Hold on, after months and years of gruelling mental work- this was not supposed to happen. I know, I know! Things never turn out the way you expect them to, blah blah and blah I know, but how come I find myself at the same blinded spot?
Three years shy from touching the true mark of adulthood- 30, there is still a fire burning at the end of the table cloth, a crying baby, two urgent work e-mails, phone bills, mother calling and a yelling boss who wouldn’t shut up about how his wife is supremely cruel to him for finding out about his innumerable love affairs, on the 48th day of my salary being due as he sips on his Single Malt in a fancy restaurant and cries how he doesn’t have any money while he spend a grand on himself every night!
Zoning out, and repeating to myself, ‘not my monkey, not my circus’. Yup, that’s ought to bring some anchoring. did it? maybe for 3 seconds before the baby crying in the background turned even louder.
How the fuck did I even land up here? I remember thinking I was sorted as hell. I was aware of my priorities and there was no way in hell that I was going to give into this Capitalistic mess, methinks while taking in the last bite of my favourite butter croissant, sitting on the third floor of a cafe overlooking the blood drenched roads at the peak of office hours whining to over take and get ahead of the relatively smaller car, whilst feeling like Sarah Jessica Parker from SATC. Ironic? Grand-mother of irony!
This is agony. Pure agony. Priviliged, but still agony. I almost feel embarrassed to even call it agony. I am aware of what truly the word means and how maybe what I am calling dreadful is a dream for someone, and a mere joke for some. Romanticising my agony? That would probably be the right term.
It is like apparating from Hogsmeade to Azkaban, and then to Godric’s Hollow, and back to St. King’s Cross while the dementors (the boss) try to suck the life out of you and everything feels cold and depressing in their presence. To be able to find a work life balance and a good working environment is like looking for the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw- we hope it’s in the castle (world), but we dont know how to find it, no one knows about it, and it is only you, desperately looking for it. Oh & the sword of Gryffindor is the resignation letter, most definitely, it presents itself when there truly isnt any way out. It is better than to just suffer, right? To kill the horcrux before it gets to your mental peace, and so you do, only to find another Dementor, at another address, a few weeks later and let him suck the life out of you until you grow sick of it, because god forbid you produce a Patronus (Boundaries) to save yourself, you will be shamed and because no one else is producing the charm, they are just happily letting the dementors party at the cost of your soul.
I open Instagram to give my mind, running at 532 kms/ hr, a breather. Wait- Instagram is most certainly acting like the ministry. Why is there confetti all around when there is a killer on the loose? Nope, not even a word of it. Well, at least its refreshing, someone’s dancing, others are playing pranks and the memes are downright hilarious. uff, so relatable! There are gorgeous lehenga’s, amazingly curated dance routines, delicious recipe’s, jaw-dropping world views and heart clenching cute ass animal videos. Isn’t this cute as hell?!
Having made it to the seventh para, do you see something? A pattern? a pattern of different things, not even remotely connected to each other but suffering through the same thread of sadness?
Ugh, I’ll go and make myself a third glass of Iced Coffee, completely aware that its nothing short of poison but this is the kind of self-harm we are into, in 2023. It’s not drugs or alcohol anymore, its liver sucking, kidney rotting, dehydrating coffee in cutesy cartons, making you look chic while you slam the head of your inner self at the wall for yet another fall apart.
Memes & Mimosas 