Tuesday, November 25, 2014


She found herself like an eighteen-year old again, getting lost in the corridors of the buildings, moving past pillars and bulletin boards, trying to find her way to class.

Only to quickly find a way out once she got there.

She was constantly running, looking for something, looking for an outside.  Always guided by a shifting focus, she went where it took her, exploring abandoned cowsheds and unearthing hidden wells among the paddy fields.

There was excitement then, a curiosity, a yearning, a thirst. A rush of energy that exploded in a mad mix of creative satisfaction, surging hormones and stimulated nerve endings. 
That was then. And maybe, like all our stories, it ultimately fell to clichés.

Six years later, she found herself being held together by everyday routines, circumstances, and things to do. She was drifting through the days...
Drifting. Another cliché.

This time, she was too listless to question, less curious, less excited, less trusting.
Just hungry, searching.

This time, she was not so much pushing for meaning as she was pushing for more.

She was tired now… she had been tired for some time. She packed her days, as always, like a suitcase overflowing with things of perhaps not much importance but which kept her sane, nonetheless. 

Back then, she had found solace in the hills. She loved the feel of the burning sun on her palms as she'd place her hands on the rocks in the midday heat. It seemed to take away the unease, the overload, and seemed to burn it away. Once she'd reach the top, she'd heave a sigh of relief and sit down, to watch the beetles dig into the mud and the leaves laze on the trees.
She hated the concrete. She craved for the new. She craved change.
She travelled. She walked through busy city streets, empty forest paths and sat on cross-country trains. She wrote. She drew. Story after story, comic after comic, on atm slips, on pretty notebooks, on Photoshop.

Work was a distraction. It filled a big chunk of the day, and paid the bills. Sitting in a box, within the limits of her cubicle, it caged her, yet in a strange way, it allowed her to escape. 
The more she wrestled to get away, the deeper the routine pulled her in.

It was like music. Structured and patterned, yet the very pattern allowing for a flow, begging freedom.

The music got louder and louder, the riff penetrating her bones, reaching a shattering crescendo before a ear-splitting hush.

It was an old trick that musicians used. Everyone knew it was the pauses that mattered, the in-betweens. It worked, every time. 
In the silence, she found a grip, all over again, on a nearby rock, as she scrambled up. 

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