My self in myself

Everybody who has seen me has remarked."Talkative. Bites my head off. Chatterbox. Is there a way of ending a conversation with you?" I've adroitly replied with a glint of pride even, "Nope." What no one has and no one ever might see, is the monstrous dichotomy that I am. I am pretention. A self-taught savant at performance. What others see are mere heaps of dust on the hard snakewood that protects 20 years of hurt. Of silent crying, of voluptuous,volcanic rage, of anguished whimpering, blow by blow, left and right, black and blue. For disobedience, for being a burden, a leech sucking on my single mother's blood, sweat and toil. Vehement journaling, infuriated writing through the wee hours of nights after a hurtful beating.Dancing like a hybrid of a psychotic mystic surviving on psychedelics and an austere dancer training rigorously. Singing like I'm under that magnificent spotlight streaming those beams of light on me that is my ticket to attention.The undivided attention that I yearn for, at the meeting place between my audience and myself. It's a date, with set expectations. A mutual benefit scheme. I shall give you all of me, and you shall admire me...blindly...subserviently, and let go of me the moment I think it's time to do so. The adulation I crave, the race for admiration that I can never win. It's consuming. I am famous here, I've made it. I have it all. I'm on a hedonistic trip, which may well be a recipe for depression once I hit the ground, but the fall before, Oh! the fall before...I'm willing to let my entire being break and explode into a million pieces just to fall into the nothingness I can see. My life has been lived forever with hope. Hope that shall make my dreams come true and even if they don't, I can continue living my unlived life of fame and flawlessness. I shall continue to stomp the floor in rage during my dance, scream in despair while bellowing a Dutch levenslied in woe. And write, write to organize my ideas, write to make sense of the apathy and the hurt, write to vaporize the fuming black coal boiling in my body, write to be proud of myself, write to comfort, to soothe, to assuage the pain. All this might pass, or it might not. Maybe the dormancy of the volcano might be replaced by the eruptions of another. Maybe I might have to live like I'm hanging onto the edge of a cliff. To let go or not to let go, being the only question worth answering. I'm choosing to hold on for dear life.



An accountancy and finance student, who writes to live an unlived full-time writer's life. Writing has been cathartic for me, the only thing that propels me to ingest my life experience, with all the generosity I am capable of, to let it flow out as verbiage. Music, dance and playing the veena are my other outlets for creative experience.

Kris PradComment