The price that we must pay

amelie

I've questioned it, parried with the thought, and run it through my head bout a hundred times, its hard to digest; that's all. Freedom comes at a heavy price, i'm not regretting, its not a warning. Just a statement, only those prepared to do whatever it takes to get it, the ones who hanker and lust for freedom can live up to that promise. It's not a challenge, its just a way of life. When you want freedom, you gotta establish yourself as worthy of it, not because someone owns your life and you must take their permission and shit, but cuz the world has thorns poking you from unlikely places, which you must be prepared to overcome.
Its better i don't speak abstract. Let's look at it another way, with freedom comes utmost responsibility.
'The more freedom we enjoy, the greater the responsibility we bear, toward others as well as ourselves.'

Oscar Arias Sanchez (1941 - )
Its true, once we deem ourselves unshackled from the chains of other people, any sort of bond, however deeply embodied, we get a lotta freedom, but we also lose their cushioning, the liberality experienced in being wrong once in a while. Its all 'a-long-time-ago' once you get your 'freedom' you have to lose carelessness, in case you wanna be heard and you wanna be taken seriously. Which everybody wants, since they're part of a growing society, which constantly throws questions and expects conscious, well thought of answers. I've undergone, as Hemant puts it, an oceanic change in the last few months. I have changed, from aimless, wandering minstrel - the cute lil bouncy thingy, to this solemn and serious (not all the time though) law aspirant, who wants to write a dissertation on cloning, go to Karwar and Goa during the hols, buy a cellphone, join NUJS next year. All these are goals; some months ago, i disagreed with goals themselves. Talk about change of mind!
I have slowly, after hard times of lobbying and striving, found my freedom. It was here all along, to emancipate myself in my head from all the sources and people who i think hurt me was all i needed to do. And now i have, I have my books, my friends, my hobbies, my 'hubby' (why isn't this a private blog?), my style - everything mine. I've never actually had that, my freedom was finding all that, within myself - and reveling in it.
I read a quote somewhere else, i don't know by whom, but it was lovely, "a person can do whatever he wishes to do, and he doesn't owe anyone anything except to stand by his act" It is so hard, to take up responsibility, to own up - God! ask me, but i've found my weaknesses and masked them, i've found my strengths and consolidated them, i'm still growing, but now in the right direction - not nowhere, but upwards. (god i wish i was being literal)
Nowadays, i'm not questioned as to where i'm going, what i'm doing and who i was with, of course, subject to reasonable restrictions - it makes me happy. I feel good about myself. The only way to shoulder responsibility is to assume it, take any passing chance; you must prove it, if you don't ask you don't get. Demand it, but make sure, when you get it, you know what you want to do with it.
For me, it is just the clarity of thought that i derive from this, not that i want to do something particularly scandalous that i don't wanna explain. I have a reason for everything that i do. And therefore the struggle for freedom. I love my freedom, but the bitch is high maintenance.

Can i say something?

amelie: July 2005

How many times have i asked for a chance?
Unable to prove my worth of deserving it?
how many times has it been denied?
and then, how many more times, will I lose?

How many times have i been told, "its alright" when its not.
It so is not. But i must nod, and blink the tears away.
Why do i secretly fear being labeled crazy? and pretend like i don't?
Am I in my right mind when i think that being different is gonna help from shielding the hurt?

I'm not different. okay? Deal with it.
I'm just the same as every other fucking person.
I want money, independence, and a mate.
Why do i think that wanting different things, will help heal the wound when i'm not able to achieve my normal goals?

I can be so happy. So simple.
We aren't trained to handle complications. We just like to think so.
I don't want to be somebody else, transfering someone's quote to my passion.
I'm not somebody else. Is there a way you can see it?
Is there a way to feel me, really, when you caress my naked body?
Have you found out yet? I don't know. I haven't let myself find out.
I keep fearing i'll pass out from the grief.

there isn't really a poetic sense to this, i just wrote this when i was feeling particularly miserable. Enjoy! Errr...or not, whatever!

