We live in a world where we get attached to pets that we babysit for our friends. Then what are we to the humans who tread on our lives without any invitation.
Attachment is nothing more than the cravings a lactose intolerant person gets for ice cream.
Attachment is a test. A test of wrongfully believing or reasoning with yourself that “feelings” won’t get out of hand.
Attachment is a temporary reality where at the end someone is bound to suffer.
Why are all my posts so depressing you ask?
Because I’m the fool who challenges her boundaries hoping for a different result at the end of this one. I am proven wrong. Like every other time.
I get attached to animals that leave, restaurants that shut down, flavours of Lays that get discontinued.
I get attached to humans who according to every star, moon and rock is wildly on the other end of the spectrum where my blue lies.
Attachment is the glass of port wine you return to after a night of Long Island Iced Teas.
Attachment is more than just F.R.I.E.N.D.S reruns.
Attachment is the Sweet Chilli Sauce you pour on EVERY THING!
Others will never get it. But it’s the taste that suits you.
Attachment is holding on to that one dream when you can’t land a job. It’s the song you turn to when auto-play tests your patience. It’s the girl whose lap you rest on when all the cushions and sofas feel like it’s made of thorns.
Attachment is concentrated majorly on the Lego world you want to build. The perfect furniture, that specific brand of beer, the people sitting around the five seater table. Attachment is the first rule of becoming an adult.
How much of it can you live without?
How many instances do you recover from?
How many adjustments till you are satisfied?
As I savour the last sip of my cheap wine, I realise I’m attached to the world that I carefully formed over the last decade. The friends, the furniture, the flavour of chips that is my favourite.
My attachment, as of now, is me in a nutshell.
Author Archives: fingertipthoughtsblog
Story Time
Once upon a time, I spent 120 bucks on a notebook. That was five years ago. Since, I’ve filled that notebook with stories, doodles, confessions, anecdotes and sometimes venting about everything under the sun. That book was meant for a person. One who falls under the “special” category. From the time I turned 18, the “specials” took a new shape and name annually. I’m not proud, but I do get to share more stories than the regular folk.
So this special person, had me filling in a book with stories of the two of us. Doodles of the two of us. And even the venting was about us.
While writing for around five years one thing became incredibly clear- We are terrible at figuring out what we deserve.
Imagine the universal rule that each person gets a total of 5 temporaries. And the one after that is the real deal. You get all the time you want with those five. Make your memories, make your mistakes. But you’ll have that assurance that after just one more, you hit the jackpot. Or at least what you deserve.
Now you might say, “What if my first try is a jackpot?”
Honey, bless your gullible heart.
So as I reach the end of this amusing notebook; as I have 5 more pages left, I’m defeated.
How do I conclude this book when I don’t like the ending I’m presented with?
Do I leave a blank page, waiting for that person to catch up with my count of 4 temporaries already encountered? Or do I keep that book incomplete till I get my preferred ending?
Well, if only there was a rule to reason yourself better with every failed relationship. Maybe you would get a clearer picture of what you actually deserve.
Glass
If I write about creepy, old, wrinkled up, crooked nosed women who surface at the witching hour to collect the glassiest eyeballs for their collection, would it be relatable?
What if I told you that these crones couldn’t sleep at night because of the constant animosity that came their way uninvited.
She isn’t a conventional beauty. She doesn’t have the knowledge of what it is like to see through eyes and find acceptance and praise.
What if she believes every other eyeball has that luxury. It’s special, everybody, barring her is special. And for once, she wants to see through eyes that show her kindness and love and humanity if nothing else.
What if this hag has her collection of amber, blue, brown, grey, green, hazel and black irises; and she picks out one pair at the end of the day, to just cherish the moments which she would otherwise not know of?
How wrong is it that because of our small mindedness, our perception of beauty, our choice of pretty over personality; has driven these women to claw out the eyes of some innocent, who, even by a shade is considered acceptable?
Do I have a moral? Ask yourself.
Am I suggesting that the birth of a new serial eye-scooper is imaginable, I hope not.
Am I hoping that there are people who see beyond what their eyes show them? Yes.
Freedom vs. Fear
There’s a very thin line between freedom and fear, I feel. In less than a month I won’t have an excuse to be a child. No grades, attendance percentage, no redos. The freedom that I yearned for over five years is not even thirty days away.
A friend stated, “freedom” regarding the fact that college is almost over. And automatically my reply to him was, “fear”.
You will always have something that scares you. All these years it was the things that I will never have to face in a month. But now, the fear of actually living by your rules, your outlines, whether I want it black and white or blue and orange; I don’t have the slightest clue.
