It has almost been a year and a half since the last post on instagram was published – let that thought sink in: a year and a half. Things have changed much but during that year, they still peculiarly remain the same – it is almost as if there is a pattern: autumn is followed by winter, spring is followed by summer. Though things strangely enough do change, they still follow a motif of change; it is as if that change is done in such precision that only boasts of it being programmed. However, as I have realised, it is not a matter of dooming fate but of anguishing habits and familiar neural pathways. We, thus, stick to a mundane routine, a script of some kind. Needless to say, it appears as if it is rather strenuous to break free from that script. Strenuous but not impossible.
As far as Instagram is concerned, when I first started writing there was a story I wanted to share: not necessarily a story that was my own but a story that involved the people around me, the places that shaped me and inspired me. Nevertheless, there came that point in my life when I decided to be a reader (once a reader always a reader) and only write for my own personal benefit: those writings took form of unintelligible hieroglyphics on napkins and notebooks – but nothing that was formidable or something that I would consider of importance.
Writing is daunting in itself and narrating events from a very biased, very subjective perspective of a twenty year old seemed to me almost superfluous and unnecessary. In spite of that, writing – that is writing that exposes us to an audience of readers – is one that aids communication; you write because you have to say something. You don’t have to define that something – it most likely takes many forms but it remains within, gnawing and pestering. And yet, when the thought is finally released unto the paper, you feel as if you have not quite done it justice. What did I have to say that my favourite writers hadn’t already said and worded in a manner much more eloquent than I was capable of? Upon such sentiments, however, an innocent thought sprouted: it was not necessarily about saying something new but sharing the conundrums of experience – of exploring youth and the self battling against a nicely fabricated reality by hegemonies and ideologies. Because writing is sharing, writing is attempting to communicate to souls that you have not even met, to souls that you may never even meet but you wish you knew.
The story I want to share is not one of morality, but one of beauty – though it may seem like the former is one of my many themes. Even if I indulge in preaching a morality, it is one far different from the conventional one: it is acknowledging the irrationality that adorns our world, acknowledging that the evils of this world arise from our very own unsettling consternations. I did not want my story to turn a blind eye to whatever evils bloom in the human mind but confront them and still attempt to see the beauty of this world. Flowers still grow, and that is a comforting thought.
And yet, you may ask, what about this picture?
That is me being dragged into the woods on the first of January, or running away from my dissertation research and immerse in something that I often ran to for solace: nature. There is something utterly irresistible about the frosty dew and the ivy embracing the trees, the small streams, the sun piercing through the leaves and reflecting unto the small puddles of water, the slips along the glistening rocks and attempting -as well as failing- to capture a moment on a polaroid.
This is exactly why – at the moment – this (just like a polaroid) works so perfectly for the story I am trying to tell: hopefully, a picture will — along with the writing — convey a moment that is so dear to me. But don’t be fooled: there will more often be references to the past than to the present; the present is still so fresh and unripe in my mind that is like eating a green banana: not all that much of a pleasant experience.
And here is a scary but beautiful thought: this is the youngest we will ever be. Our skin will not maintain its feathery softness and our features will be engraved with the passing of time but the gleam in our eyes will speak of a greater adventure; one that entails self-realisation and attempting to make the world better through our very small and not so very important beings. This year is not one of new year, new me; it is one of still being you, finding you, embracing you, and developing you.