without any of this

amelie

Don't even try. Its got a lot of the past; the murky, blackened sooty past. Which gets right back up and slaps me in the face as i struggle to push it out of my brain. Something that stabs me in the stomach just so i realize that it was i who partook. Who said i wasn't playing with real feelings there? who said i wasn't gambling with relationships? But someone who can attempt to throw all that away and look ahead into the sunshine and a new day is immediately targeted. Them being happy is a sin. I hardly understand it. I am trying to be happy, but sometimes it tires me, to behave like the memories aren't strong enough to keep me chained to their replay in my head so many times in the day. Well, you could say i could do with a change in environment; but that's not going to be possible. I'm going to see him, even if i try avoiding him, atleast 4 times a week.
Well, a previous sentence of mine might have led some astray; i wasn't as i said 'playing' with feelings. I was completely immersed in my own too. I made myself vulnerable and readily up for hurt if that was what he wanted. Turns out, a lot of the time, it was.
I wouldn't call myself unlucky. Nosiree. Just not calculative, or sensible enough. And i'm trying to imbibe that in myself. Why the hell isn't it happening?
Because of my past. It's not effective enough trying to wipe it off; i have to instruct myself to live with it. Why oh why, can't he just let me be? And his concern, why? i don't want it! If i want to be bitter, let me be. If you wanna pity me, dare not do it at my face. But do as you please. Just don't plague my mind in this manner... don't eat away at my strength... if i want to stand up, be around and watch me do it, chiding me if i go wrong. I know what i'm doing; i'm no longer clueless or any of those 'cute, lil girly' things I was purported to be. And i'm making it pretty damned clear. Why then? In all probability, your opinion is going to be that this is a mistake. But if it is, i will solve it. Get away from my reach, you hideously protective conniver. i want out. From the past; which is already over, which i'm already out of. This, i guess, is an important lesson. It might be easy to get out of a painful and crazy situation, but getting the situation out of your mind, is more painful and crazy than you can ever fathom. You don't deserve it. Don't let a potentially weak side of you allow any of this to happen. You can live happily, without any of this.

the real thing is

amelie
a lot of people mistake what i really require when i use the term freedom. I need a lot of freedom believe me, sometimes that interferes with other's sense of peace and calm. But that's the way i am, i am irresponsible i am careless, sometimes. And that can totally be an ant crawling up a rigid perfectionist's back.
I had a major scuffle with one of my friends yesterday. She was the kind who would throw all her affection at me. She used to hug, kiss, and cuddle at any given opportunity. I wasn't fine with it after a certain point of time, but somehow felt it would all get okay. I just hadn't defined what okay meant to me. And when i broke her boyfriend's bike indicator, she blew up. This wasn't just another of my mishaps, she said. I'd crossed the line, it was the last straw and i wouldn't be able to get her back if i didn't mend my ways.
Mend my ways - first of all, i didn't see anything wrong

ABOUT A BOY

“if you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds of distance run, yours is the earth and everything that’s in it; and what’s more you’ll be a man my son.” - Rudyard Kipling

It came crashing down with a thundering noise and we girls in the back bench couldn’t contain our giggles…our plan had more than worked! It had excelled!

And Thomas sir still thought it was him; he was staring at him very intently almost as if determined to psychokinetically gouge out those extra large, scary eyes.

‘Scary eyes’ was always like this. He wanted to prove to every teacher that whatever they had in store for him, whatever they wanted him to do was bad for him. And he did not hesitate to show it in every which way.

He kept getting pulled up for numerous reasons about thrice every working day. And he didn’t tire of irking the teachers, believe me, his energy seemed to grow by leaps and bounds after every reprimand.

That fateful morning my friends and I up to our usual antics – we made mischief, though not all the time, and not so blatantly, like we were proud of it; there’s a podium that the teachers usually keep their registers and chalk boxes on top of in our classroom. Before the clang we arranged the podium so that it would fall down if a teacher put even a slight bit of his/her weight on it. And from the time the teacher entered we kept our eyes on his movements but he didn’t look like he was even going to touch the podium.

Meanwhile, ‘scary eyes’ was doling out his wisdom to the rest of his clout, how sir was dimwitted and how bored he felt in class, not in the least bothering to keep his voice low. (I’ve asked him many times why he attends classes if he doesn’t want to listen at all, but he looks at me patronizingly as though it’s something beyond my understanding)

He got pulled up by sir, admonished and was called to the front of the class – at that precise moment he chose to start chewing his gum ferociously; (and through some sudden movement on his part, the podium fell) he was told to go to the library if he wasn’t interested in the class, and scary eyes began to stride back to his place to pack his bags. He was somehow forgiven and made to sit in one of the front benches.

It seemed like the most normal day.

After the lunch break, we heard that ‘scary eyes’ was in the principal’s office – he’d been caught taking a girl’s snap with his friend’s camera cell-phone. That evening, outside the college, he was relating to us what had happened, and his voice was filled with mirth when he laughed and bid us goodbye. Apparently, this was the causa causans after everything else he’d done (after a tiff with a classmate, the classmate had bitten him, so he’d beaten him up) and they’d asked him to leave.

-x-

“The frustration born out of futile complaints must be omitted, and if that isn’t possible, you must channelize it in some manner so it doesn’t prove detrimental to your lifestyle.”

Scary eyes reserved gallons of energy in those eyes, which could scare even professors into recession. His gait would force people to create pathways for him.

I can’t put my finger on it; but he had a Hitler like fanaticism about him, which only a few cool heads could get through. He wouldn’t bedazzle you with pearls of wisdom, he didn’t have ‘a way with words’ – but he made an excellent ringleader.