If I for a second believe that right after graduation I will follow my dream. Then let me tell you, I won’t. I can’t. Those of you who have ever had a conversation with me know that the end goal is to be the author of a best seller. I have sat at coffee shops, waited on sunsets, I have stared out the window sitting snug with a stray near my foot in Almora. I’ve been to every stereotype place where epiphanies are known to strike. Still, nothing.
Of course I’m scared. Terrified of tomorrow.
There’s another side to me that breathes in relief. At least now, I will be able to use the tool of my choice. I will be able to decide the medium of colours I wish to use. And speaking of epiphanies, here’s hoping she finds me soon.
A recovering hypocrite
I’m a recovering hypocrite.
My talent? I give ridiculously good advice on becoming who you are and not being defined by the presence or absense of people, places or things in your life.
My flaw? I rarely follow through.
But here’s the thing, I try. Each time, harder than the last. I try to guard my feelings with Hulk like protection *imagine little Avengers fighting to maintain the good thoughts* I try to listen to what each half of my body says. When the hands don’t want to reply, I don’t. When the feet want to up and leave a situation, I do. When the head wants you to bow out and leave without a scratch but the ego wants to take the first punch, that is where I lose most of the time. Correction, that is where I lose every time. Now the heart, that instant pounding that begins when a number flashes on the screen, that there, is where you decide how the rest of your next 2 hours will go.
I advised my closest of friends, I threatened them over my friendship that they won’t let anybody belittle them ever again. I’m very proud to say that I’m surrounded by extremely strong people.
As a recovering hypocrite, my two hours that follow are either invested in a romcom (on the days I win); or I’m left streaming nonsense reality shows through the night, just so nothing triggers another bout of self loathing.
If there’s a hypocrites anonymous, I would love to join them. But at least I’m a good friend who helps those with a stronger will than mine to spend their two hours being proud of themselves.
Change
People don’t change. They go on probation. Sometimes they surprise themselves. But shortly after, you’ll get that familiar taste of toxic that is their presence in your life.
Why let them in? Why try to take the higher road and give endless chances? Why go against your pleading intuition and answer, “hey.” It has to and will end with you feeling nothing short of an idiot who took a growing plant and stubbed a dozen lit cigarettes in it.
Choose yourself for once. Give yourself the chance to be selfish if necessary. Why should you hear the other’s rehearsed excuses whereas you don’t get to express yourself?
What do they have over you? What’s so great about them that you start second guessing yourself? Tell me, how far in, have you gone that the only comfort you find is surrounded by accusations, fights and emotional outbreaks?
Why not enjoy the possibility of shedding that toxic weight from your mind and peacefully grow as you want to.
Keep the one who will exploit your kindness out, especially when you know that all you did was try to be a friend.
Sometimes a full stop indicates the end. Just that. Sometimes no other begining is needed to follow.
Never Stops
Bullying never stops does it?
Hypocrisy is the most sought after mask behind which people would hide and attack others. What’s the joy you ask? Probably a sense of achievement. Even when there’s no provocation from the attacked party, bullying just becomes a game.
When I was younger, I saw the heavier girl in class get bullied by two seniors. She was just sitting there. Minding her own business. They made an announcement about something to do with Marvel vs DC; which was wrong so the girl decided to correct them. What a huge mistake. The next move, constantly calling her names and passing judgement without even actually knowing her.
Imagine you’re just casually scrolling down your feed and your favourite comic strip has an error. Since you have the disease of not being able to cope with spelling mistakes and written errors stick out like a thumb; that one mistake did disappoint you a bit; but in today’s day; if you speak up about anything, those mightier than you will ridicule you. Because bullying never stops. People don’t know what the high road is. And I guess having an opinion, if not the same as everyone’s, is wrong and an excuse for bullying.
At this point, being grammatically correct can be cause for target.
Guess growing up isn’t all that different.
Love love love
How many of us
truly love
love?
How many of us
know the
different
types?
The ones for the
books, the ones
for the screen,
the ones for the
playlist, the
ones for the
minds, some for
the hearts, and
a few for the
soul.
When you know
which love is
the love you
need, you’re
wrong.
Because by then
there’d be
another type!
My body, not yours
If a look makes you uncomfortable, speak up.
If a touch makes you squirm, speak up.
If words make your blood boil, scream out.
Nobody has the right to keep you quiet. Regardless of their “niceness” their “importance” or even their “charm”.
The best perceived are often those who hide their dark intentions flawlessly.
Learn to forget their place in your life, their good deeds towards you shouldn’t compensate for how they make you feel. Even once, if you have confronted them and they still try to pass it off as a joke with a nudge on your hand or waist, speak up! Be loud. Be clear. Be resolute about how it is not okay for anybody to side line your feelings.
How long will you keep shut? How long before you’re meant to “forgive and forget”? Regardless of the sex of those who make you feel even the teeniest of discomfort, you must speak up.
