A Break

a single manly tear rolls down my paper smooth skin yO MOMMA

I will be taking a break. From blogging that is (and just social media and writing and anything that brings me joy in general? except going biking at the local national park because ey monsoon’s here and everything is green–i saw a fawn playing with a baby monkey and a peacock dancing during a light drizzle and a turtle maybe communicating with a bird and okay so maybe I’m not giving up everything that brings me joy).

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Not that very many people would care or even notice but in case some poor unfortunate soul stumbles by for the first time in a couple months and wonders why there isn’t any recent stuff, this blog isn’t dead just resting. Feel free to click over to some of the older stuff while you’re deprived of any new content.

Not like doing this will even make any difference, seeing how normally I posted maybe once in two months anyway (barring the last couple recent stress-infused months).

But yeah I’m taking a break, albeit reluctantly, but I gotta keep reminding myself this is all in favour of achieving something I want to do. Which is to go to med school. Which I hopefully will next year if I work hard enough.
I’m taking a drop year to prepare for the pre-medical tests and I’ve been known to be distracted by this platform instead of studying so it is probably for the best, even if it will take some getting used to.

I won’t enjoy it but hey this something I want to do so gotta make sure I do end up doing it instead of, to quote internet sensation, faniel towell, “procrastinate on our one shot at existence”.

Whoop-de-do.

 

giphy2

Yours Truly,
Simran

p.s. rice has the prettiest of the plant scientific names: Oryza sativa, as does the sweet pea: Lathyrus odoratus 

p.p.s. rice + Arabidopsis thaliana were among the first plant genomes to be sequenced before the Human Genome Project.

p.p.p.s. carrots were originally purple.

And that concludes your botany lesson for today. Tune in same time next year for some juicy deets on the rich and famous from the sorta-journal I will maybe kinda hopefully keep while away.

Or Burn This Out

 

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I’m not lazy. I’m not.

But how do you explain to someone you can’t manage normal life when you can barely even dredge up the motivation to breathe, or eat; or not be so miserable you’ve crossed the point of comfort and simply rearranged atoms to make space until it’s firmly woven into you.

How do you even begin to tell somebody you can’t even manage to regulate your own happiness, that you haven’t been able to do that for years, that every time it comes back, it’s a little stronger and a lot more familiar and not any less easier.

“I’m sad” sounds equal parts overdramatic and gross understatement and so so silly but it’s the truth and how do you tell someone you feel like an absolute failure for it but you just can’t right now, you can’t.

How do you even hate yourself a little less? Cut yourself some slack? ‘Cause you can see it logically  sure, but mind and practice are two different things and both are out of commission lately and you need to get it together, this is an important year but you can’t. You’ve barely been holding it together for 3 months and then the universe decides to go ahead and screw you over a little more as if you need any more reason to be pathetic and sad and pathetic and it is so silly it’s laughable–if every laugh didn’t sound forced and fake and empty, like you were shredding up your lungs just to torture it into giving up that basic, basic sound.

Tone down the self-loathing, man. It gets old.

Anyway, point is all of it sounds like I’m just making excuses but I’m not. I want to be able to just function and I want to not be such a flipping mess, and I want  to be able to explain it to you in terms less weak and confusing. But I can’t.

I can’t get out of bed, and it’s such a fricking cliché, and I can’t find it in myself to care, I can’t keep telling myself this isn’t happening and that I’m good when I can feel it heavy and thick and blistering all around me and it’s so amazingly pitiful and I am so done.

I say sad and I say miserable but there are different kinds, like when your dog dies and it sucks but that kind of sadness is one that grows inside you, born of healthy feelings and normal responses, warm and not nearly as self-destructive and then there is the kind that descends over you like a blanket that you wrap around yourself in ways you can’t remember later until it feels like it’s just spun itself into your skin, a physical barrier between you and everything around you, filtering out everything until all that’s left is shades of muted grey and crimson–and why crimson where does that even come from and grey is such a fricking cliché — and it’s foreign and alien and familiar and what does one even say to that.

It is so messed up to describe any sort of sadness as flippin’ “warm” of all things but I speak in relative terms. It’s warm in the way the lump that surges up in your throat eventually goes away, and your eyes may be scratchy but you feel like you’ve been scrubbed clean, like there is a new day and the last one sucked, sure, but this one doesn’t have to. It’s warm in the way that you don’t find yourself drained and empty and pathetic, but just upset and exhausted while being secure in the knowledge that it’s temporary. It’s warm in a way the other kind of sadness isn’t, in a way that doesn’t leave you satisfied and avenged when you don’t eat or get out of bed or attempt to make things better for yourself. It’s warm in a way that doesn’t compel you to self-sabotage in ways nobody else notices.

The other kind is just plain cruel. Shaky hands and dim rooms and self-loathing.

I’m not lazy, I’m not making excuses, I’m just incredibly, terribly off.

(And I am sorry, I am, but I don’t know how to fix it)

 

Yours Truly,

sign-off

 

P.S I haven’t been around for a while and I apologize for that. I also apologize for coming back just to post this depressing thing but I really needed to just get it out. Thank you for putting up with it.

 

Poshlust

It was while reading ‘Reading Lolita in Tehran’ that I came across the word poshlust. A Russian writer, Nabokov explained that it: “is not only the obviously trashy but mainly the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever, and the falsely attractive”

Poshlust.

That what our lives are. Poshlust.

Or at least, that’s what we think it is. Why else must we think about Hell and Heaven? Why do we insist on giving our death undue relevance? Some believe in seven lives; reincarnation. Others believe that the real life starts after our death, when we enter the Afterworld. Basically, we’ve decided that the “life” we’re living now is never going to measure up—never going to be enough. We just can’t deal with the fact that this is it.

Oh you never went on that cruise, grandma? Don’t worry, living life frugally has guaranteed you a place in Heaven! Have fun in the Divine Caribbean!

But you know what is really poshlust? The afterlife.

We go through the life we’re currently living thinking that it will affect the next life—which may, or may not exist. Don’t get me wrong, my intention is not to offend any faith, I just don’t see why we should let what happens after our death hold us back from doing the things we want to before our death…Frankly I do not believe in a Hell, I do not believe in a hateful, vengeful God—these qualities are not be coveted in any mortal beings, and yet, it is completely okay for the Creator to have them? How in the world does that make sense? I don’t see how we get to dictate what is right and what is wrong…is a child really going to be fried in Hell just because she went to bed two hours late, or lied to her mum about that last cookie?

Carpe diem, people! Carpe diem.

“Man is the only animal who enjoys the consolation of believing in a next life; all the other animal enjoy the consolation of not worrying about it”

On a lighter note…

High school? Poshlust.