Pages From My Journal

5th July 2020

Dear diary.

Its been months since I wrote. 

Until not too long ago, I had my shit together. I still do. I mean its just one of those days when I'm way too fucking exhausted to even breathe like I mean it. I haven't cried yet. Nope. But I'm almost going to. You know some days I don't feel so hot and I just need people around me to be okay so I can be fine eventually. But when that isn't a possibility coz literally everyone is off their fucking hook I guess falling down the deep end is an inevitability. Why cant people grow up?

So here I am listening to 'Myself' on repeat yet again.

Look at me now I'm still dreaming
Still believing in myself.

And it hurts that I mean those words. I do. I want to be okay and finally look forward to another day. But with the sudden onslaught of all the rape cases hiking, death, loss of animals, humans, stability and just witnessing how thoughtless, selfish and heartless people (or should I call them animals possessed by the devil himself?) I do a double take.

It may have been easier before, when my life was an option to me. However, now that I truly want it, the decision is ten fold more difficult to make. And I'm not an easy person at times.

I don't know. Is it the new book taking a toll on my body? Is it school? Is it lack of productivity thanks to online classes fucking my eyeballs out 6 hours a day? Is it the fact that I haven't traveled any-fucking-where in months? Is it the fact that 2 people at home have ceased speaking to one another? Do I just miss my best friend to pieces and want to cry about it like a infant? Is it my soul seeking out to be free? Is it my heart lashing out internally because of having to keep its feelings repressed for longer than its used to? Is it my body giving up when it physically cant bear feeling what I want to? Being a writer is the best thing that ever happened to me, perhaps, but with each passing day, I cant take it. The pressure my brain constantly builds up makes me nervous.

I fail to put together why it always comes down to needing a break. But diary, I need a break. By January earlier this year I'd already finished shopping for the trip to Italy, Switzerland and France, and now that's just a distant memory. I wasn't so attached to the thought of travelling Europe, because then I knew that good things fall apart and making my dream complete was sin in my head.

But how could I bereft the girl who believed in god and had faith in him to dream about standing by the window and gazing up at the Eiffel Tower that wasn't too far away. I couldn't. 

I don't hate myself for weeping pathetically now. Because even though I pride myself for being a strong, confident and wise girl, I'm still sensitive and I feel too much for my own good.

Writing always makes everything so heightened, but its nothing but a transaction. A law of conservation of energy. From feelings to words and words to feelings. If feelings are turned to words, they're lost. And if the words are read with feelings, the words are forgotten.

Life is such. One might say its disgusting, the other might label it to be a boon.

I'm still a little girl and much too unenlightened to make my choice over this conundrum.

A couple days back I was lying down on my mothers lap and she asked me, "Why cant you shrink into a small baby again so I can carry and cuddle you?"

Today I ask myself that, "Why cant I become a little girl again?"

By nature I hate withholding any part of me. Be it love, lust, temper or words. I've been channeling it by penning them down for so fucking long I don't know what the hell to do with it if I don't write. Its nuts. I'm just practically standing holding my emotions like a pathetic fuck at the entrance of a doorway waiting for someone to open the door and pick it up from my hands. Like a delivery. I cant deal with all of them floating in and around me when I cant handle jackshit.

Its sadly unfortunate that hiding in my bed or reading novels day in and day out or escaping by other means isn't an option.

At this point I just want 5 things:
To go to Bikaner
A cat with red fur
Another piercing
Laptop
Novels

I don't want school, or emotional baggage or family problems or the need to hold myself back.

Is it too much to ask to want to be a butterfly or red helium balloon in this world full of sin, pain, hopelessness, anguish, brutality and miserable moments?

It isn't right?

Then why does it seem like the most impossible thing I ever hoped for? Just why?

Immense love,
Chhavi