what is it,
they ask,
that bothers you?
It is nothing... it is always that
nothing.
Yes, I know it is outdated and all, to
still get existential, to still wonder about the meanings, the emptiness, the
nausea. The eng-lit. college graduate existential anxiety should saturate into
matured and practiced cynicism by now, no? Still, it is a daily ritual for me
to wake up and wonder the why, the what, the before, the after! In fact, today
I spent the late morning stuck to the bed, just wondering. Yes, it is a
privilege to have this kind of time at hand (but, in my defense it stems from
my line of work), to not be forced to do anything, and I agree that it may not
even be an option for many and even for me at most times. But the fact remains
I do it at times and use it to introspect. It is mentally exhausting, it is
frustrating. It continues till it lasts, then it continues again.
What bothers me is that there is no space
for this kind of expression. We are so surrounded by the
"quantifiable" (I borrow from a friend) that this just slips through
the cracks. Would an emoticon saying "Feeling existential" do the
trick? I hope not, as with this optional data, another limit would be imposed.
One would still choose between the choice of this or that. It is no longer
about sadness, hurt, etc. It is about that realization that your voice does not
get registered anywhere, there are no witnesses, there is only you, surrounded
by a sea of nothingness! I can already feel people's patience wearing thin, it
sits on the nape of my neck ready to crack into a "That's enough about
this man, there are so many other kinds of suffering that are more real"
Anyhow, I shall attempt to brave that nasty perched up beast and still rant as
this suffering makes me me and I choose to speak about something I know. We
keep ourselves surrounded with people, things, distractions so as to avoid this
realization. The spaces around us leave no scope for this. Yes, I make it
spatial, as for me certain spaces allow for expressions/introspection like
this, while most don’t. Perhaps a bus ride, or a train journey, when am forced
to be with my thoughts would be one. But, then again distractions colonize all
spaces.
The fact of the matter is that while we
are surrounded by the excess of meanings, which explode everywhere, infest
everything... I feel that there is no space where one can talk about
meaninglessness. Maybe, the ones who read this don’t think so, but here I
intend to communicate an anxiety that has been tormenting me for some time. It is
an anxiety that has no higher purpose, is completely pedestrian, and faces the
danger of being elitist. This anxiety defines much of what I do and how I
conduct myself. It is an anxiety that no matter what I do, in the landscape of things
that matter, it wont make any dent. Perhaps because I don’t think it matters
enough, and also because the things that seem to matter are so much out of reach. The question hangs perpetually:
Does it count?
The fact that I do realize that nothing
matters and still go on attempting to make meanings out of that deep knowing,
is what remains as something to wonder at. Or perhaps, jumping from one stone
to another, one simply avoids the water in between.
But, maybe it is just me, as I wonder at
the absence of doubt, at the practiced cynicism that blurts out "aisa hi
hota hai", at the inane yet deep desire that someone notices that little
status message disguised in abstraction. I myself feel burdened by the expectation
of writing something moving, something that gets itself noticed, something that
makes one visible, but refuse to be a slave to that practice. Yes, this means
that I experience self-imposed seclusion, but I feel limited by the time-slot
interactions, the prescribed response application, imposition of acceptable
social conduct.
Anyhow, am also trying to get rid of the
rust of not writing about this, and hiding behind poems where I merely touch
upon this constant anxiety, but I wonder at the absence of such voices around
me. It is curious that while people can say they are sad or lost, very few
would dare to admit that they are lonely. One would disguise it behind
valentine's day disgust at card companies, but the question remains, with no
dearth of social interaction facilitators, are we becoming more lonely? Loss
manifests itself into an external entity, where one attributes all its
misgivings, but loss stems from another place within. We struggle to fill it,
nurture it, and become governed by it. A loss of companionship devastates so
much, not because you lose someone, but because our minds and bodies behave as
if a part has been chopped off. This phantom limb haunts the best of us, but I
wonder at its appropriation as a weakness. In the gold rush towards finding
someone/something, the idea of the self gets defined as being empty. It’s the
sub-text that no one talks about. It is that lack that the entities governing
us, impose on us, and we impose on ourselves, that I get anxious with. Perhaps I
should be stronger and more averse, but I again wonder at the incomplete
selves. It may not be finding a companion, but work or family can be seen as
the completing factors. It is a myth of our times, the individual, who remains
a fragmented entity trying desperately to fit somewhere perfectly. One
acknowledges the suffering, then makes peace with it and then continues with
life. But, life’s importance remains unquestioned. The only good enough reason
I see to not terminate it is that it will end someday anyway.
Among other things, I acknowledge today an
anxiety that seems to inflict me, as I struggle to find a way of expression to some
of the things that I observe and experience. Conflicted I am, between trying to
move away from the desire to have witnesses, to writing and expressing to
audiences. But, it is this contradiction that leads to this anxiety that I am
talking about. Being ‘sorted’ is the only acceptable way, or one can display an
eccentricity to evade the normative. But the fact remains that the contradictions
are ignored, the ironies are buried, and picture perfect poses replace it all.
One even learns to aestheticize loss for presentation. The only thing I see that
remains meaningful is perhaps ritual, not an imposed ritual but a personal/community
ritual, and perhaps writing this here is a similar act. But, that needs another entry. Today, I just tried to put a little bit of
myself out there, waiting for a more critical introspection to follow, maybe
some other time!
