Missing that Idiot with Pink Glasses

It is my birthday today. And it is a bit different from the yesteryear birthdays. The last one year had changed me. Changed me so entirely, that people who look for the muddled up girl trying her best to string two sentences together, get stumped as they look at this me, the new me. But is this new me happier than that stuttering, stammering, unkempt idiot? Did she feel that same throbbing emptiness that is coursing through me right now? She held steadfastly to her dreams, and they did get realized eventually – but where was she then? She had given way to a woman of slutty emotions, steely resolutions and alternating facades.

Let me tell you the story of the idiot who died. Or got lost, perhaps. I have been looking for her, but perhaps she is dead. Or perhaps she is shit scared of me. I have stolen her identity, and raped her. That idiot used to be shy; she would take shelter in the world of books, would fall in love with anyone who cared to listen to her whine and pine and caressed her wounded self-esteem by telling her how she would shine – one day, someday. The kid was fat, and a prat. To be precise, she was the most harmless, docile, insipid creature who stayed snug in her comfort zone, not wanting to step out, not wanting to change, not wanting to take charge, not wanting to live…

So, am I better off than that idiot? Because I am not just surviving, am living, and living life to the fullest. Yes, getting trashed and thrashed by life, but am still alive, licking my wounds, thinking of strategies to dodge the next blow. So should I say that am better off? Well, you see, the idiot, before she got lost or died an early death, had taken her revenge. She took away the rose-tinted glasses, the pink shades which make the world seem rosy. And now, I have to take the world for what it is – screaming, in your face and bloody. Somehow, am missing the idiot. Is she there? Find her please, will you? Tell her that I will make amends. Tell her that I will nurse her wounds. Tell her that I will let her take charge, at times. She needs to come back. And please tell her to bring those glasses back. I am sure they will make me look pretty, and the world prettier.

Tale of a Child, Who is a Bit Wild!

The woman has enough on her plate. The child is quite a handful. The child pines and whines, all day long. She pines for what she can’t have, and whines as to why she can’t have them. The woman reasons with her, and tries to make her find happiness in the small joys of life. Sometimes she succeeds and the child’s laughter rings out, loud and clear. Sometimes, the child is inconsolable and the woman just browbeats her into silence. After all, the woman always has the last word.

The woman has enough on her plate. The child is quite a handful. The child won’t let go of anybody who comes close to her. Even if she annoys them to death, she refuses to let them alone. She would cling on to them, her tiny fingers clutching at them with all their might. The woman distracts her, so that these people can move away. She tries to keep her from being a nuisance to other people, she teaches her to live on her own. At times, the child grudgingly lets go of the people but most of the times, the woman tricks her into doing that. After all, the child can never get better of the woman.

The woman has enough on her plate. The child is quite a handful. Love is what she hankers after – care is something she can never have enough of. Give her a bit of love, and she can renounce the world for you. The woman wants her to be selfish. She warns the child that there are people out there who can barge into her world one day, only to leave in a huff some other day. The child does not give a damn to what the woman says. And she suffers. And she breaks down. The woman takes charge. The child recedes in the background, in some dark room, away from the prying eyes. Right now, the woman is in charge – the child is locked up somewhere, waiting to be freed…