My happiest place

If heaven could be the time and the place in your lifetime where you have been the happiest, I would die and wake up in that tiny room of that house that doesn't even exist anymore. That bed too small even for one where you and I used to lie intertwined in each other. The kisses that would last forever or at least as long as entire songs. Where laughter was easy and the tears came from realizing that what we were feeling was so much love it was too much to bear without breaking down from gratitude or the fear of losing it all.
I can still remember those afternoons, when I found excuses to leave my house, only to come to that room to be with you. Those few hours lasted so long, seeing you for a couple of days a weeks filled my heart to the brim. Nothing else mattered in those moments. The world outside did not exist for two lovers, children at best, locked in the last embraces of love.
Before all the darkness, before all the pain would engulf you. And then come for me as well.

I miss you so much. I don't have anything that reminds me of you. I destroyed everything in a fit of rage, not knowing that one day I would give anything to just have one of those letters, a small trinket, anything that reminds me of you, of us. I would give anything to touch you again, your "revenge of the nerds" haircut, your geeky glasses... for me you were the most beautiful boy I had ever set my eyes on. I don't even know when and where I lost you, when love ceased to be enough, how the outside world crept into that room and blew everything to smithereens. Maybe when that house was demolished, we left our souls there, still entangled in each other, while we went about the world being grown ups, having grown up problems, never knowing love like that again.
I'd give anything to be in that room again, with you. Lie in that bed and bury my face in your arms. This time I will never ever look at the clock or say that I have to leave. This will always be my happiest place. A place that does not even exist anymore except in my memories.

Idenitity Crisis

I am confused, or maybe depressed; or both. I don't know what I am doing with my life. I am in my thirties and I have no clue what I want to do with my life, my career is depressing, my personal affairs even more so. Most of my friends are in the same boat when it comes to relationships and family matters, but almost all of them have at least figured out what they want to do for a profession. I can't say the same for me. I changed track 2 years ago, decided to go into research instead of clinical practice, but over these two years I haven't found satisfaction in this career choice either. The daily routine, the need for round the clock dedication of headspace does not agree with me. I think I have written this same post some time back, in between I have tried to work harder on what I am doing but it didn't bring me any satisfaction. I am too inclined towards the arts to completely immerse myself in science. I need an artistic release. I was going to art classes to keep my painting habit alive, but the circumstances ended that phase this month. Now I am unsure whether I will be able to carry on painting or whether it's the end, those beautiful canvases will just sit gathering dust for me to look at them and feel even more unhappy at how I have let my life go down paths I didn't even want to tread. I want to have the motivation to come back home from work and sit with a canvas but I doubt that I will, since I have given up on everything unless I was forced to keep doing it. Last time I had quit the art classes because I was too depressed to do anything, I could hardly get out of bed. Rejoining the classes and starting painting again had been a step towards recovery. But ever since I started working in my current position, I have been finding it more and more difficult to sustain the weekly art sessions. And moreover, what I was painting was not even from the heart, it was skilled alright, and very beautiful, but it did not have my voice. I want to paint for myself, to find my voice in the brush at last, but with the extremely demanding phase of starting a career in scientific research, I am afraid I will just lose whatever connection I had with art completely. I don't even have the dedication and the drive that some people in my current profession have. If they are the ones who are supposed to "make it" in this line of work and I cannot even put in the effort and hard work it takes to "make it" as an artist, where do I stand? A wasted, mediocre life? Realizing at the fag end of your life that you have wasted all your time doing things that never made you happy and that you have no more time or energy left to do those things anymore? I never wanted to end up that way. But if I am too afraid to take risks, too lazy to work hard on the things I believe in, then that is how I will end up. 

Writers' Block

I wish I could write again
That's the only thing I have ever wanted to do. But the words just don't flow so easily anymore. There is no inspiration. I don't know how some scientists are also such excellent writers. It itches and burns inside of me, but I cannot write a line of poetry like I used to some 7 years back. I don't know why I stopped. I used to blame it on the lack of appreciation, but that was just me being whiny. I know that I have never cared much about who reads what I write, in fact I don't want to put my personal stuff out in the open for people to interpret me through it. I deleted all of my old writing and poetry because it felt too private, too many rants, giving away too much. I have met so many people who used to read my writing and most of them have been very appreciative, even going to the extent of telling me that those words left a lasting impact on them. I have tried to write, being inspired by the encouraging words, but nothing just comes anymore. There is just a blank where I used to draw it all from. Maybe it's life that happened. I found out the hard way that everything is pointless, nothing makes any sense. When I want to write, I find it meaningless to express my feelings since those feelings don't amount to anything at all. Poetry is the most difficult thing to write because poetry takes passion and that is the one thing that has disappeared completely from my existence. How can you find passion when you are always thinking about the inevitability and unpredictability of death, the futility of human existence and the fleeting transience of all human emotion? When you truly come to believe that someone created humanity as a thought experiment and that you as an individual are insignificant to everyone in the world apart from yourself and your family in this world of billions, can you even create a thing of beauty around the petty and mundane things that happen in your life everyday? Like someone giving you attention, or not giving you attention, and the whole spectrum of emotions that the receipt or denial of attention induces in the human mind. It is beautiful when someone does, but I cannot be one of them anymore, I know too much.
Still I wish that I could write. Write stories maybe. Stories still make sense even in our empty lives, in fact stories are all we have to fill our empty lives with. I have always been engrossed by fiction, almost wanted to live my life as a work of fiction, so many people I know still live their lives that way and they are the ones still writing passionate poetry, good for them. I cannot get started on a story, I won't know where to finish. So I just keep this need to write suppressed and write bad blog posts when it gets too much to tolerate. Sometimes I think I'll write a book of my twisted philosophy. But a nihilist's philosophy ends in just a few lines. So it won't really be a book... just a flyer maybe. I will stand in a corner and hand them out to people, who will then throw them on the street, and everything will soon be a mess. Quite the reflection of life.

Love and Fear

The world around us instills fear in us. And fear is what prevents us from truly being at peace with our existence. Learning to let go of fear is the hardest thing to do because fear is ingrained in us, it is a natural reflex. Don’t go to unknown places, don’t go into the darkness, don’t be alone… it gets accumulated in us by the things that we have been told by others and the things that we have experienced ourselves. But if you don’t go to unknown places you might never find the most beautiful place you’ve ever been. If you don’t go into the darkness, you might never find the thing that you’ve been looking for. Why should we let go of things that could make our existence worth the while for the fear of living in pain for the maximum of a lifetime, which must eventually end. In the course of having plans for the future we forget the limitation of mortality. Fear is not the essence of love. To really love you must open yourself to the possibility of pain. And without love life is just empty.