If a No doesn’t work, try a “yes please, continue your acts of harassment and ignore my repetitive requests to keep off. Because requests don’t work, may I take a knife and stab myself in the places you keep touching me? Maybe you’ll know what I prefer over your ignorance.”
My body is mine. Nobody else’s.
Nobody has any right over it.
Nobody can ever have a right over it.
This is my work, and I have made it however I like, and because it’s out in the open, it does not give you the right to poke at it.
Read the invisible but always strung board around my neck which says “do not touch”.
Letters
We’ve all written them or have gotten them on various occasions. Now I’m not talking about formal letters. Those many of us are still waiting for.
I’m talking about letters on birthdays, at hospital beds, even letters just expressing your feelings. Or the best kind, the ones which just talk about everything and keep you excited to get your hands on another pen scribble.
I recently found around a hundred letters while cleaning out my closet. Yes I’m a hoarder. And proud to be one. I’ve found tazos, birthday cards, chits from classroom dramas and even stickers/tattoos that would come with chewing gum.
Now some of these letters date back to 2006. And some to 2015.
As the day goes by, people change. We change within minutes. We change our minds, our hearts and even our entire personality. And here I am with letters. Letters which speak wonderfully about the type of person I was seen to be. Letters that praise my existence in their lives. Letters that remind me of promises. Their words bring the same warmth that stabbed me the first time I read it. Kindness can be hurtful too. Sometimes you fail to see yourself how you should be seen.
But what hurt more is that the writers have changed.
Where does that leave the person holding onto their praises? Do I believe them? If they have changed their hearts, have they changed their minds too?
I will hoard these tokens of assurance. I may never know what they’d write if they come across a blank page and a pen. What have their minds concluded about me all these years later? It’s frightening to think that maybe some of them won’t even have anything to write.
My, myself and eye.
At 25 I see my school mates getting married. Engaged at the very least. I’m ten days away from stepping into that pool of official adulthood in my country. And here I am, sitting at my internship, typing out a note to strangers worldwide.
I don’t have a degree, a job, a relationship, or enough money to buy myself pity food.
I have achieved nothing, I haven’t even had the confidence of watching a movie alone.
So, I will come up with an excuse, because “I just don’t like working here” isn’t a polite reason. I will pack up later in the afternoon, go to the nearest movie hall, and watch Black Panther.
Why? Because I haven’t done that yet. And my very close friend told me that that’s a movie you need to avoid distractions. I have never been a distraction to anyone let alone myself.
So in the next 10 days, Before I turn into an adult. I would like to do things, that would better prepare myself to be stronger and far more independent than I’ve been told I am.
You can never be too strong. Too prepared. You will always have opportunities to grow. Even though the tasks won’t be as commendable as changing the World. But I’m starting with changing myself.
The World gets bigger and harsher day in and day out. Why waste experiences only because you do not want to be stared at.
Just pretend they’re staring at you not because you’re alone at a movie on a Tuesday. But because they find you commendable.
I know a lot of people have done this before me. And I’ve always been in awe of them. Your own company can be a blessing or a curse.
Here’s hoping I find out today.
My 10 days till 25 is going to be empowering if nothing else.
Goodnight
Here I am again. Pouring my views about what I feel dreams are. Be warned, this isn’t science, or psychology, this had absolutely no research going in. So keep scrolling if you don’t want to waste your time. If you do, boy did you make a mistake.
Over the last couple of nights I’ve been up, counting the number of car lights sneaking in through the window, the honks that never stop, the dogs who seem to have joined the choir, and almost every night around 2 a.m. they perform. But I did manage to dose off for an hour or hour and half each night. And every time I did, I dreamed.
The first one was a collection of events that I had lived through and the twist, the reason because of which I remember that dream, is because it ended with all of the characters gathering around Princep Ghat, arranging for boats as one of us sang “Row Row Row Your Boat.” I woke up because I have a fear of drowning and also because my friend began to sound like a shrieking dog towards the end.
The next one was a destination wedding. The menu was a spread from my Alma Mater’s canteen. And the liquor was in the form of chocolates. Who was getting married you ask, Dee Dee and Mandark. Go figure.
I saved the best for last. This time there was a car, and once you rolled down the window, you could see the bird’s-eye-view of Kolkata in the evening. Beautifully lit up. And you could breathe just fine. As Eddie Vedder played on the radio, the car purred through the skies and my dog happily snuggled himself on the sofa, which was somehow the backseat.
So what have I realised about dreaming? You just really really miss certain things, people, moments, views, smells, tastes, feelings and dreams are just an extension of what you wish you could hold on to.
Nights are the best part of the being alive. Even when you are asleep you get to hold on to a bit of what you really want. Of course it’s sad because you might not get it or you dream can’t literally come true; but think of the times it can. At least one portion of it might. So get a good night’s sleep. Your mind needs it.
Fingertip thoughts 