Chopped

If I had to describe my life in one word which one I would use? Unpredictable. Yes. Not only the events in my life are so, but I myself can be described with that same word. No wonder I like living in the hills. When your very life is full of innumerable hairpin bends where the hell would you rather go live? Nope, I never puked on a journey through those roads. I belong there. Twists and turns. I revel in the chaos of unexpected. I pick up the pieces of storm and make poetry out of them. No wonder you think I am insane or suffer from some mental disorder. I am not for your average men. Your clause of safety will turn useless in the darkest crannies of the mind that I so proudly possess. So don’t put the blame of your lack of courage on my mind.

So last week I went to the salon and chopped off my oh-so-precious long hair. And I got some discounts for it too. Life is good. No, I did not cry while getting it done. Not for once I closed my eyes. I was sitting there watching my beautiful long mane being handed over to the hairdresser’s assistant. The whole time. And I was chanting to myself under my breath. Isn’t that how you pay respect to the dead? It’s no wonder that shaving one’s head is such an important part when one renounces the old life to become a monk. There is a sense of liberation in getting rid of something so dear to you. I wasn’t renouncing my whole life though; so I stopped at a dangerously short choppy bob. An hour later I walked out of the salon door with a kind of smile on my face that had disappeared for a long time. My head feels lighter. Mind is clearer. Not to mention I am looking seriously good.


Mind is a weird motherfucker. It takes excuses and turns them into reasons. I mentioned in my previous post that I was taking break as I was mourning. To be very honest, I was not sad exactly. Maybe little melancholy was there, but definitely not devastation. And yet I chose to stay hidden from blogosphere. And yet I was rampantly posting on instagram. Excuse you see. Actually I was afraid. I was afraid of blurting out things and being chopped up alive for something I didn’t mean. I was fugitive for a crime I didn’t commit. So I just decided to keep myself surrounded by friends. Friends. I am going to write a separate post on them because giving them just a sub-plot in the story would be so damn unfair. But the entire time I was ill at ease. I was missing writing. Unborn words were kicking to come out. And in the end, I simply chose them over my fear. As I always did in the past.

But still it will take some time to organise the thoughts. So many things are tangled up inside. Good things. Bad things. Happy things. Sad things. Mundane things. Mystic things. I am still having difficulty in the morning. I am still taking little more time to clamber off the bed. Still salty taste of tears is getting mixed up with the mintiness of toothpaste. Still memories are appearing out of the blue knocking the fucking breath out of me. But hey, I am living. Not just surviving. Living. Every moment of it. You see, hairpin bends have always been my favourite kind of adventure.


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