My middle-class upbringing has pushed me to test my emotional and mental boundaries. There was always someone and something to compare with. Little did I know that my efforts to appear as a classified, cultured and socially-qualified human will take almost two decades (still counting.). I still wonder, how many complexities can survive and sustain in one person. The mind is always running in roundabouts and the heart is always beating on an unspoken range (in the hope to bump into another self-reflective beat).
In this entire journey of creating a self and surviving through setbacks, heartbreaks, complexities, insecurities, doubts, fears, reassurances we sort-of grow up. Yet very few of us accept that it was the mind that touched through the years of survival while the heart was still a kid (jumping in the park to get on its favorite ride). I have seldom allowed myself to be captured by dusty dreams of the past. Mostly, because they helped me stay sane and did not allow me to tread further and be adventurous. Each phase that flowered came with a gush of emotions. Sometimes, I was taken by surprise while at times was contented with what I had. Yet, there was a pixelated feeling of non-belongingness. It did not just occur out of nowhere but from the series of unspoken and unexplained mishaps that I still try to mentally answer. The best solution was to either make people my teachers or regard them as mentors. They might just release me from my mental fetters. Or maybe not.
This question-answer trial has forever resided in one part of my brain and knocks time and again searching for explanations. In the pursuit to fill in the blanks, I managed to forge time-specific deals with strangers. They would let me into their world and in return cause/frame marks that would probably never heal. Little did I realize that these marks will eventually heal and develop into sharp blades. Most of us think that the past is a memory that can either be forgotten or pushed aside. The crumbling truth states that no matter how often we push memories under the carpet and control the mind to leak the vivid flavors of each, it is humanly impossible.
The lost years continue to teach me this lesson. Placing trust within those who reflect our misery is probably the only tool we are familiar with. For those who still stand the test of diplomacy continues their struggle to survive sanely. Most of the teen years passed by in confusion and willingness to learn, unlearn and relearn. And yet today, after a decade I’m still haunted by the question of ‘did my deals fall through?’. With the hope, that their answers will be revealed over time and spill-over seconds.