I studied science for 2 long years, perhaps the longest years of my life, hoping to get a grasp over it. Each time I failed a physics paper or a chemistry the other time, it would act as a reminder, it would warn me while it others it mocked. My definition for what fine was changed drastically, mediocrity was what I now wanted.
It found me in the days of success and sublimity: and I have learned by the perfects report that we only emerge from great depths and places that were once too deep for onlookers.
Each time my teachers would realise how foolish I was, their eyes glaring at my face, they would too remind me, but never did they humiliate me, which I am still grateful for. But every time my work was appreciated, I was grateful. I had accustomed to appreciate and savour the moments that were still beautiful, that is how life worked, that is how I worked. I was life.
We all make choices, the same way I made a choice, but a wrong one nonetheless.
The story of a suicide by Sriram Ayer is a deeply moving tale of a loss against this paradox that life in its spontaneity creates. His story is both enchanting and mesmerizing with the gripping take on life, which constitutes of both Angels and Demons.
There is beauty to the world he spins around himself, even while pity grips him to his very core, and he surrounds himself with negativity. Not only does the author comments upon the mental being of the person but he also leaves us with the sullen understanding of this mundane and monotonous world.
With his character’s last words he resounds a journey of humility and shame. And yet somewhere between all of this he also comments upon the vulnerability of the human soul, too tender and weak. Vulnerable to breaking with the slightest of pain, which leaves us unable to think any further and go as far as killing oneself.
My school started in the early morning which is why both me and my sister had to wake up before sunrise, and each time the sun did rise, i was blind, blind to see it before it was too late, I did what I had to, but I was never happy, not once. Buy how could I not be happy with a life I chose. So I’d put a pen in my hand and pretend.
I don’t believe in the idea of deserving something, it requires way more confidence than I ever had. The last time I checked my greatest conquest was overcoming stage fear.
Each day i’d look up to people and places, hoping for a miracle, questioning my own identity in the process. Amidst all of which I would still find some time and write those stories that Chimamanda Ngozi talks about, single stories, forming stereotypes. And through these stereotypes I constructed myself an identity, a false one, and yet living.
How beautiful is the thought of us looking up to the stars, and see such different things. I still had the same name as an identity that I recognised myself with. I am extremely fond of my name, I have always been.
I have always hated monotony and now when I see it I realise how lucky I am to have witnessed it myself, the world demands to be seen through lenses that are not always ours.
And that is the secret, the secret behind a smile that was never there and the reward that never existed.
Yes, the world demands to be seen differently, with each rising sun and the surreal moon. All we truly deserve is freedom, freedom to choose moonlight over the sun. And when we realise what we truly deserve, we are free.
I AM FREE.
There are things that we wished never happened and people whom we never met, but beneath this reality, lies the truest of the truth,that every event was no such luck that we had always thought it to be.