In An Elevator By Myself
17th October 2024
(A boring Thursday of the trimester break)
Some days are grey. They are for introspection and
feeling like you’re stuck in an elevator with yourself. Everything else
happening around you feels like generic elevator music. You know it’s there and
that you’re listening to it because you’re in the elevator but you’re not
really paying any attention to it. Today feels like that. I am at work and
doing inane work related things on the side, but the self-reflection is heavy,
and it has easily pushed everything else to the brink of insignificance.
What is it that am I trying to fix in my life with other stuff?
What is missing in my life currently?
Why do I feel the need to be validated by boomers even
though I know they are not the authorities on life or living?
Have I forgotten the art of constantly working and
being on top of assignments and work?
Has the existential dread got so bad that I need to
constantly chase escape mechanisms to give myself a momentary high?
What happened to the singer, the painter, the writer,
the dancer and the movie viewer in me?
Why do I feel like my current life is more like a
comfortable lull? Objectively, it’s a good life that I am leading right now.
But there is a sense of
uncertainty that looms over it like an obstinate rain cloud. It floats above, no
drops of rain yet; but it floats above casting a film of darkness, obscuring the
sun and creating a worry in my head as to when it will become a deluge and
engulf me in it.
Life seems like a collection of smaller units that individually seem comfortable
and convenient or atleast overall manageable. In reality, they are disjointed
units connected to me through distinct threads. They stand apart while being linked radially. It feels like I may never have it all together as a single
unit.
There is a yearning for a certain level of stability. Even though the lull
seems stagnant and comfortable, it is only a temporary phase. It’s hard to
shake off these anxieties.
There’s also a kind of nagging feeling that in
reaching out or connecting with my own family, I am self-inviting or imposing
myself on their time and space. It’s an uneasy feeling to reconcile with. It is
weird to candidly ask about this and get an honest answer, because I am afraid
that I would then plant that idea in their heads and will a self-fulfilling
prophecy into existence.
This was an attempt to introspect as I often
find thoughts themselves to be an unclear and tangled mess. The act of writing is a process of untangling my thoughts and feelings. It is
sometimes therapeutic. It helps me make sense of my confused mix of thoughts
and feelings, sometimes. But today, even writing is not helping. Yes,
it has clarified the problem, but alas, there is no solution in sight.
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