I just had to write this down. If I would ever write a controversial petition, make a dangerous guarantee – his would be the case.

Mainly because he dared to be different in a world wrought out of originality, delved into boredom, populated with clones; because he chose to give himself a voice, a loud one at that, and scary eyes, instead of directing them at his shoes everytime a teacher made against him a causeless accusation. I’m not saying everything he did was utterly sensible and deserved all the plaudits that can be gathered. Rather, I laugh at this hyperactive tendency of his. But still, he had his trademark, and he held on to it.
If I made an appeal, it would look like this, “We always look for opportunities all over wherein we can be the bigger person, magnanimous and condescending – well, here it is. A passionate, directionless soul daring to question your guidance instead of obsequiously accepting it without a whimper. Answer him. Don’t shy away in fear of the fact that you haven’t bothered to find the answers yourself. Give him the respect that he, by all means, does not deserve. You wouldn’t be talking to a boy any longer; you’d be looking at a man.”

‘Scary eyes’ left on Tuesday.

ABOUT A BOY

“if you can fill the unforgiving minute, with sixty seconds of distance run, yours is the earth and everything that’s in it; and what’s more you’ll be a man my son.”

- Rudyard Kipling

It came crashing down with a thundering noise and we girls in the back bench couldn’t contain our giggles…our plan had more than worked! It had excelled!

And Thomas sir still thought it was him; he was staring at him very intently almost as if determined to psychokinetically gouge out those extra large, scary eyes.

‘Scary eyes’ was always like this. He wanted to prove to every teacher that whatever they had in store for him, whatever they wanted him to do was bad for him. And he did not hesitate to show it in every which way.

He kept getting pulled up for numerous reasons about thrice every working day. And he didn’t tire of irking the teachers, believe me, his energy seemed to grow by leaps and bounds after every reprimand.

That fateful morning my friends and I up to our usual antics – we made mischief, though not all the time, and not so blatantly, like we were proud of it; there’s a podium that the teachers usually keep their registers and chalk boxes on top of in our classroom. Before the clang we arranged the podium so that it would fall down if a teacher put even a slight bit of his/her weight on it. And from the time the teacher entered we kept our eyes on his movements but he didn’t look like he was even going to touch the podium.

Meanwhile, ‘scary eyes’ was doling out his wisdom to the rest of his clout, how sir was dimwitted and how bored he felt in class, not in the least bothering to keep his voice low. (I’ve asked him many times why he attends classes if he doesn’t want to listen at all, but he looks at me patronizingly as though it’s something beyond my understanding)

He got pulled up by sir, admonished and was called to the front of the class – at that precise moment he chose to start chewing his gum ferociously; (and through some sudden movement on his part, the podium fell) he was told to go to the library if he wasn’t interested in the class, and scary eyes began to stride back to his place to pack his bags. He was somehow forgiven and made to sit in one of the front benches.

It seemed like the most normal day.

After the lunch break, we heard that ‘scary eyes’ was in the principal’s office – he’d been caught taking a girl’s snap with his friend’s camera cell-phone. That evening, outside the college, he was relating to us what had happened, and his voice was filled with mirth when he laughed and bid us goodbye. Apparently, this was the causa causans after everything else he’d done (after a tiff with a classmate, the classmate had bitten him, so he’d beaten him up) and they’d asked him to leave.

-x-

“The frustration born out of futile complaints must be omitted, and if that isn’t possible, you must channelize it in some manner so it doesn’t prove detrimental to your lifestyle.”

Scary eyes reserved gallons of energy in those eyes, which could scare even professors into recession. His gait would force people to create pathways for him.

I can’t put my finger on it; but he had a Hitler like fanaticism about him, which only a few cool heads could get through. He wouldn’t bedazzle you with pearls of wisdom, he didn’t have ‘a way with words’ – but he made an excellent ringleader.

I just had to write this down. If I would ever write a controversial petition, make a dangerous guarantee – his would be the case.

Mainly because he dared to be different in a world wrought out of originality, delved into boredom, populated with clones; because he chose to give himself a voice, a loud one at that, and scary eyes, instead of directing them at his shoes everytime a teacher made against him a causeless accusation. I’m not saying everything he did was utterly sensible and deserved all the plaudits that can be gathered. Rather, I laugh at this hyperactive tendency of his. But still, he had his trademark, and he held on to it.
If I made an appeal, it would look like this, “We always look for opportunities all over wherein we can be the bigger person, magnanimous and condescending – well, here it is. A passionate, directionless soul daring to question your guidance instead of obsequiously accepting it without a whimper. Answer him. Don’t shy away in fear of the fact that you haven’t bothered to find the answers yourself. Give him the respect that he, by all means, does not deserve. You wouldn’t be talking to a boy any longer; you’d be looking at a man.”

‘Scary eyes’ left on Tuesday.