There I was, soaked in the mayhem of my conflicting thoughts, strolling down the street and rummaging a meaningful point to stop at.
Kathmandu, as always, looked busy, and all I wanted at the moment was a magical wand that could make them shut up – the gossiping girls behind me, the babbling going-to-be-politicians ahead of me, the unnecessarily loud announcements of a lucky draw from a corner and the competitive horns so abundantly spread in air. The loudest of them all was, of course, inside my own little box in my head. And I could tell it wasn’t going to be spellbound by any magic or any distractions; because it had so stubbornly occupied my core I could bet demagnetizing my voices inside was as tough as bottling up feelings.
No, it hadn’t been a fair day. Not at all. Sleepless nights for the last few weeks and all day long all I get is some freaky response? A mere glimpse and an “ok”? I’d been giving all of me for that stupid problem, had been trying to be as much helpful as I could. As if it was some kind of do-or-die thing. And I’d counted on it to pay back, counted on people to be a little thoughtful before jumping into any conclusion. Some part of me said that it didn’t actually matter, because in the end of the day it is no one else but you who has to evaluate yourself and since you know what you’ve gone through, things will end up fairly. The next me grumbled that things are never as simple as that. You just can’t color things with your favorite color even if you own them. Your choices, you evaluations, your verdict apply only to yourself. And then there’s this unavoidable aspect of reality: whether you agree or not, the rest of the world judges you too. And why shouldn’t it matter when their judgments can bring changes to your life? A simultaneous and apparently diplomatic voice was crying to be heard too. It moaned what all of that internal chaos was for when it was all over, so over. Well, because it bugged me to be feeling like I was chanting some soliloquy with no one to answer my endless questions, no one to reason my unremitting complaints. The voices wouldn’t cease to go against one another and I doubted I had a single set of ears.
They said it was no big deal. I had handled an issue. I was done with my part of the job. And if people weren’t free enough to reach the depths of your true involvement, you still hadn’t lost anything. No big deal. But what about all the discouragement it showered on me? What about the reluctance to start a new course, just because there was always something called “luck” with a gravity of its own? What about the things I missed because I was so engrossed with that one thing? I had neglected all the other planets and stars to focus on the sun and the sun had left without a warning. How could I reassemble my solar system?
I sound so melodramatic. That’s what they say. They complain why I am so complaining. Hey, hey, everybody’s appreciation is not what I’m fighting for. But a little more consideration isn’t much of a big expectation, is it?
And here I am, still thinking about it. Call it ‘an over-thinking-disorder’, a phrase termed by few of my pals. All of those few just chuckled at my words, with an expression I haven’t succeeded translating yet. It was something like a mockery, a blurry sympathy, disagreement or a mixture of all of them.
So, of all people, counselors and psychiatrists, I choose no one but take to writing it in a scrap of paper. And because it doesn’t speak back or produce any expression I wouldn’t want to face, I give it no fragmented or edited version but a complete truth. It gives me back silence and my personal assumption that its silence speaks for its willing acceptance, at least, makes me smile at the end of the day – the plain reason why I write. Exactly why I write. And I know, unlike all those minds blinded by suspicious surveillance, it will again accept that the set of words ‘Why I write’ is not a plagiarism but a coincidence, won’t you?