anecdotes for no one
fragmented thoughts. poetry for none
The first disillusionment was curfews and constant calls and ticking clocks like bombs. The physicality of space did little to crush into my heavy heart, erratic that this little heaven will snatch itself– that freedom was to be cradled not used, that it was admired and turned around delicately, that to use it would be blasphemy, that to use it was how you lose it. It existed in theory; that you make these choices, that free will dictates you shape your life into any shape you please, that you are entirely crafted with everything you’ve wanted. Yet: life bound itself into four walls after 9pm. Yet: a missed call here, a whisper there. Yet: the distance was only physical, in the sense that I am not in the house I was before.
It was supposed to be a year of change, to turmoil through endlessly vast possibilities, settle on something– it would then transform you, into someone who wants something. The concept of wanting to want something, the wandering eyes and wonder in my smiles, exhilarating, hopping onto everything, life itself a kaleidoscopic vision, shaking itself into new, beautiful paths every day. It was supposed to end at some point, to stop meandering, to fix myself into something solid. Something tethering my new-found freedom, insatiable, wanting it all wrapped around my palm, unravelling perfectly into that flame of purpose. That urge, that supposedly drives inside, burning hot into tangibility.
There was also the matter of acceptance; to read proper feminist literature and have all the correct opinions and advocate change and be articulate and informed. It was something to aspire to, a projection of utopian activism, to have nothing to be learnt upon. I am wrong often, I learn more, I still wish I was thinner ( fleabag, maybe we’re bad feminists). To be a 20-something, have it all figured, to be happy-ish and acutely aware of a late-stage capitalist system and other such oppressive systems actively barrelling dystopias fiction couldn’t manage. Somehow find a place in the working cogs of a system and work against it and have ethics and morals and erase all ignorance. There was much to do, and youth often is wasted on the young.
Breathing in deeply, practicing mindfulness, manifesting that I am already happy and successful and I don’t hate myself and I will be so okay. Early morning breeze over drooping eyelids, the town much cleaner, the air fresh inside my throat. Scrolling through to see another AI product, an advert for another insecurity that didn’t exist till yesterday, a curated dump of the fashionable life, footage of war-torn Gaza, some shitty skincare product promising false results to naive teenage girls full of loathing, some evil statement by indistinguishable tech oligarch, religious psychosis– a beautiful piece of art breaking this reverie– another influencer with some shitty take on meaningless pop culture, an outfit check, some “hidden gem” with exorbitant prices, the government’s incompetency, a comedian pointing out the government’s incompetency, outrage over some case of cruelty, discourse whether the case was the part of the larger problem, discourse that the case was proof the system is built perfectly– another piece of art—. I think of more manifestations, moodboards and the perfect thing to post online.
Books– I buy more of them and smell them deeply and hold the pages and examine the fonts and covers. I log my progress in Storygraph, I write down hand-written reviews sloppily in a ball pen inside a very old journal. I make art in one of many sketchbooks, I take pictures in the correct lighting and post it and sigh as it maxes out at 100 likes. I write essays, because poems don’t do so well, I think of the lyrics of songs and hums and the lines half-written for poetry and the opinion piece is as aggressively mediocre as any other. I hate-scroll on LinkedIn, grinding my teeth at the similarity of it all, “It’s not—-, it’s —---”. Emily Dickinson would weep at her beloved em dashes re-purposed to spit out corporate slop. The ass licking fills my mouth will vile. Is there anything I was doing that didn’t end up somewhere in the vast digital archive? . Is my legacy being a niche loser who’s sorta cool, posting tumblr-esque art and posters with halftone heavily across, helvetica bold blaring, outfits vibrant, writing something interesting to no one but me?
Lately I am trying out body neutrality, patting the soft belly as I eat home-cooked meals and sleep deeply till the sunlight presses on the back of my eyelids. I am ignoring the stretch of fabric and the squarish figure of my body and the unnatural increase in my breasts. Probably the SRRIs. They created a sort of nothingness, an empty space where the pain would split open, they let me be floating on nothing and think less thoughts. They put fat on my hips and my face went back to its roundness, before the ED wrecked it into bones, I have learnt to squish the fat so the jeans wouldn’t leave angry red lines. I am trying to look into a mirror without any extraordinary feeling. I am still eating without puking and I take brisk walks for my gut health. Sometimes I think I should be thinner and more beautiful and sashay with the knowledge of fitting into the standards of beauty. I refute this with feminist theory, with pulling out photographs of my mother : it is her softness and roundness that shapes mine. I cannot hate her, even if she says things that split open my already hammering heart, erratic, untrustworthy thing, driven only by sentiment. Still, those old grainy photographs feel real, more than the smooth black glass of my smartphone. The endless gallery uninteresting; hyper focus, some dumb self-smoothening filter air brushing my face. I look at my growing body, and I should better than to think it is bad.
begin with freedom/ find distorted lines of small claustrophobic towns/find parts cruel and kind/ find limitlessness– smaller cheaper rented rooms/ find strangers to friends to family to everything in between/ find something buzzing aching restless foolish young youth/ find time as an entity, time ticking loud and anxious inside/ find dreams and lose them and new ones and be lost and found and wonder and wander and something of all of it inside a hammering heart/ find euphoria, claw again for moments long gone, despair and dreaming and naive/ find second girlhoods tasting like cherry laughter and salt tears and drifting floating infinity/ find stages of short, long hair– cut your own bangs and shape them dreadfully, get a tattoo or two/ find smiles in red lipstick chapsticks cracked chapped scented buttery lipbalm/ find god on the way home and other such poetry that finally makes sense/ find yourself painting nails under dim lights and softer sadder music/ find yourself lose yourself/ end somewhere in between someone you use to be and someone you soon will be
