I have been woefully unproductive of late. Pursuing half-baked
opportunities. Trying to get too many irons in the fire. Overthinking in order
to find a quick solution for my major woes but ending up with none at all. And
I could not even write. Writing is my one way of staying sane and even that was
denied me. I was not a happy camper.
After days of this, I have now reached an oddly detached
state. I see no solutions. The problems plague me but cease to hurt me with the
intensity that they have exercised over the years. I decide to just be. I don’t
ever know if I will ever find solutions. I don’t know what the future will be
like. I don’t know if I can ever dream or long for the life I want. But I know
that right now, at this very moment, none of it bothers me.
I study my detachment like it’s a new toy. I turn it over. I
poke and prod it. I shake it a bit. It’s still in one piece. It hasn’t
shattered. It hasn’t collapsed either. So what is this detachment? As I examine
it, I realize it isn’t an absence of pain – it is a compartmentalization of it.
The pain is there, securely bubble-wrapped. I can see it but I don’t feel it as
intensely. I don’t feel the need to talk much either. I sit on my own, feeling
slightly annoyed when my silence is imposed upon.
Maybe it’s a survival mechanism – a sign that if I don’t
step back, my system will shut down. Maybe its an evolution of sorts. If the
need to interact is not there, perhaps dependency and expectations cease as
well. Its almost like you’ve been running frantically for ages. You have no breath
left. Your body explodes with pain. Panic fills your system. Acid seeps through
every cell. And you hit a wall. Now you turn back. Face whatever it is that had
you running. And then you let go. Like you split into two. One part of you is
the observer. The other part goes through the motions. Compartments of
existence.
Its not a bad state to be in. There are a few issues though.
One being, you can never feel happy. Or excited. There is no space for it. If
you compartmentalize pain, you also compartmentalize happiness so that you can
only feel happy in fractions, if at all. Interesting, isn’t it?
At least I can write. Without fervour or passion perhaps.
But without tears, angst, joy either. Detachment is also part of life. Maybe it’s
the price one pays for growing older. Maybe it is just easier to live in between spaces.
