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Bartender! Pour me a shot of drama…

Every now and then, someone’s casual remark sets off a thought in your head. Well that happened to me recently. A colleague often casually accuses me of “loving drama” although I haven’t liked to be associated with the word for the longest time because of my myopic understanding of the word. But one evening, it triggered off a bout of introspection.

In my limited world view, I had put drama as a negative connotation. The dictionary defines it as an interesting or intense conflict of forces leading to interesting situations. Blame it on some childhood trauma and an unhealthy, emotional roller coaster ride of a teenage relationship, my aversion to drama and conflict had become overpowering. I had evolved into this person who had started to slowly slot “feeling” into drama, constantly over-rationalizing everything into logical conclusion. Read emotionally stunted.

I spent years watching couples fight, throw things at each other, stay up at night fighting, heard of a woman who burnt her cheating boyfriend’s crotch (he had it coming), abusive relationships – all the time rolling my eyes at the drama. I had become short sighted to not include the drama that brought a smile to someone’s face at the most random moment, the drama that kept two souls up at night sharing memories, dreams and laughter. I had missed the drama in the ecstatic joy felt in both giving and receiving a surprise from a loved one, I had missed the drama in the tears shed when you get separated from a loved one. I had missed the drama in feeling butterflies in my stomach. I had successfully locked myself away into a completely left brained existence. I had stopped feeling. And I had been stupid enough to take pride in that. How can you “over-think” “feeling”? Don’t ask me how but I did it and I applauded it not realizing how handicapped I was making myself.

A writer’s soul was the universe’s gift to me, the pure torture of detached attachment to everything and nothing. People have intrigued me always, what makes them, what breaks them, what makes them tick and what makes them want to rise again. I have fancied myself free-spirited, adventurous and fun-loving. But I would carefully drop the “dramatic” tag, even when I was. Avoidant much?

I had gone from hopeless romantic to the gloomy cynic under a façade of sardonic humor. But one can never defy one’s true nature. The universe makes sure of that. In retrospect, even at my most cynical moments, I have always attracted drama, in the friends I have made, the people I have wanted, the people who have wanted me. The bunch I truly call friends in my life are a passionate, spontaneous, adventurous, authentic and dramatic bunch – each in his or her own way. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world, quite a handful as they may be, they are magnificent. While I have hidden behind rational practicality for the longest time, when I look back I have been the happiest when I have done something spontaneous, made a “dramatic” gesture or such like because it made me feel something. I have been the truest to my real nature in those moments far and few as they may have been.

But of late, everyone has become a stickler about playing it cool and being chill in friendships and relationships or you are doing it wrong. In a day and age where the one who cares less is winning, who is doing the loving? Where is the real overwhelming passion that moves mountains? What follows is a soul less generation of degenerate debauchery, swiping on a screen, wanting to be held and touched by a stranger who they feel no connection to because hey who wants the drama of having someone who actually gives a f***out of fear of being hurt. And loneliness they can’t seem to shake off. But they will be too cool to admit it as well. I tried to play that game which grew old quickly. I got B-O-R-E-D.

And then it dawned on me. In a time, where we are all grasping at straws to maintain a semblance of sanity by withdrawing into fearful loneliness, projecting facades, pretending to fit in, it is revolutionary to be honest with the world and yourself, to be authentic enough to embrace one’s own demons is dramatic, genuine caring and effort without expectation from another is dramatic. Being real is dramatic. Being real is acceptance, an ability to balance the emotional with the rational, to feel. Finding genuine connection and investing in that no holds barred is dramatic.

I am done trying to fit in. I am done denying my true nature. I want the happiness I feel with spontaneity, adventure, the passion and the ecstasy and I don’t want mellow and boring. If it comes with a little hurt, hell one shouldn’t sell oneself short, survived so far didn’t I? As long as no one is getting literally get burnt or being emotionally manipulated, am with the drama. I am all for the drama, unapologetically. Because if one doesn’t allow oneself to get hurt, one won’t allow oneself to truly love and be truly loved in return as a friend, as a sister, a daughter and a lover.

It’s worth taking a chance for and all that drama. I never did fit in anyway. Also nothing feeds the writer’s soul like a dose of drama. That’s what the dramatic ones tell me anyway! 😉

Embrace the chaos. Embrace the authenticity. Embrace the madness. Embrace the Drama.

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The Struggle…

“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”
–Cyril Connolly

Several drafts later- written, incomplete, saved and others trashed- I gave up on the exercise and accepted humbly that the  previously complacent thought that writing comes to one naturally was the misconception of an unevolved mind . Writing is indeed a very conscious and planned effort- at least writing that makes sense. But I wasn’t prepared to be defeated.

Then a random conversation later with someone about my inability to write, armed with a simple piece of advice- “start writing and see what you come up with”- I sat to type away. However, it was not as seamless and effortless I had imagined the exercise to be. It took several cups of coffee, many short breaks, various distractions I hate to admit it mostly welcome, to pen this one down. Several sittings later, a lot of music, random articles and separate unrelated conversations I sat back determined to finish this piece. The mind sure does have a mind of its own. And there I go diving into randomness yet again. It then struck me that my wish to write and to make some sense was my biggest incentive. My biggest fear intellectual stagnation, this inability to write. What could be a better idea for a blog post and so I write about my struggle to write.

Ideas need to stem from some kind of stimuli, need time to germinate and time is the luxury of the affluent. When one is struggling to make a career, to prove a point, for sustenance, to survive, to pay bills and the kind, for ideas to grow and evolve and also culminate to something that remotely makes sense to an external entity is next to an impossibility. The mind is a funny place. Or should I say entity… I don’t know for sure at the moment. I started the blog in an attempt to pour out my heart and my mind only to find I had nothing or sometimes no time to put something worthwhile. Read a lot, spent nights wondering what to write about, talked to people, regular bloggers, prospective readers asking them what they would like to read about and so on and so forth. But then nothing I had any conviction about materialized. I had become lost on the way somewhere of my true purpose. Sitting down to think, I realized that I had not really thought this through. It seemed harmless enough to start the blog. But then it made me think of the bigger picture, of things around me, making me conscious and aware to my surroundings, hoping for some kind of trigger, a miracle. Every little incident, every conversation I had, every scene that would evoke an emotion, a reaction, I investigated deeper. I was grasping at straws.

My dear wish to write had suddenly heightened all my senses and pushed my already hyperactive brain to the brink of chaos as every sensation comes plummeting in. My urge to write makes me suddenly aware of every thing, so much it runs the risk of becoming a flaw. Often accused of over-thinking every situation if there is any such thing, I realize to develop a writer’s consciousness, apathy has to go out the window, and an honest wish makes one earnest and sensitive without any ulterior intentions.

I have run out of things to say but I have managed to say something and have also arrived at a conclusion that I had not been aware of- I write not for others, not for recognition nor distinction.This struggle is self imposed. I write for myself to set free my thoughts and perceptions. I write for ME… I hope I never lose sight of that again!

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