

All you can do, is write, right now.

 

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